Front matter (continued 2)

"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm detailed to watch the back door."

With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once more.

These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United States of America worsted. Here is the version of

With the remembrance of the many heroic souls who sacrificed themselves for their country that day, I have not the heart, my boy, to continue the subject. I was routed at about five o'clock in the afternoon, and fell back on Washington, where I am now receiving my rations. I don't take the oath with any spirit since then; and a skeleton with nothing on but a havelock is all that is left of

Yours, emaciatedly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XI.

GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY, ETC.

Washington, D.C., August —, 1861.

The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this accusation, he says to him:

"Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went home in tears.

The new bugle drill is a very good idea, my boy, and our lads will probably become accustomed to it by the time they get used to it. The colonel of Regiment Five likes it so much that he has substituted the bugle for the drum, even. The other morning, when he tried it on for the first time, I was just entering the tent of one of the captains, to take the Oath with him, when the bugle sounded the order to turn out.

"Ah!" says the captain, when he heard it, "we're going to have fish for breakfast at last. I hope its porgies," says he: "for I'm uncommon fond of porgies."

"Why, what are you talking about?" says I.

"You innocent lamb," says he, "didn't you hear that ere fish-horn. It said 'porgies,' as plain as could be."

"Why, that's the bugle," says I, "and it sounded the order to turn out."

He took his disappointment very severely, my boy, for he was really very fond of porgies.

By invitation of a well-known official, I visited the Navy-Yard yesterday, and witnessed the trial of some newly-invented rifled cannon. The trial was of short duration, and the jury brought in a verdict of "innocent of any intent to kill."

The first gun tried was similar to those used in the Revolution, except that it had a larger touch-hole, and the carriage was painted green, instead of blue. This novel and ingenious weapon was pointed at a target about sixty yards distant. It didn't hit it, and as nobody saw any ball, there was much perplexity expressed. A midshipman did say that he thought the ball must have run out of the touch-hole when they loaded up—for which he was instantly expelled from the service. After a long search without finding the ball, there was some thought of summoning the Naval Retiring Board to decide on the matter, when somebody happened to look into the mouth of the cannon, and discovered that the ball hadn't gone out at all. The inventor said this would happen sometimes, especially if you didn't put a brick over the touch-hole when you fired the gun. The Government was so pleased with this explanation, that it ordered forty of the guns on the spot, at two hundred thousand dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished as soon as the war is over.

The next weapon tried was Jink's double back-action revolving cannon for ferry-boats. It consists of a heavy bronze tube, revolving on a pivot, with both ends open, and a touch-hole in the middle. While one gunner puts a load in at one end, another puts in a load at the other end, and one touch-hole serves for both. Upon applying the match, the gun is whirled swiftly round on a pivot, and both balls fly out in circles, causing great slaughter on both sides. This terrible engine was aimed at the target with great accuracy; but as the gunner has a large family dependent on him for support, he refused to apply the match. The Government was satisfied without firing, and ordered six of the guns at a million of dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished in time for our next war.

The last weapon subjected to trial was a mountain howitzer of a new pattern. The inventor explained that its great advantage was, that it required no powder. In battle it is placed on the top of a high mountain, and a ball slipped loosely into it. As the enemy passes the foot of the mountain, the gunner in charge tips over the howitzer, and the ball rolls down the side of the mountain into the midst of the doomed foe. The range of this terrible weapon depends greatly on the height of the mountain and the distance to its base. The Government ordered forty of these mountain howitzers at a hundred thousand dollars apiece, to be planted on the first mountains discovered in the enemy's country.

These are great times for gunsmiths, my boy; and if you find any old cannon around the junk-shops, just send them along.

There is much sensation in nautical circles arising from the immoral conduct of the rebel privateers; but public feeling has been somewhat easier since the invention of a craft for capturing the pirates, by an ingenious Connecticut chap. Yesterday he exhibited a small model of it at a cabinet meeting, and explained it thus:

"You will perceive," says he to the President, "that the machine itself will only be four times the size of the Great Eastern, and need not cost over a few millions of dollars. I have only got to discover one thing before I can make it perfect. You will observe that it has a steam-engine on board. This engine works a pair of immense iron clamps, which are let down into the water from the extreme end of a very lengthy horizontal spar. Upon approaching the pirate, the captain orders the engineer to put on steam. Instantly the clamps descend from the end of the spar and clutch the privateer athwartships. Then the engine is reversed, the privateer is lifted bodily out of the water, the spar swings around over the deck, and the pirate ship is let down into the hold by the run. Then shut your hatches, and you have ship and pirates safe and sound."

The President's gothic features lighted up beautifully at the words of the great inventor; but in a moment they assumed an expression of doubt, and says he:

"But how are you going to manage, if the privateer fires upon you while you are doing this?"

"My dear sir," says the inventor, "I told you I had only one thing to discover before I could make the machine perfect, and that's it."

So you see, my boy, there's a prospect of our doing something on the ocean next century, and there's only one thing in the way of our taking in pirates by the cargo.

Last evening a new brigadier-general, aged ninety-four years, made a speech to Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, and then furnished each man with a lead-pencil. He said that, as the Government was disappointed about receiving some provisions it had ordered for the troops, those pencils were intended to enable them to draw their rations as usual. I got a very big pencil, my boy, and have lived on a sheet of paper ever since.

Yours, pensively,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XII.

GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND RECORDING A DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

Washington, D.C., September 8th, 1861.

The weather in the neighborhood of Chain Bridge still continues to bear hard on fat men, my boy, and the man who carries a big stomach around with him will be a person in reduced circumstances before he gets to be a colonel. The Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade observed, the other day, that he had been in hot water four weeks running, and ordered me to work six hours in the trenches for not laughing at the joke; he said that old Abe had people expressly to laugh at his jokes, and had selected his Cabinet officers because they all had large mouths, and could laugh easily; he said that he was resolved to have his own jokes appreciated, and if he didn't, he'd be perditionized. It's my impression—I say it's my impression, my boy, that the general got off his best joke when he promised the Mackerel Brigade to look after their interests as though they were his brothers. He may look after them, my boy, but it's after they're out of sight. I don't say that he takes advantage of us: but I know that just after a basket of champagne was sent to the camp, directed to me, yesterday, I saw him sitting on an empty basket in his tent, trying to wind up his watch with a corkscrew. I asked him what time it was, and he said the Conzstorshun must and shall be blockade—dade—did. I told him I thought so myself, and he immediately burst into tears, and said he should never see his mother again.

