ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS. (continued 4)

Thus, my boy, when I note how some of our excellent Democratic daily journals attempt to prove, with great sadness of manner and profound sincerity of reluctant reasoning, that all the celebrated advances, conquests, and flankings of our remarkable national armies are really so many heart-breaking defeats in deep disguise; and that the well-known Southern Confederacy is actually quite intoxicated with its continued remorseless successes over us; when I note this, my boy, I am moved to pleasant tears over that inherent and ineradicable goodness of human nature, which instinctively inspires the nobler of our species to first delude their fellow-beings to despondency with the most innocent of falsehoods, only that their consummate bliss may be the greater when the glorious truth can no longer be thus fondly concealed. Join with me, my boy, in a noble tribute of affection to the humble but tender Editors of these excellent Democratic daily journals, who would lovingly make us, children of the nation, believe, that the Turkey of Victory is not to be had at any price, though none of us need look very far to see the plump legs of that very same turkey sticking out of the family-basket. Thanks to thee, thou dear old Mrs. McShane, with thy perpetual atmosphere of roast-beef gravy, and eternal rims of crusted flour about thy finger-nails—thanks be to thee for that humanizing remembrance of thy loving fraud, which thus enables me to rescue our excellent Democratic daily journals from the unseemly imputations of degenerate Black Republicans.

My long absence with our somewhat tedious national troops, my boy,—troops now constituting a flaming about the throat of this exciting Rebellion;—my long absence, I say, has given this Capital City of our distracted country an opportunity to thrive apace in the development of those public and private virtues, which so thoroughly unpopularize Vice in this chaste locality, that even the Vice President is never heard of. True it is, that one misses those pleasant and gorgeous chaps of much watch-chain and an observable extent of diamond breastpin, who were wont, in the days of genial Southern preponderance, to lend lustre to the hall-ways of the more majestic hotels, and occasionally induce the inebriated son of Chivalry to join them at Faro his table. We miss these light and airy chaps, each of whom is now an unblushing Confederacy without hope of Reconstruction; we miss the high and lofty Carolina chap of much hat-brim, whose playful moments after the bottle were now and then illustrated with a lively shot from a revolver at a waiter, or cheerful pass with a bowie-knife at his opponent in conversation. And oh! we miss those languishing magnolia belles, whose eyes always reminded me of fresh drops of ink on tinted paper, and whose beautiful belief in the utter vulgarity of all Northern ladies it was really quite delightful to hear. Yes, my boy, all, all are gone; but we have in their places such representatives of genuine republican simplicity as you shall not see again in a circuit of the globe. Our hotel-halls are brightened by youthful forms in the self-sacrificing uniform of our national army; and these youthful forms, being mostly from the country, confine their innocent gaming, almost exclusively, to the athletic game of "checkers." The prominent walking-gentlemen of Willard's wear black velvet vests all the year round, and, so far from shooting waiters, are always on the most familiar terms with that oppressed race; joking freely with them and recognizing them as intimate equals, as all genuine citizens of a true Republic should do. And as for our present Washington ladies,—wearing Lisle-thread gloves at the dinner-table and putting almonds and raisins into their pockets before leaving it, God bless 'em!—why they know no more of anything vulgar, than a maniac does of insanity.

Reflecting upon these things, on Monday last, my boy, I strolled abstractedly into an establishment where they sell army stores, such as lemons by the slice, sugar by the half-ounce, etc. I strolled dreamily in, when who should I see at the crockery-counter but the Conservative Kentucky chap, whose hat was very far down over his eyes, like one who has just come through a severe election. He appeared to be taking Richmond at the moment, my boy, with a spoon in it; and as quickly as I entered, he let the hand grasping it fall suddenly down on his obverse side, and gave his entire and most unremitting attention to the picture of a flesh-colored young lady on the farthest wall. I slapped him on the shoulder, and says I:

"Well, my ancient Talleyrand, how are we?"