On Tuesday, there was a rumor that the Southern Confederacy had attacked at regiment at Alexandria, for the purpose of creating a confusion, so that it might pick the colonel's pockets, and Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was ordered to go instantly to the rescue. Just as we were ready to march, a distinguished citizen of Washington presented a sword to the colonel from the ladies of the Capital, and made an eloquent speech. He spoke of the wonderful manner in which the world was called out of chaos at the creation, and spoke feelingly of the Garden of Eden, and the fall of our first parents; he then went on to review the many changes the earth had experienced since it was first created, and described the method of the ancients to cook bread before stoves were invented; he then spoke of the glories of Greece and Rome, giving a full history of them from the beginning to the present time; he then went on to describe the origin of the republican and democratic parties, reading both platforms, and giving his ideas of Jackson's policy; he then gave an account of the war of the Roses in England, and the cholera in Persia, attributing the latter to a sudden change in the atmosphere; he then went on to speak of the difficulties encountered by Columbus in discovering this country, and gave a history of his subsequent career and death in Europe; he then read an extract from Washington's Farewell Address; in conclusion, he said that the ladies of Washington had empowered him to present this here sword to that ere gallant colonel, in the presence of these here brave defenders of their country.

At the conclusion of this speech, starvation commenced to make great ravages in the regiment, and the colonel was so weak, for want of sleep, that he had to be carried to his tent. A private remarked to me, that, if we could only have one more such presentation speech as that, the regiment would be competent to start a grave-yard before it was finished. I believe him, my boy!

When the presentation was finished, the colonel announced from his camp-bedstead that the rumor of a fight at Alexandria was all a hum, and ordered us back to our tents. We hadn't been to our tents for such a long time, that some of us couldn't find them, and one of our boys actually wandered around until he found himself at home in New York.

The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, had a great engagement yesterday, and came very near repulsing the enemy. We were ordered to march forward in three columns, until we came within five miles of the enemy, Colonel Wobbles leading the first; Mr. Wobbles, the second; and Wobbles, the third. In the advance our lines presented the shape of a clam-shell, but as we neared the point of danger, they gradually assumed more of the form of a cone, the rear-guard being several times as thick as the advance guard. When within six miles of the seceshers, we planted our battery of four six pounders, and opened a horrible fire of shot and shell on the adjacent country. The seceshers replied with a hail of canister and shrapnell, and for eight hours the battle raged fearfully, but without hurting anybody, as the hostile forces were too far apart to reach each other with shot. Finally, Colonel Wobbles sent a messenger, by railroad, to ask the seceshers what they wanted, and they said they only wanted to be let alone. On receiving this reply, Colonel Wobbles was much affected, and ordered us to march back to camp, which we did.

This affair was really a great victory for the Union, my boy, and I cannot refrain from giving short biographical sketches of the leaders concerned in it, commencing with

COLONEL WOBBLES.

This gallant officer, on whom the eyes of the whole world are now turned, was born at an exceedingly early age, in the place of his nativity. When but a mere boy, he evinced a fondness for the law, and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the office of the late Daniel Webster. He practised law for some years, but failed to find any clients, and finally started a grocery store under Jackson's administration. At this time, Calhoun's peculiar views were agitating Christendom, and Mr. Wobbles married a daughter of the late John Thomas, by whom he had no children. When the war broke out in Mexico, he left the grocery business, and opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith, and accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country. Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old.

MR. WOBBLES.

This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the captious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for him. While yet very young, he was remarkable for his proficiency in making dirt-pies, and went to school with the sons of the late Mr. Jones. In 1846, he did not graduate at West Point; but when the war broke out between Mexico and the United States, he married a niece of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his eventful career that he first became a husband, and shortly after the birth of his eldest child, it was rumored that he had also become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He is now but forty years old.

WOBBLES.

This noble patriot soldier, whose name is now a household word all over the world, was reared from infancy in the village of his birth, and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While yet a youth, the Florida war broke out, and he attended the high-school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age, he was just twenty-one years old, and was not a student at West Point. Shortly after this event, he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster, and during the Mexican War he had one child, who still bears his father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old.

You will observe, my boy, that these noble officers have merited the commissions of brigadier-generals, and if they don't get them they'll resign. Colonel Wobbles told me this morning, that if he resigned the army would all go to pieces. I believe him, my boy!—field pieces.

Yours, biographically,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XIII.

SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT THE SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE OF VILLIAM BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT.

Washington, D.C., September 20th, 1861.

There is every indication that something is about to occur, which, when it does transpire, my boy, will undoubtedly give rise to the rumor that a certain thing has happened. It was observed in military circles yesterday, that General McClellan ordered a new pair of boots to be forwarded immediately from New York, and from this it is justly inferred that the Chain Bridge will be attacked by the rebels in force very shortly.

A gentleman who has just arrived from the South to purchase some postage-stamps, states that the rebel army is in an awful condition, and will starve to death as soon as Beauregard gives the order. At Richmond, ice-cream was selling for a hundred dollars a quart, gum-drops at sixty dollars an ounce, Brandreth's Pills at forty-two dollars and a half a box, Spaulding's Prepared Glue at twenty dollars a pint, and Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup at four hundred dollars a bottle. In consequence of the sudden approach of fall and the renewed stringency of the blockade, there are no strawberries to be had, and the First Families are subsisting entirely upon persimmons. Should the winter prove cold, the Southerners to a man will be compelled to wear much thicker clothing, and it is anticipated that many of them will take cold. De lunatico inquirendo has broken out among the rebel troops at Manassas Junction, in consequence of insufficient accommodation, and the hospitals are so full of patients that numerous sufferers may be seen bulging out of the windows.

The same gentleman thinks that Beauregard will be obliged to attack Washington at once, or resign his commission and go to the Dry Tortugas with his whole army. They are called the Dry Tortugas, my boy, because not a cocktail was ever known to be raised there.

A perfectly reliable but respectable person arrived here yesterday from Paris, and brings highly important intelligence from North Carolina. He has been permitted to sleep with a gentleman formerly residing in that State, and his report is credited by the Administration. Nearly all the people of North Carolina are devoted Union men at heart, and would gladly rally around the old flag, if it were not for the fact that nearly all the rest of the people of the State are secessionists and won't let them. In a town of 750 inhabitants, 748 and a half (one small boy) are determined Unionists; but the remainder, who are brutal traitors, have seized all the arms in the place, and threaten all who oppose them with instant death. At Raleigh, a mob consisting of three secessionists, has seized the post-office and all the letters of marque found in it. Marque has fled from the State. Since the victory of Hatteras Inlet, the Union men have taken courage, and say, that if the Government will send two hundred thousand men to their assistance, and seventy-five rifled cannon, they can expel their oppressors in a few years. These true patriots must be instantly assisted, or a decimated and infuriated people will demand the expulsion of the entire Cabinet, and an entirely new issue of contracts for shoddy. In the interior of North Carolina there has been a rising of slaves. In fact, they rise every morning very early. From this the Tribune report of a negro insurrection originated.

I formed a new acquaintance the other day, my boy, in the shape of the Calcium Light Regiment, which is now ready to receive a few more recruits. The Calcium Light Regiment was born in Boston, near Bunker Hill Monument, and is now about sixty-five years old. He has become greatly demoralized from going without his rations for some days past, and is what may be called a skeleton regiment. He says that if he goes without them much longer, he'll soon be as light as a 12-inch comet, and won't need much calcium to blind the enemy to his presence. He's very light, my boy, and his features are so sharp that he might be used to spike a cannon with. The Calcium Light Regiment was recruited at great expense in New York, and went into camp on Riker's Island, until Secretary Cameron ordered his colonel to bring him on immediately for the defence of Washington. The regiment has three officers, and will elect the others as soon as his voice is strong enough. He says that he is a regiment of 1,000 men; he says that 1,000 is simply the figure 1 and three ciphers, and that he represents the 1, and his three officers the three ciphers.

I believe him, my boy!

Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, asked his colonel last week for leave to go to New York on recruiting service, and got it. He came back to-day, and says the colonel to him:

"Where's your recruits?"

Villiam smiled sweetly, and remarked that he didn't see it.

"Why, you went to New York on recruiting service, didn't you?" exclaimed the colonel.

"Yes," says Villiam, "I went to recruit my health."

The colonel immediately administered the Oath to him. The Oath, my boy, tastes well with lemon in it.

The women of America, my boy, are noble creatures, and do not forget the brave soldiers of the Union. They have just sent the Mackerel Brigade a case of umbrellas, and we expect a gross of hair-pins by the next train.

Yours, meditatively,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XIV.

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY, AFTER THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY.

Washington, D.C., September 30th, 1861.

Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets and other long-haired creatures suppose to be eternally flapping through the imaginary atmosphere of time; yet the high old battle so long expected has not got any further than "heavy firing near the Chain Bridge," which takes place every afternoon punctually at three o'clock—just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of Chain Bridge lasts a few years longer, it will finally become a nuisance to the First Families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be heavy firing is not that exactly; the other day, a series of loud explosions were heard on Arlington Heights, and twenty-four reporters immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon, and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal loss—one killed, and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan came to inquire into the cause of the explosions, this report was somewhat modified:

"What was that firing for?" he asked an orderly, who had just come over the river.

"If you please, sir," responded the sagacious animal, "there was no firing at all. It was Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way."

Villiam has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be made.

Last night, my boy, an old rooster from Cattaraugus, who wants a one-horse post-office, and thinks I've got some influence with Abe the Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me; and, as soon I opened the window to damn them, he called unanimously for a speech. At this time, my boy, an immense crowd, consisting of two policemen and a hackman, were drawn to the spot, and greeted me with great applause. Feeling that their intentions were honorable, I could not bear to disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the following

SPEECH.

Men of America:—It is with feelings akin to emotion that I regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty. Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:

It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that

I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful termination without some action on the part of the Government. If to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good article of black ink can be made out of black men, is republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now, except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I pronounce him an accursed secessionist:

Men of America, shall these things longer be?—I address myself particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't understand a word of English—shall these things longer be? That's what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it. Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason at our very hearthstones. Treason—merciful Heavens!

And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other words:

Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors, who forget the words of Jackson—words, let me add, which I myself do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds, which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can express the horrors of such unnatural crime?

Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be when I am a well-red man?"

And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,

At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon by a young man, who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry; he had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash.

Yours, particularly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XV.

WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND THE PARTICULARS OF A VISIT TO A SUSPECTED NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND SO ON.

Washington, D.C., October 2d, 1861.

This is a time, my boy, when it is the duty of every American citizen to make himself into a committee of safety, for the good of the republic, and make traitors smell the particular thunder of national vengeance. The eagle, my boy, has spread his sanguinary wings for a descent upon the bantams of secession; and if we permit his sublime pinions to be burthened with the shackles of domestic sedition, we are guilty of that which we do, and are otherwise liable to the charge of committing that which we perform. These thoughts came to me yesterday, after I had taken the Oath six times, and so overpowered me that I again took the Oath, with a straw in it. Just then it struck me that the Daily Union, published near Alexandria, ought to be suppressed for its treason; and I immediately started for the office, with an intention to offer personal violence to the editor. I found him examining a cigar through the bottom of a tumbler, whilst on the desk beside him lay the first "proof" of

When the editor noticed my presence, he scowled so that his spectacles dropped off.

"Ha, my fine little fellow," says he, hastily; "I don't want to buy any poetry to-day."

"Don't fret yourself, my venerable cherub," says I; "I don't deal in poetry at present. I just came here to tell you that if you don't stop writing treason, I'll suppress you in the name of the United States."

"You're a mudsill mob," says he; "and I don't allow no violent mobs around this office. I am an American citizen, and I won't stand no mobs. What does the Constitution say about newspapers? Why, the Constitution don't say anything about them; so you've got no Constitutional authority for mobbing me."

"Then take the Oath," says I.

He looked at me for a moment, and then passed me a small black bottle. I held it up over my eyes for some time, to see if it was perfectly straight, and he remarked that if all Northerners took the Oath as freely as I did, they must be a water-proof conglomeration of patriots. I believe him, my boy!

The Mackerel Brigade has established a cookery department for itself, and is using a stove recently patented by the colonel of Regiment 5. This stove is a miraculous invention, and has already made fortunes for six cooks and a scullion. You put a shilling's worth of wood into it, which first cooks your meat and then turns into two shilling's worth of charcoal; so you make a shilling every time you kindle a fire.

Yesterday, a gentleman, brought up to the oyster-trade, and who has made several voyages on the Brooklyn ferry-boats, exhibited the model of a new gun-boat to the Secretary of the Navy. He said its great advantage was that it could easily be taken to pieces; and the Secretary was just going to order seventy-five for use in Central Park, when it leaked out that when once the gun-boat was taken to pieces there was no way of putting it together again. Only for this, my boy, we might have a gun-boat in every cistern.

Yours, nautically,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVI.

INTRODUCING THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND THE REMARKABLE GERMAN CAVALRY FROM THE WEST.

Washington, D.C., October 6th, 1861.

The horse, my boy, is an animal in which I have taken a deep interest ever since the day on the Union Course, when I bet ten dollars that the "Pride of the Canal" would beat "Lady Clamcart," and was compelled to leave my watch with Mr. Simpson on the following morning. The horse, my boy, is the swarthy Arab's bosom friend, the red Indian's solitary companion, and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble animals was presented to me last week, by an old-maid relative whose age I once guessed to be "about nineteen." The glorious gift was accompanied by a touching letter, my boy; she honored my patriotism, and the self-sacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant Mackerel Brigade, and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket appeared; she loved me for my mother's sake, and as she happened to have ten shillings about her, she thought she would buy a horse with it for me. Mine, affectionately, Tabitha Turnips.