The Conservative Kentucky chap gloomily placed his tumbler upon the stomach of a gentleman in checked pants, who was calmly sleeping on three chairs near the stove, and says he: "Kentucky can no longer blind herself to the fact that we are on the brink of a monikky. Yes!" exclaimed the Conservative chap,—wildly tearing off his hat, and then putting it on again so that it entirely covered his left eye,—"Yes, sir, a monikky with a Yankee for its Austrian tyrant!"

Here the Conservative Kentucky chap deliberately buttoned his coat to the very neck, turned up his collar, and gazed sternly at a bowl of cloves near by. I called his attention to the Ten of Spades, which was edging itself down between his hat and his right ear, and says I,—

"Hast proof of this, Horatio?"

"Proof?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with such a start that the gentleman in the checked pants vibrated as though sleeping on springs,—"Proof? You know Smith,—John Smith,—that little apothecary from Connecticut? Well, sir, he voted in this here last election for the Austrian usurper, and now he's knighted! Yes, sir, by A. Lincoln's recommendation he's now Sir John Smith!! I've heard him called so myself. And this—this—is Kentucky's reward!"

At this crisis the Conservative Kentucky chap shut the stove-door with great violence, and seemed for a moment to meditate personal outrage on the young assistant oysterer, who had just arrived with the coal-skuttle.

Before I could make rejoinder, my boy, there approached us a middle-aged gentleman in a shocking bad hat and an overcoat very shiny about the seams, who had cordially invited himself to take a little something that morning, and had accepted the invitation with pleasure. Straightening himself suddenly, with a violent start, to restrain an unruly hiccup, or make me believe that he made the noise with his feet, he eyed the Conservative chap with a benignant smile, and says he:

"You're mistaken there, sir,—muchly, sir, hem! Mr. Smith is my friend, sir; my bosom friend, till time shall end.—Beautiful idea, that.—My friend, I say; and he's only been appointed to the medical department by recommendation of the President.—Let nature do her best, and then your doctors are of use to men.—Byron.—Yes, sir, Mr. Smith is now a military doctor; and that's how you've made the mistake. You thought it was 'Sir John' Smith they said, when it was 'Sur-geon' Smith!"

As he said this, the middle-aged gentleman became aware that one of his toes was sticking very much through his boot, and retired to confidentially ask the assistant oysterer if any one had yet found that valuable diamond scarf-pin which he (the middle-aged gentleman) had recently lost.

I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and his chin had sunk down upon his breast. He felt that his mistake was also the mistake of Kentucky, and his heart was too full for further conversation.

'Twas on Thursday morn,—Thanksgiving Day,—that I blithely scaled the heights of my faithful Gothic steed, the architectural Pegasus, and softly urged that ruined temple of a horse to trot me a lively reminiscence of his youth. Forward we went with a unique, chopping motion, with now and then a stumble to keep the blood in circulation, interpersed with occasional plunges at stumps and shyings at fluttering withered leaves. When you have mounted a beloved horse, on a fine, bracing autumnal morning, my boy, did you ever feel like a kind of new and superior being; as though you and your steed were one consummate individual, inspired by one bounding, uncontrollable impulse, and impatiently regarding the line of the horizon as a tyrannical limit to a ride that should else tear gallantly and recklessly forth into illimitable space? Did you ever feel thus, my boy?...

Because, if you did, your feelings were not at all like mine.