Ah, woman! glorious woman! what should we do without thee? All our patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love, and all our money is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new bonnets. Oh! woman—thoughtful woman! the soldier thanks thee for sending him pies and cakes that turn sour before they leave New York; but, for heaven's sake don't send any more havelocks, or there'll be a crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a sentry to report "eighty thousand more havelocks from the women of America;" and then you ought to hear the Brigadier of the Mackerel Brigade cuss! "Jerusalem!" says he, "if any more havelocks come this afternoon, tell them that I've gone out and won't be back for three weeks. Thunder!" says he, "there's enough havelocks in this here deadly tented field to open a brisk trade with Europe, and if the women of America keep on sending them, I'm d—d if I don't start a night-cap shop." The general is a profane patriarch, my boy, and takes the Oath hot. The Oath, my boy, is improved by nutmeg and a spoon.

But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me own—me be-yuteous steed. The beast, my boy, is fourteen hands high, fourteen hands long, and his sagacious head is shaped like an old-fashioned pick-axe. Viewed from the rear, his style of architecture is gothic, and he has a gable-end, to which his tail is attached. His eyes, my boy, are two pearls, set in mahogany, and before he lost his sight, they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the Patent Office, the other day, and left him leaning against a post, while I went inside to transact some business. Pretty soon the Commissioner of Patents came tearing in like mad, and says he:

"I'd like to know whether this is a public building belonging to the United States, or a second-hand auction-shop."

"What mean you, sirrah?" I asked majestically.

"I mean," says he, "that some enemy to his country has gone and stood an old mahogany umbrella-stand right in front of this office."

To the disgrace of his species be it said, my boy, he referred to the spirited and fiery animal for which I am indebted to woman's generosity. I admit that when seen at a distance, the steed somewhat resembles an umbrella-stand; but a single look into his pearly eyes is enough to prove his relations with the animal kingdom.

I have named him Pegasus, in honor of Tupper, and when I mount him, Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, says that I remind him of Santa Claus sitting astride the roof of a small gothic cottage, holding on by the chimney. Villiam is becoming rather too familiar, my boy, and I hope he'll be shot at an early day.

Yesterday the army here was reënforced with a regiment of fat German cavalry from the West, under the command of Colonel Wobert Wobinson, who has had great experience in keeping a livery-stable. Their animals are well calculated to turn the point of a sword, and are of the high-backed fluted pattern, very glossy at the joints. I saw one of the dragoons cracking nuts on the backbone of the Arabian he rode, and asked him about how much such an animal was worth without the fur? He considered for a moment and then remarked that nix fustay and dampfnoodle, though many believed that swei glass und sweitzerkase; but upon the whole, it was nix cumarouse and apple-dumplings, notwithstanding the fact that yawpy, yawpy, betterish. Singular to relate, my boy, I had arrived at the very same conclusion before I asked him the question.

Colonel Wobert Wobinson reviewed the regiment near Chain Bridge this morning, and each horse used about an acre to turn around in. Just before the order to "charge" was given, the orderly sergeant kindled a fire under each horse, and when the charge commenced, only about six of the animals laid down. Colonel Wobinson remarked that these six horses were in favor of peace, and refused to fight against their Southern brethren. I told him I thought that the peace breed had longer ears; and he said that that kind had been very scarce since the Government commenced appointing its foreign consuls.

Yours, hoarsely,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVII.

NOTING A NEW VICTORY OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE IN VIRGINIA, AND ILLUSTRATING THE PECULIAR THEOLOGY OF VILLIAM BROWN; WITH SOME MENTION OF THE SHARPSHOOTERS.

Washington, D.C., October 18th, 1861.

At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass, and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, my boy, I saddled my gothic steed Pegasus, and took a trot for the benefit of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an Irishman's shoulder during the night, my architectural beast was in great spirits, my boy, and as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of that celebrated Arabian steed which had such a contempt for the speed of all other horses that he never would run with them—in fact, my boy, he never would run at all.

Having struck a match on that rib of Pegasus which was most convenient to my hand, I lit a cigar, and dropped the match, still burning, into the right ear of my fiery charger. Something of this kind is always necessary to make the sagacious animal start; but when once I get his mettle up he never stops, unless he happens to hear some crows cawing in the air just above his venerable head. I am frequently glad that Pegasus has lost his eyesight, my boy; for could he see the expression on the faces of some of these same crows, when they get near enough to squint along his backbone, it would wound his sensibilities fearfully.

On this occasion he carried me, at a speed of 2.40 hours a mile, to a point just this side of Alexandria, where the sound of heavy cannonading and cursing made me pause. At first, my boy, I remembered an engagement I had in Washington, and was about to hasten back; but while I was pressing the lighted end of my cigar to the side of Pegasus, to make him turn, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, came walking toward me from a piece of woods on my right, and informed me that ten of his men had just been attacked by fourteen thousand rebels, with twenty columbiads. "The odds," says he, "is rather heavy; but our cause is the noblest the world ever knew, and if my brave boys do not vanquish the unnatural foe, an indignant and decimated people will at once call upon the Cabinet to resign."

I told him that I thought I had read something like that in the Tribune; but he didn't seem to hear me.

By this time the cannonading had commenced to subside, and as I trotted alongside of Colonel Wobinson toward the field of battle, I asked him what he had done with his horse. He replied, that while on his way to the field, his sagacious beast had observed a hay-stack, and was so entranced with the vision that he refused to go a step further; so he had to leave him there.

Upon reaching the scene of strife, my boy, we discovered that the ten Western Cavalry men had routed the rebels, killing four regiments, which were all carried away by their comrades, and capturing six columbiads, which were also carried away. On our side nobody was killed nor wounded. In fact, two of our men, who went into the fight sick with the measles, were entirely cured, and captured four good surgeons. I must state, however, my boy, that although nobody was killed or wounded on our side, there was one man missing. It seems that when he found the balls flying pretty thickly about his ears, he formed himself into a hollow-square, my boy, and retreated in good order into the neighboring bushes. He formed himself into a hollow-square by bending gently forward until his hands touched the ground, and made his retrograde movement on all-fours. Colonel Wobinson remarked that this style of forming a hollow-square was an intensely-immense thing on Hardee.

I believe him, my boy!