Onward we go, like a wrecked centaur before the wind, and soon these eager eyes behold once more the camp of the aged and thrice-valiant Mackerel Brigade. Far and near, the spectacles of the decrepit veterans are flashing in the sun; whilst before them is the much-besieged City of Paris, and behind them (in consequence of recent rains) the storied waters of Duck Lake. The veterans are clustered around Paris, my boy, like so many exceedingly thirsty chaps around the tall and well-spiked fence inclosing a cherished pump, and if ever they get at it, they will at least drink it dry. Scarcely had I reined-in, near the edge of Duck Lake, where certain members of Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated mackerel squadron were discharging cases and barrels by the score,—scarcely had I dismounted from the Gothic Pegasus and hitched him to the body of a slumbering Mackerel chap, who had already overdone his Thanksgiving, when I beheld Captain Villiam Brown approaching, on his geometrical steed, the angular Euclid. Following him, but on foot, was Captain Bob Shorty in command of the famous Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Ha!" says Villiam, leaping down to meet me in dreadful entanglement with his sword, and hastily plunging into his bosom a small black bottle of regulation cough-drops, "have you flown hither like an narrer from a bow, to view the sublime spectacle of the troops at their feed? Ah!" says Villiam, quickly clasping his hands to save the bottle from slipping out of his breast-pocket, "the beautiful pageant of a nation feasting these martial beings on turkey, is something for besotted Europe to tremble at. Next to serving up ice-cream to the sailors in a gale of wind at sea, this"—

Here a venerable Mackerel tottered from the ranks, and says he: "Is them the birds in them ere cases and barrels, Capting?"

Villiam attempted to rattle his sword threateningly at this interruption; but observing that the hilt of his weapon had got around to his spine, he rattled the keys in his pockets instead, and says he:

"How now, Sarah!"

(He meant to say "sirrah," my boy,—he meant to say "sirrah;" having recently learned, from the perusal of a moral tale in one of our excellent weekly journals of exciting romance, that said aristocratic term is of frequent occurrence in all the conversations of the great.)

"Why," says the aged Mackerel, coughing into his hand, "if them's the turkeys the people have sent us for Thanksgiving, we're ready for 'em."

"You're right, Sarah," says Villiam, magnanimously, "and we'll open this first case at once. The trade-mark of this case," says Villiam, learnedly, "is '50 Turkeys with Care.'"

They were prying the lid off, my boy, with bayonets, and the eyes of the surrounding Mackerels had commenced to glisten fierily through their spectacles, when I saw Villiam and Captain Bob Shorty exchange looks of deep meaning, and shake their heads like a couple of melancholy mandarins.

"Robert S.," says Villiam, with a look of deep perplexity, "this is indeed a strange oversight."

Captain Bob Shorty shook his head sadly.

"And yet," says Villiam, sternly, "we must tell these beings about it."

"There's no avoiding it, by all that's Federal!" murmured Captain Bob Shorty.

Captain Villiam Brown sighed deeply, and says he:

"Soldiers, the people of the United States of America meant well in sending such beautiful birds for our Thanksgiving bankwick; but they've made a strange mistake. Really," says Villiam, toying with the cork of the bottle of cough-drops, as it protruded from his ruffles,—"really, I find, that not one of these Turkeys is stamped!"

At this juncture the same old Mackerel again stepped forward, and asked if the turkeys came by mail?

"No," says Villiam, with much sympathy of manner. "I don't mean postage-stamps, but the Internal Revenue. Turkeys," says Villiam, reasoningly, "come under the head of 'Unnecessary Luxuries,' and are not legal unless stamped. But," says Villiam, with sudden benignity, "your officers possess the necessary stamps, and will sell them to you at twenty-five cents apiece."

It was a beautiful proof of the untiring vigilance and energy of our national regimental officers, my boy, that they happened to have the stamps on hand just as they did; though, if there happened to be stamps required on geese, I am afraid that every Mackerel who paid his twenty-five cents would come in for one of those chaste little pictures on himself.

And now, the stamps being purchased and the New England eagles distributed, there commenced such a scene of martial revelry and good-nature as the world never saw before. In every direction—at the openings of tents—around open-air fires—everywhere, the jolly festival went on.

Strolling to the outer picket-line, I saw a Mackerel chap lay aside his gun, seat himself upon the ground, and commence handling a nice little turkey which had just been brought to him by a comrade. He smacked his lips audibly, my boy, and was just in the act of tearing off a "drumstick" when I saw him suddenly look up to a point ahead of him, and instantly cease all motion. Curious to know what had thus fascinated him, as it were, and so abruptly checked his feast, I also looked in that direction.

Right across the little field in front of us, seated on the last remaining post of a ruined fence, was a ragged Confederacy, in a perfect whirlpool of tatters, who had rested his musket upon the ground, and was alternately gnawing an army biscuit and casting longing looks toward his happier enemy. He was a dreadfully thin, hollow-eyed chap, my boy, and shivered in the cold. The Mackerel stared at him without motion for some minutes, and then commenced to handle his turkey again. Then he stared again, dropped his turkey, picked it up, and finally rose to his feet impatiently—looked toward his nearest comrade—and then seated himself with his back toward the Confederacy. Still the latter gnawed and looked longingly. The Mackerel said, "damme!" quite distinctly and stoutly, and vigorously grasped at a "drumstick" again. He gave it a twist, paused, wavered, and looked over his shoulder.

In another instant, my boy, that Mackerel sprang to his feet, faced about, shouted:

"I'll do it, by G—d! if I swing for it"—dashed across the field like a stark madman, and, before the astonished Confederacy could budge an inch, had hurled the turkey into his arms and was tearing back to his own post.

There is a chivalry, my boy, that makes a man a hero with the sword of a patriot, or bears him triumphantly through perils and obstacles to the arms of the bride he has won. There is a chivalry that inspires a man to spurn with contempt the fortune not fraught with all honor, and gives him the graces of a gentleman through all the glooms and burdens of honest poverty. But in that grander Chivalry native to the soul, which raises the tenderness of our best humanity far above the highest point all enmity can reach, and lets it fall, like God's own dew, upon the other side, none, none more fairly ever won a knighthood, than that poor Mackerel picket-guard on last Thanksgiving Day.

Yours, gently,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CII.

SHOWING THE INGENIOUS FINANCIAL ENERGY OF A GREATLY-REDUCED POLITICIAN; AND DESCRIBING A COMBAT, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL CONTENTMENT OF THE WELL-KNOWN SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY UNDER ALL REVERSES.

Washington, D.C., Dec. 17th, 1864.

It is a sublime thing, my boy,—a high moral and exciting thing,—to note a wealthy nation's outburst of gratitude to Providence and our national military organization, for a succession of Mackerel triumphs without parallel either in history or her story. As I look abroad upon the exulting hosts of our distracted fellow-countrymen from an upper front window of Willard's,—having first wafted a fascinating salute to the pleasing young woman of much back hair at a window across the avenue,—as I look abroad, my boy, upon this whole remarkable people, I am deeply impressed with a sense of that beautiful, national characteristic which makes us all buoyant over Mackerel victories only as they bring us nearer to virtuous peace and universal brotherhood, and am convinced that our otherwise inexpressible thankfulness to Heaven may be divided into two equal parts:

I. An ardent desire to destroy combined Europe.

II. A disposition to set fire to combined Europe, bringing off the women and children in small boats.

Hah, hah! does combined Europe tremble? Does C. E. offer a certain sum to be let off?

"Shall I ever forget, my boy, the recent terrible remark of that grim old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, just after that late tremendous capture of Fort Piano, on Duck Lake, by the Mackerel Chalybeate squadron,—shall I ever forget it?

"Chip my turret!" says that venerable salt, in his iron-plated manner,—"Chip my turret if I couldn't take my flag-ship, the 'Aitch,' and crush Europe like a perishing insect,—unrivet my plates if I couldn't!"

But why should I dwell upon the dreadful suggestions of a theme like this? Europe—crowded Europe—millions of people—bright summer morning—everybody in the streets—Bang! whiz!—Great combinations of the Lieutenant General—Victoria and Louis N., do you surrender?—We do!

Solemnly do I say to you, my boy, let us mix plenty of this sort of thing in our devout gratitude to Providence for His mercies to us as a people, and henceforth we may confidently count upon the support of Providence—Rhode Island.