The women of America, my boy, are a credit to the America eagle, and a great expense to their husbands and fathers, but they don't exactly understand the most pressing wants of the soldier. For instance, a young girl, about seventy-five years of age, has been sending ten thousand pious tracts to the Mackerel Brigade, and the consequence is, that the air around the camp has been full of spit-balls for a week. These tracts, my boy, are very good for dying sinners and other Southerners, but I'd rather have Bulwer's novels for general reading. Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, got one of them the other day, headed, "Who is your Father?" The noble youth read the question over once or twice, and then dashed the publication to the ground, and took some tobacco to check his emotions. (That brave youth's father, my boy, is a disgrace to his species; he has been sinking deeper and deeper in shame for some months past, until at last his name has got on the Mozart Hall ticket.) I saw that Villiam didn't understand what the tract really meant, and so I explained to him that it was intended to signify that God was his Father. The gifted young soldier looked at me dreamily for a moment, and then says he:

"God is my Father!" says he. "Well, now I am hanged if that ain't funny; for, whenever mother spoke of dad, she always called him 'the old devil!'"

Villiam never went to Sabbath-school, my boy, and his knowledge of theology wouldn't start a country-church.

Wishing to find out if he knew anything about catechism, I asked him, last Sunday afternoon, if he knew who Moses was.

"Yes," says he, "I know him very well; he sells old clothes in Chatham street."

I went over to Virginia the other day to review Berdan's Sharpshooters, and was much astonished, my boy, at their wonderful skill with the rifle. The target is a little smaller than the side of a barn, with a hole through the centre exactly the size of a bullet. They set this up, my boy, just six hundred yards away, and fire at it in turn. After sixty of them had fired, I went with them to the target, but couldn't see that it had been hit by a single bullet. I remarked this to the captain, whereupon he looked pityingly at me, and says he:

"Do you see that hole in the bull's eye, just the size of a bullet?"

I allowed that I did.

"Well," says he, "the bullets all went through that hole."

Now I don't mean to say that the captain lied, my boy; but it's my opinion—my private opinion, my boy, that if he ever writes a work of fiction, it will sell!

La Mountain has been up in his balloon, and went so high that he could see all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and observe what they had for dinner at Fort Pickens. He made discoveries of an important character, my boy, and says that the rebels have concentrated several troops at Manassas. A reporter of the Tribune asked him if he could see any negro insurrections, and he said that he did see some black spots moving around near South Carolina, but found out afterward that they were some ants which had got into his telescope.

The Prince de Joinville's two sons, my boy, are admirable additions to General McClellan's staff, and speak English so well that I can almost understand what they say. Two Arabs are expected here tomorrow to take command of Irish brigades, and General Blenker will probably have two Aztecs to assist him in his German division.

Yours, musingly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVIII.

DESCRIBING THE TERRIBLE DEATH AND MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A CONFEDERATE PICKET, WITH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY.

Washington, D.C., October 28th, 1861.

My head swells with patriotic pride when I casually remark that the Mackerel Brigade occupy the post of honor to the left of Bull Run, which they also left on the day we celebrated. The banner which was presented to us by the women of America, and which it took the orator of the day six hours and forty minutes to describe to us, we are using in the shape of blazing neck-ties; and when the hard-up sun of Virginia shines upon the glorious red bands around the sagacious necks of our veterans, they all look as though they had just cut their throats. The effect is gory, my boy—extremely gory and respectable.

At the special request of Secretary Seward, who wrote six letters about it to the Governors of all the States, I have been appointed a picket of the army of the Upper Potomac. In your natural ignorance, my boy, you may not know why a man is called a picket. He is called a picket, my boy, because, if anybody drops a pocket-book or a watch anywhere, his natural gifts would cause him to pick-it up. If he saw a pocket, he would not pick-it—oh, no! But pick-it—picket.

The Picket, my boy, has been an institution ever since wars began, and his perils are spoken of by some of the high old poets in these beautiful lines:

I am weeping, my boy.

While on my lonely beat, about an hour ago, a light tread attracted my attention, and looking up, I beheld one of secesh's pickets standing before me.

"Soldier," says he, "you remind me of my grandmother, who expired before I was born; but this unnatural war has made us enemies, and I must shoot you. Give me a chaw terbacker."

He was a young man, my boy, in the prime of life, and descended from the First Families of Virginia.

I looked at him, and says I:

"Let's compromise, my brother."

"Never!" says he. "The South is fighting for her liberty, her firesides, and the pursuit of happiness, and I desire most respectfully to welcome you with bloody hands to a hospitable grave."

"Stand off ten paces," says I, "and let's see whose name shall come before the coroner first."

He took his place, and we fired simultaneously. I heard a ball go whistling by a barn about a quarter of a mile on my right; and, when the smoke cleared away, I saw the secesh picket approaching me with an awful expression of woe on his otherwise dirty countenance.

"Soldier," says he, "was there anything in my head before you fired?"

"Nothing," says I, "save a few harmless insects."

"I speak not of them," says he. "Was there anything inside of my head?"

"Nothing!" says I.

"Well," says he, "just listen now."

He shook his head mournfully, and I heard something rattle in it.

"What's that?" I exclaimed.

"That," says he, "is your bullet, which has penetrated my skull, and is rolling about in my brain. I die happy, and with an empty stomach; but there is one thing I should like to see before I perish for my country. Have you a quarter about you?"

Too much affected to speak, I drew the coin from my pocket and handed it to him.

The dying man clutched it convulsively, and stared at it feverishly.

"This," said he, "is the first quarter I've seen since the fall of Sumter; and, had I wounded you, I should have been totally unable to give you any quarter. Ah! how beautiful it is! how bright, how exquisite, and good for four drinks! But I have not time to say all I feel."

The expiring soldier then laid down his gun, hung his cap and overcoat on a branch of a tree, and blew his nose.

He then died.

And there I stood, my boy, on that lonely beat, looking down on that fallen type of manhood, and thinking how singular it was he had forgotten to give me back my quarter.

As I looked upon him there, I could not help thinking to myself, "here is another whose home shall know him no more."

The sight and the thought so affected me, that I was obliged to turn my back on the corpse and walk a little way from it. When I returned to the spot, the body was gone! Had it gone to Heaven? Perhaps so, my boy—perhaps so; but I hav'n't seen my quarter since.

Your own picket,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XIX.

NOTICING THE ARRIVAL OF A SOLID BOSTON MAN WITH AN UNPRECEDENTED LITERARY PRIZE, AND SHOWING HOW VILLIAM BROWN WAS TRIUMPHANTLY PROMOTED.

Washington, D.C., November —, 1861.

Having just made a luscious breakfast, my boy, on some biscuit discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and purchased expressly for the grand army by a contracting agent for the Government, I take a sip of coffee from the very boot in which it was warmed, and hasten to pen my dispatch.

On Wednesday morning, my boy, the army here was reënforced by a very fat man from Boston, who said he'd been used to Beacon street all the days of his life, and considered the State House somewhat superior to St. Peter's at Rome. He was a very fat man, my boy: eight hands high, six and a half hands thick, and his head looked like a full moon sinking in the west at five o'clock in the morning. He said he joined the army to fight for the Union, and cure his asthma, and Colonel Wobert Wobinson thoughtfully remarked, that he thought he could grease a pretty long bayonet without feeling uncomfortable. This fat man, my boy, was leaning down to clean his boots just outside of a tent, when the General of the Mackerel Brigade happened to come along, and got a back view of him.