Fairly and benignantly shone the blessed sun over valley and hill on the morning of that recent memorable day when I scaled the architectural heights of my Gothic Pegasus, and turned his front-elevation toward the Mackerel camp before the much-banged City of Paris. Brightly gleamed the fluted roof of my ancient pile of a steed as he went blithely forward on three legs, keeping one in reserve in case of accident: joyous was the alacrity with which he waltzed an imitative earthquake and tossed his child's-coffin of a head. The exhilaration of the motion, the proud sense of being borne again, might ultimately have plunged me into a delicious dream of being divided into two parts, my boy, had I not suddenly discovered, on the road-side, some twenty yards ahead of me, the figure of a being seated upon a camp-stool. Hastily dismounting from my architectural animal, and tying him to an oak in such a manner that he presented somewhat the perspective of a modest country church with a tree before the door, I stole carefully upon the being in my front, and found it to be the Conservative Kentucky chap, engaged in the muscular game of "Bluff" with himself.

His venerable hat, my boy, sat far down over his ears, like some shabby bird of night just stooping to carry off two oysters; a curious antiquity in the shape of a black stock loomed gloomily under his chin, as a memorial sepulchre in which some departed collar was supposed to be sacredly entombed; his face was toward Kentucky, and in his hands he was vivaciously shuffling a number of cards.

"Hum, hem!" soliloquized the Conservative Kentucky chap, complacently—"ten of spades—king of diamonds—king of hearts—ace of clubs—ace of hearts—ace of"—

Here the Conservative Kentucky chap uttered an absolutely startling cough and, at the same instant, passed three of the aces up his left sleeve!

"Yes," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, still to himself, "the pasteboards are all right—hem!—it's your deal. Ah! ten is it?—I'll go twenty better—forty—sixty! Hem! Ace and two Kings is it? Look here—three aces! Good-night, gents."—and the Conservative Kentucky chap at once sang, with triumphant and great effect:

As the last note of exquisite melody died away upon the air, I slapped him on the shoulder, and says I:

"Well done, my son of Hoyle!"

The Conservative Kentucky chap sprang wildly to his feet, my boy, simultaneously "making a pass" of the cards into his pocket, and commenced dancing insanely before me with a view of hiding from my notice the four of clubs, which he had dropped to the ground and was anxious to conceal in the mud.

"Ha! ha!" observed the Conservative Kentucky chap, somewhat hysterically, in the midst of his dance; "of course you didn't see what I was doing?"

Then it was, my boy, that I folded my arms after the manner of Hamlet, threw forward my right knee, shook my head profoundly thrice, and murmured, with the poet:

"My mother!" exclaimed the Conservative Kentucky chap, suddenly descending into Cimmerian gloom; "Kentucky is my mother, and from her maternal fount I drew the old rye of my existence. But now, Kentucky becomes a indigent pauper under the Constitutional Amendment and the failure of the Bankrupt Bill, and I find myself compelled to take to bluff and poker in the prime of life." Here the poor chap made a move toward tearing his hair, but thought better of it and only scratched a pimple on his chin.

Arm in arm we walked slowly forward together, each busied with his own thoughts, until, from a clump of trees by the road-side, there unexpectedly emerged before us that ornament of our national service known as Captain Bob Shorty, with his cap at a fierce cock, his hands in his pockets, and a supernaturally knowing air clothing him as with a garment.

"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, starting at sight of me, "if I didn't take you at first for that ere Confederacy of the name of Munchausen, which has privately appointed to meet me here in single combat."

"Why then, really, you know," observed the Conservative Kentucky chap, suddenly coming forward and pleasantly rubbing his hands, "really it would be a good plan for me to go forward and meet him with a view to peace negotiations. Being a Confederacy, he is Kentucky's brother," warbled the Conservative chap, with soft enthusiasm, "and I might tell him that you would pay all his debts, black his boots, run errands for him, and send the President to tell him a little story, if he would give up this conflict. Should he refuse, and even proceed to the extremity of kicking me," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, with awful sternness, "why, then, I should be in favor of letting the matter proceed to the bitter end,—as it had already in my own case."

"I am not aweer," observed Captain Bob Shorty, "that you have any business in the matter at all, my old Trojan; but there's the road open to you."

It was beautiful, my boy,—touchingly beautiful, and withal unctuous, to observe with what a benignant smile the peaceful Conservative Kentucky Chap departed up the road. We saw him reach a turn in the path, around which the sound of stately approaching footsteps was already becoming audible. We saw him turn it; heard all the footsteps cease; heard a confused murmur,—a sharp scratching as of heels upon gravel; and Kentucky's favorite son was observed to be coming again to his place, with a slight limp in his walk.

Right behind him came a remarkable being attired in fragments of gray cloth and a prodigious thicket of whiskers, through the latter of which his eyes glared yellowly, like the bottles in an apothecary's shop down the street. As he approached nearer, he hastily put on a pair of partially-dissected white cotton gloves, and casually rearranged the strip of carpet-binding which served him as a full-dress cravat.

"Yours, truly," said Captain Bob Shorty.

"Vandal!" hissed Captain Munchausen, removing from his brow an unexampled conglomeration of rags in the last stages of cap, and handing it to a faithful contraband who attended him.

"Why, then," said Captain Bob Shorty, doffing his own cap, and tucking up his sleeves, "in the name of the United States of America, I propose to move upon your works immediately."

And now, my boy, do I particularly lament my lack of those unspeakable intellectual gifts, which enable the more refined reporters of all our excellent moral daily journals to describe the fistic achievements of the noted Arkansas Mule and celebrated Jersey Bantam in a manner that delights every well-conducted breakfast-table in the land, and furnishes exquisite reading for private families.

Forward hopped Captain Bob Shorty, as though on springs,—his elbows neatly squared, his fists held up like a couple of apples on sticks, and his head poised as though it had just started to look round a corner. With fists to match, and eyes shining like the bottoms of glass bottles, the wary Munchausen scuffles cautiously back from him in a half circle. Now they make skips toward each other; and now they skip back. Anon an arm is raised, and is parried; and then they balance to partners; and then they hop back.

I was gazing at all this, my boy, in speechless admiration, when suddenly I saw the dexter hand of Captain Bob Shorty pierce the enemy's lines, and explode with tremendous force on Munchausen's nose. For a moment there was a sound as of Confederate blasphemy, but in a moment the chivalric Munchausen was himself again.

"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, agreeably, "did you see the star-spangled banner that time?"

"Sir," said Munchausen, with tears in his eyes, "I am thankful that my nose isbroken. It is a blessing; for I had nothing to smell with it, and only wasted my strength in its special defence."

Here Captain Bob Shorty looked jovially at me, my boy, and says he, "By all that's Federal! an't he jolly?"

"Come on to thy ruin," roared Munchausen from behind his rapidly increasing nose; and again the battle raged.

Now did Captain Bob Shorty sidle to the left, with a view to flanking; but two columns of the enemy met him there. Next the agile Munchausen attempts, by a quick turn, to take him in the rear of his position, but finds a strong body of five divisions hurled upon his headquarters with an impetuosity that knocks out half his teeth.

"Art satisfied, Horatio?" said Captain Bob Shorty, with more or less Bowery Theatre in his manner.

An awful smile appeared upon what were left of the features of Captain Munchausen. It was so full of scorn, you know.

"Sir," said he, with much chivalry of bearing, and some difficulty of utterance, "my jaw may be broken, but I thank fate for it. It's a long time since I had anything to eat with my mouth, and to defend it at all was useless."

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Captain Bob Shorty; "I really never did see anything so jolly."

"Madman!" yelled Munchausen, "your destruction is decided!"