"Thunder!" says the general, stopping short; "who's been sending artillery into camp?"

"There's no artillery here, my boy," says I.

"Well," says he, "then what's the gun-carriage doing here?"

I explained to him that what he took for a gun-carriage was a fat patriot blacking his boots; and he said that he be dam.

Soon after the arrival of this solid Boston man, my boy, I noticed that he always carried about with him, suspended by a strap under his right arm, something carefully wrapped in oilskin. He was sitting with me in my room at Willard's the other evening, and says I to him:

"What's that you hug so much, my Plymouth Rocker?"

He nervously clutched his treasure, and says he:

"It's an unpublished poem of the Honorable Edward, which I found in a very old album in Beacon street. It's an immortal and unpublished poem," says he, fondly taking a roll of manuscript from the oilskin wrapper,—"by the greatest and most silent statesman of the age. You'll recognize the style at once.—Listen—

As the solid Boston man finished reading this useful poem, he looked impressively at me, and says he:

"There's domestic eloquence for you! The Honorable Edward is liberal in his views," says he, enthusiastically, "and treats his subject with some latitude."

"Yes," says I, thoughtfully, "but they call it Platitude, sometimes."

He didn't hear me, my boy.

It is with raptures, my boy, that I record the promotion of Villiam Brown, Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, to the rank of Captain, with the privilege of spending half his time in New York, and the rest of it on Broadway. Villiam left the army of the Upper Potomac to pass his examination here, and the Board of Examiners report that he reminded them of Napoleon, and made them feel sorry for the Duke of Wellington. One of the questions they asked him was:

"Suppose your company was suddenly surrounded by a regiment of the enemy, and you had a precipice in your rear, and twenty-seven hostile batteries in front—what would you do?"

Villiam thought a moment, and then says he:

"I'd resign my commission, and write to my mother that I was coming home to die in the spring-time."

"Sensible patriot," says the Board. "Are you familiar with the history of General Scott?"

"You can bet on it," says Villiam, smiling like a sagacious angel; "General Scott was born in Virginia when he was quite young, and discovered Scotland at an early age. He licked the British in 1812, wrote the Waverly Novels, and his son Whahae bled with Wallace. Now, old hoss, trot out your commission and let's liquor."

"Pause, fair youth," says the Board. "What makes you think that General Scott had a son named 'Whahae'? We never heard that before."

"Ha!" says Villiam, agreeably, "that's because you don't know poickry. Why," says Villiam, "if you'll just turn to Burns' works, you'll learn that

"'Scot's wha' ha'e wi' Wallace bled,'

"and if that ain't good authority, where's your Shakspeare?"

The Board was so pleased with Villiam's learning, my boy, that it gave him his commission, presented him with two gun-boats and a cannon, and recommended him for President of the New York Historical Society.

It was rumored in camp last night, that the army would go into winter-quarters, and I asked Colonel Wobinson if he couldn't lend me a few of the quarters in advance, as I felt like going in right away. He explained to me that winter-quarters would only be taken in exchange for Treasury Notes, and I withdrew my proposition for a popular loan.

Yours, speculatively,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XX.

CONCERNING A SIGNIFICANT BRITISH OUTRAGE, AND THE CAPTURE OF MASON AND SLIDELL.

Washington, D.C., November 24th, 1861.

Mr. Seward, my boy, who takes the Oath with much sugar in it, and is likewise Secretary of State, will probably write twenty-four letters to all the Governors this week, in consequence of a recent outrage committed by Great Britain. I may remark with great indignation, that Great Britain is a member of one of the New York regiments, my boy, and enlisted for the express purpose of stretching his legs. He is shaped something like a barrel of ale, and has a chin that looks like an apple-dumpling with a stitch in its side. As I rode slowly along near Fort Corcoran, on my Gothic steed Pegasus, about an hour ago, admiring the beauties of Nature, and smoking a pipe which was presented to me by the Women of America, I espied Great Britain seated by the roadside, contemplating an army biscuit. These biscuit, my boy, as I stated last week, were discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and were at first taken for meteoric stones.

"Good morning, old Neutrality," says I, affably, "You appear to be lost in religious meditation."

"Ah!" says he, sighing like the great behemoth of the Scriptures, "I was thinking of the way of the transgressor. If the hinspired writers," says he, "thought the way of the transgressor was 'ard, I wonder what they'd think about this 'ere biscuit."

"You're jealous of America," says I, "and it will be the painful duty of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Law to capture Canada, if you continue your abolition harangues against the best, the most beneficent and powerful bread in the civilized world."

"Bread!" says he, with a groan in three syllables, "do you call this ere biscuit bread? Why," says he, "this ere biscuit is Geology, and if it were in old Hingland, it would be taken for one of the Elgin marbles, and placed in the British Museum."

I need scarcely inform you, my boy, that after this ungenerous remark of Great Britain, I left him contemptuously, and at once proceeded to blockade a place where the Oath is furnished in every style. We have borne with Great Britain a great while, my boy; but it is now time for us to take Canada, and wipe every vestige of British tyranny from the face of the Globe. The American eagle, my boy, flaps his dark wings over the red-head of battle, and as his scarlet eyes rest for a moment on the English Custom House, he softly whispers—he simply remarks—he merely ejaculates—Gore!

Americans! fellow-citizens! foreigners! and people of Boston! Shall we longer allow the bloated British aristocracy to blight us with base abolition proclivities, while Mr. Seward is capable of holding a pen?

That's the spirit of America, my boy, taken with nutmeg on top, and a hollow straw. Very good for invalids.

Next to the question concerning the capacity of gunboats for the sweet-potato trade, my boy, the great topic of the day is the capture of Slidell and Mason, whose arrest so pleased the colonel of the Mackerel Brigade, that he got up at nine o'clock in the morning to tell the President about it.

In the year 1776, my boy, this Slidell sold candles in New York, and was born about two years after the marriage of the elder Slidell. While he was yet a young man, he went much into female society, and at length offered his hand to a lady. Her father being a male, gave his consent to the match, and on the day of the wedding, there was a fire in the Seventh Ward. Since that time, Slidell has been a married man, and was much respected until he got into the Senate. I get these facts from a friend of the family, who has a set of silver spoons engraved with the name of Slidell.

The rebel Mason was born and bred in the United States, and has always been a First Family. He says he was going to Europe on account of his health.