Then were all the skips and hops repeated, my boy; with such ornamental bits of occasional fine art as the refined reporters of our excellent moral daily journals love to dwell fondly upon. Were I but such a reporter, I would describe the scene in a way to make you take it home to your children. But let me not waste time in lamentation; for, just then, a something heavy fell upon the right eye of Captain Munchausen, and effectually closed it for a week.

"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, pleasantly, "did you count the stars upon our Flag that time, my grayback?"

"Sir," retorted Munchausen, staggering about, and wildly pulling handfuls of imperceptible hair out of invisible heads in the air,—"I consider the loss of that eye a blessing in disguise; for I can now concentrate my wholestrength on the other."

"Well, now, really," said Captain Bob Shorty,—"really, you know, I never see anything half so jolly."

"Extermination is now your doom," howled the Confederacy, reeling deliberately forward upon the first fist he met, and falling heavily to the ground with his other eye emphatically darkened.

Instantly was Captain Bob Shorty at his side, exclaiming, "I'm sorry for this, old chap. I wish you'd only consented to stop before—eh?" ejaculated Captain Bob Shorty,—"what's that you say?"

As true as I live and breathe, my boy,—as true as I live and breathe,—when Captain Bob Shorty put his ear to the mouth of the fallen Confederacy, he heard, slowly spoken, these remarkable words:

"I'm—glad—this—has—happened—because—I—can—now—develop—my— real—resources—of——strength!!!"

Yours, speechlessly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CIII.

BEING ANOTHER AND FINAL CHRISTMAS REPORT; INCLUDING A SMALL STORY FROM OUR UNCLE ABE; A CIRCULAR FROM THE SECRETARY OF STATE; A SUPERNATURAL CAROL FROM SERGEANT O'PAKE; AND A TREMENDOUS GHOST STORY FROM AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS.

Washington, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1864

Upon these holy anniversary-days of "Peace on Earth, good-will toward men," the American human mind is naturally prone to regret that the well-known Southern Confederacy still survives, in a degree, all its inexpressible spankings, and still compels the noblest of us to pour out our substitutes like water. You, my boy, have poured out your substitute; other great and good men have poured out their substitutes, and your devoted pockets bleed at every pour.

O war! thirsty and strategical war! how dost thou pierce the souls of all our excellent Democratic journals, against whom the increased war-tax on whiskey is an outrage not to be mentioned without swearing.

On Christmas-day, my boy, there came to this city a profound Democratic chap of much stomach, who wore a seal-ring about as large as a breakfast-plate, and existed in a chronic condition of having the bosom of his shirt unbuttoned to such a degree as to display picturesquely the red flannel underneath. He ran for Sheriff of Squankum last month, my boy; and having been defeated with great slaughter, concluded that all was gall and bitterness, and that he couldn't do better than come to Washington and improve the President's mind.

At the time of the interview, our Honest Abe was sitting before the fire, peeling an apple with a jack-knife; and the fact that part of his coat-collar was turned inside, did not lessen in him that certain generous dignity which hale good-nature ever wears, as morning wears the sun.

"Mr. President," says the profound Democratic chap, spitting with dazzling accuracy into a coal-hod on the opposite side of the room; "I call upon you to-day, sir, not as a politician, but as a friend. And as a friend, sir"—here the Democratic chap wore a high-moral look, and his shirt-bosom yawned as though eager to take all the world into the red-hot depths of his affectionate flannel heart,—"as a friend, sir, I feel bound to tell you, that your whole administrative policy is wrong; and as for your Emancipation Proclamation, it has had no effect at all, as I can see."

Here the profound Democratic chap stuck a cheap bone eyeglass into his right eye, and seemed to think that he rather had him there.

The Honest Abe peeled his apple, and says he:

"Neighbor, the sane men of all parties think differently from you in that matter."

"That proves, I suppose," says the Democratic chap, wrathfully, "that I'm a lunatic."