The capture of these men, my boy, cannot fail to produce a great sensation in diplomatic circles, and I am informed by a reliable gentleman from Weehawken, that Mr. Seward is preparing a letter to Lord Lyons on the subject. This letter, I learn, will contain some such passages as this:

"I have the honor to say to your lordship, that your lordship must be aware of your lordship's important duty as a Minister to the United States, and I trust that your lordship will pay a little attention to your lordship's grammar when next your lordship addresses your lordship's most obedient servant. Your lordship will permit me to say to your lordship, that your lordship is in no way capable of interpreting the Constitution to your lordship's American friends; and I trust your lordship will not be offended when I state to your lordship, that your lordship will find nothing in the Constitution to compel your lordship to demand your lordship's passport on account of the recent capture of State prisoners from one of your lordship's government's vessels, your lordship."

I read this extract to Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, my boy, and he said its only fault was, that it hadn't enough lordships in it.

"Lordships," says he, "lend an easy grace to State documents, and are as aristocratic as a rooster's tail at sunrise."

The colonel is a natural poet, my boy, and abounds in pleasing comparisons.

The review of seventy thousand troops near Munson's Hill, on Thursday, was one of those stirring events, my boy, which we have been upon the eve of for the past year. A new cavalry company, for the Mackerel Brigade, excited great attention as it went past, and I understand the President said that, with the exception of the horses and the men, it was one of the finest cavalry mobs he ever saw. The horses are a new pattern; fluted sides, polished knobs on the haunches, and a hand-rail all the way down the back. A rebel caught sight of one of these fine animals, the other day, and immediately fainted. It was afterward ascertained that he owned a field of oats in the neighborhood.

Yours, variously,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XXI.

DESCRIBING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S GREAT EXPEDITION TO ACCOMAC, AND ITS MARVELLOUS SUCCESS.

Washington, D.C., December 1st, 1861.

'Twas early morn, my boy. The sun rushed up the eastern sky in a state of patriotic combustion, and as the dew fell upon the grassy hill-sides, the mountains lifted up their heads and were rather green. Far on the horizon six rainbows appeared, with an American Eagle at roost on the top one, and as the translucent pearl of the dawn shone between them, and a small pattern of blue sky with thirty-four stars broke out at one end, I saw—I beheld—yes, it ees! it ees! our Banger in the Skee yi!

The reason why the heavens took such an interest in the United States of America was the fact, that Captain Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was to make a Great Expedition to Accomac County on that morning. Twelve years was the period originally assigned, my boy, for the preparation of this Expedition; but, when the government heard that the Accomac rebels were making candles of all the fat Boston men they took prisoners, it concluded to do something during the present century. Villiam Brown was assigned to the command of the Expedition, and when I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade how such selection happened to be made, he said that Villiam was assigned because there were so many signs of an ass about him.

The General is much given to classical metaphors, my boy, and ought to write for the new American Encyclopedia.

Previous to starting, Villiam Brown called a meeting of his staff, for the purpose of selecting such officers only who had slept with Hardee, and knew beans.

"Gentlemen," said Villiam, seating himself at a table, on which stood the Oath and a clean tumbler; "I wish to know which of you is the greatest shakes in a sacred skrimmage."

A respectable leftenant stepped forward with his hand upon his boozum.

"Being a native of Philadelphia," says he, "I am naturally modest; but only yesterday, when two rebels pitched into me, I knocked them both over, and am here to tell the tale."

Villiam Brown gave the speaker a piercing look, my boy, and says he:

"Impostor! beware how you insult the United States of America. I fathom your falsehood," says he, "by my knowledge of Matthew Maticks. You say that two chivalries pitched into you, and you knocked them both over. Now Matthew Maticks distinctly says that two into one goes no times, and nothing over. Speaker of the House, remove this leftenant to the donjon keep. He's Ananias Number 2."

The officer from Philadelphia being removed to the guard-house, where there is weeping and wailing, and picking of teeth, another leftenant stepped forward:

"I deal in technicalities," says he, "and can post you in law."

"Ha!" says Villiam, softly sipping the Oath, "then I will try you with an abstract question, my beautiful Belvideary. Supposing Mason and Slidell were your friends, how would you work it to get them out of Fort Warren?"

"Why," said the leftenant, pleasantly, "I'd sue out a writ of Habeas Jackass, and get the New York Herald to advise the Government not to let them out."

"Yes," says Villiam, meditatively, "that would be sure to do it. I'll use you to help me get up my Proclamation."

"And now," says Villiam, dropping a lump of sugar into the Oath, and stirring it with a comb, "who is that air melancholy chap with a tall hat on, who looks like Hamlet with a panic?"

The melancholy chap came to the front, shook his long locks like Banquo, and says he:

"I'm the Press. I'm the Palladium of our Liberties—

"I'm the best advertising medium in the country, and have reptile cotemporaries. I won't be suppressed. No, sir!—no, sir!—I refuse to be suppressed."

"You're a giant intellek," says Villiam, looking at him through the bottom of a tumbler; "but I can't stand the press. Speaker of the House, remove him to the bath and send for a barber. Now, gentlemen, I will say a few words to the troops, and then we will march according to Hardee."

The section of the Mackerel Brigade being mustered in line against a rail fence, my boy, Captain Villiam Brown shut one eye, balanced himself on one foot, and thus addressed them.

"Fellow-Soldats! (which is French.) It was originally intended to present you with a stand of colors; but the fellow-citizen who was to present it has only got as far as the hundred and fifty-second page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it is a military necessity not to wait for him. (See Scott's Tactics, Vol. III., pp. 24.) I have but few words to say, and these are them: Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle, let me implore you to Die without a groan. It sounds better in history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads, that 'Private Muggins received a shot in the neck and died without a groan.' Soldats! bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall our distracted country, I shall die without a groan, even though I am a grown person. Therefore, fear nothing. The eyes of the whole civilized world are upon you, and History and Domestic Romance expect to write that you died without a groan."

At the conclusion of this touching and appropriate speech, my boy, all the men exclaimed: "We will!" except a young person from New York, who said that he'd rather "Groan without a die;" for which he was sentenced to read Seward's next letter.

The Army being formed into a Great Quadrilateral (See Raymond's Tactics), moved forward at a double-quick, and reached Accomac just as the impatient sun was rushing down. With the exception of a mule, the only Virginian to be seen was a solitary Chivalry, who had strained himself trying to raise some interest from a Confederate Treasury Note, and couldn't get away.

Observing that only one man was in sight, Captain Villiam Brown, who had stopped to tie his shoe behind a large tree on the left, made a flank movement on the Chivalry.

"Is these the borders of Accomac?" says he, pleasantly.

"Why!" says the Chivalry, giving a start, "you must be Lord Lyons."

"What makes you think that?" asked Villiam.

"Oh, nothing—only your grammar," says Chivalry.

This made Villiam very mad, my boy, and he ordered the bombardment to be commenced immediately; but as all the powder had been placed on board a vessel which could not arrive under two weeks, it was determined to take possession without combustion. Finding himself master of the situation, Captain Villiam Brown called the solitary Chivalry to him, and issued the following

PROCLAMATION.

Citizen of Accomac! I come among you not as a incendiary and assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father. Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in Accomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than jealously-watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness. (See the Constitution.)

Citizen of Accomac! These brave men, of whom I am a spectator, are not your enemies; they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common forefathers. In proof whereof I establish the following orders:

I.—If any nigger come within the lines of the United States Army to give information, whatsomever, of the movements of the enemy, the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off, and be returned to his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the Fugitive Slave Ack. (See the Constitution.)

II.—If any chicken or other defenceless object belonging to the South, be brought within the lines of the United States Army, by any nigger, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid shall have his tail cut off, and be sent back to his rightful owner at the expense of the Treasury Department.

III.—Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsomever, the same shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct, and be pronounced an accursed abolitionist.

Villiam Brown, Eskevire, Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade, Commanding Accomac.

The citizen of Accomac, my boy, received this proclamation favorably, and said he wouldn't go hunting Union pickets until the weather was warmer. Whereupon Villiam Brown fell upon his neck and wept copiously.

The Union Army, my boy, now holds undisputed possession of over six inches of the sacred soil of Accomac, and this unnatural rebellion has received a blow which shakes the rotten fabric to its shivering centre. The strong arm of the Government has at last reached the stronghold of treason, and in a few years this decisive movement on Accomac will be followed by the advance of our army on the Potomac.

Yours, with expedition,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XXII.

TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION IN A CONTRABAND CASE.

Washington, D.C., December 16th, 1861.

After sleeping with Congress for two days, my boy, and observing four statesmen and a small page driven to the verge of apoplexy by the exciting tale called the President's Message, I thought it was about time to mingle with the world again, and sent my servant, Percy de Mortimer, to bring me my gothic steed Pegasus. After a long search in the fields after that chaste architectural animal, my boy, he met a Missouri picket chap, and says he:

"Hev you seen a horse hereabout, my whisky-doodle?"

"Hoss!" says Missouri, spitting with exquisite precision on one of De Mortimer's new boots. "No, I aint seen no hoss, my Fejee bruiser; but there's an all-fired big crow-roost down in that corner, I reckon; and it must be alive, for I heard the bones rattle when the wind blew."

My valet, Mr. De Mortimer, paid no heed to his satirical lowness, my boy, but proceeded majestically to where my gothic beast was eating the remains of a straw mattress. Brushing a few crows from the backbone of the fond charger, upon which they were innocently roosting, he placed the saddle amidships, and conducted the fiery stallion to my hotel.

Mounting in hot haste, I was about to start for Accomac, when the General of the Mackerel Brigade came down the steps in hot haste, and says he:

"Is the Army of the Potomac about to advance?"

"Why do you ask?" says I.

"Thunder!" says he, "I've been so long in one spot that I was going to get out my naturalization papers as a citizen of Arlington Heights. Ah!" says he, with a groan, "when the advance takes place I shall be too old to enjoy it."

I asked him why he didn't make arrangements to have his grandson take his place, if he should become superanuated before the advance took place; and he said that he be dam.

On reaching Accomac, my boy, I found the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade reconnoitering in force after a pullet they had seen the night before. Which they couldn't catch it.

Captain Villiam Brown, my boy, has his head quarters in a house with the attic and cellar on the same floor. I found two fat pickets playing poker on the roof, six first class pickets doing up Old Sledge on the rail-fence in front of the door, and eight consumptive pickets eating a rooster belonging to the Southern Confederacy on the roof of a pig-pen.

As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the commander-in chief, I beheld a sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of the Scriptures, and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There was the cantankerous captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder, with his head laid sideways on a table; one hand grasping a bottle half full of the Oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper laid at right angles with his nose.

"Hallo, my interesting infant," says I, "are you drawing a map of Pensacola for an enlightened press?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the bottom of a bottle, "you behold me in the agonies of composition. Read this poickry," says he, "and if it aint double X with the foam off, where's your Milton?"

I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen-card of dead flies, and read this poem:

I told Villiam that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of Longfellow, and says he:

"Don't mention my undoubted genius in public; because if Seward knew that I wrote poickry, he'd think I wanted to be President in 1865, and he'd get the Honest Old Abe to remove me. I think," says Villiam, abstractedly, "that the Honest Old Abe is like a big bumble bee with his tail cut off, when his Cabinet comes humming around him."

Villiam once stirred up the monkeys in a menagerie, my boy, and his metaphors from Natural History are chaste.

At this moment a file of the Mackerel Brigade came in, bringing a son of Africa, who looked like a bottle of black ink wrapt up in a dirty towel, and a citizen of Accomac, who claimed him as his slave.

"Captain," says the citizen of Accomac, "this nigger belongs to me, and I want him back. Besides, he stole a looking-glass from me, and has got it hid somewheres."

Villiam smiled like a pleased clam, and says he: "You say he stole a looking-glass?"

"I reckon," says Accomac.

"Prisonier!" says Villiam, to the Ethiop, "did you ever see the devil?"

"Nebber, sar, since missus died."

"Citizen of Accomac," says Villiam, sternly, "you have told a whopper; and I shall keep this child of oppression to black the boots of the United States of America. You say he stole a looking-glass. He says he has never seen the devil. Observe now," says Villiam, argumentatively, "how plain it is, that if he had even looked at your looking-glass, he must have seen the devil about the same time."

The citizen of Accomac saw that his falsehood was discovered, my boy, and returned to the bosom of his family cursing like a rifled parson. Villiam then adjourned the court for a week, and sent the contraband out to enjoy the blessings of freedom, digging trenches.

It is pleasing, my boy, to see our commanders dispensing justice in this manner; and I don't wonder at the President's wanting to abolish the Supreme Court.

Yours, judicially,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XXIII.

CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY.

Washington, D.C., December 20th, 1861.

When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out the azure main, this was her charter, her charter of the land, that Britains never, never, never shall be slaves as long as they have a chance to treat everybody else like niggers. Suffer me also to remark, that, Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep—where she keeps up her neutrality by smuggling contraband Southern confederacies, and swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets overhaul her.

Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States of America, as you will understand from the following Irish Idle which was written

British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap; but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.

"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in porgies!"

Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose was elected?

The Neutral Chap, my boy!

Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him, and says they:

"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"

The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:

"I was neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself, and went in."

It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter—they were only known to exclaim—they were barely able to articulate—that neutrality didn't pay.

Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck, until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.

"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he, "and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."

The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a fire—thus:

Nobody hurt on our side.

What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:

"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both numerious and cantankerous."

"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"

"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this time."

"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"

"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire. Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards' range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."

As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips, took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.

Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a quart.

In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle, my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the Chiar' oscuro artist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will probably be ordered for the Capitol.