The Honest Abe ate a piece of apple, and says he:

"Not at all, neighbor; not all; nothing so serious as that. But talking about what a difference of opinion 'proves,'" says the Honest Abe, balancing one boot upon the toe of the other, and smiling peacefully at his jack-knife; "talking about what it 'proves,' reminds me of a small tale:

"When I was a law-student out in Illinois, and wore spectacles to appear middle-aged and respectable, we had in our district-court the case of a venerable Sucker, who was prosecuting another man for spreading a report that he was insane, and greatly damaging his business thereby. The defendant made reply, that he had honestly supposed the plaintiff to be insane on one point, at least, and that was the motion of the world around the sun. This motion was denied in totoby the plaintiff, who had frequently, of late, greatly astonished everybody and shocked the schoolmaster, by persisting in the assertion that the world did not spin round at all, inasmuch as hehad never seen it spin round.

"Various witnesses were called for both sides," says the Honest Abe, pleasantly scratching his chin; "various ones were called, to testify as to whether such difference of opinion from all the rest of mankind would seem to prove the insanity of the venerable Sucker; but nothing decisive was arrived at until old Doctor Dobbles was examined. Old Dobbles," says the Honest Abe, winking softly to himself, "was not quite such a teetotaler as may be told about in the 'Lives of the Saints,' and when he took the stand we expected something.

"Says the Court to old Dobbles:

"'In your opinion, doctor, does a man's denial that the world turns round, inasmuch as he has never seen it go round, prove his insanity?'

"'No,' says Dobbles.

"'Ah!' says the Court, 'what then?'

"'Why,' says old Dobbles, deliberately, 'if a man denies that the world goes round, and has never seenit go round, it simply proves that he—never was drunk.'

"As it happened," says the Honest Abe, balancing his jack-knife on the tips of all his fingers; "as it happened that the Court himself had frequently seen the world go round, the justice of the idea flashed upon him at once, and the defendant was found guilty of six dollars' damages, and ordered to treat the Court.

"Now," says the Honest Abe, with a winning smile, "I am far from inferring, neighbor, that you have never been intoxicated; but it seems to me, that when you say the Proclamation has had no effect at all, it proves you can't be speaking soberly."

The profound Democratic chap came away, my boy, with a singing in his head, and has been so tremendously confused ever since, that he asked me this morning at Willard's, if I thought, that what we of war see is anything like what Thaddeus of Warsaw.

On Monday, while I was on my way to the Mackerel camp, before Paris, to be present at the usual Christmas song-singing and story-telling in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, I met an affable young chap, driving a wagon, in which were some thousands of what appeared to be newly-printed circulars. I knew that the young chap came from a large printing-office in the lower part of the city, and says I:

"Tell me, my young Phæton, what have we here?"

The affable young chap closed one eye waggishly at a handy young woman who was cleaning the upper windows of a house near by, and says he:

"These here, are five thousand copies of a blank form, just printed down at our place for the State Department. And I should think," says the affable young chap, taking a dash at a small boy who had just "cut behind" his cart—"I should think that pile ought to last a month, at least, though the last one didn't."

I made bold to examine a copy of the blank form in question, my boy, and found it to read as follows:

"City of Washington, U.S.A.,} Department of State. }

"Dear Sir:

"Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ——, so admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the ——, in the matter of —— ——, and will make whatever reparation may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ——.

"With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most obedient humble servant, —— ——.

"His Excellency—— ——.

Minister from——."

As I read this document, I thought to myself: Verily my distracted country's Secretary of State wishes to save as much writing as possible; and who knows but that he is like one of our own frontier riflemen, who kneels only that he may take the more deliberate aim at the heart of the wolf?

And now, as I push on again for my destination, let me say to you, my boy, that few who read my wonderfully lifelike picture of Mackerel strategy and carnage, have any idea of the awful perils constantly assailing a reliable war-correspondent of the present day.

Thus: during a great battle which I attended in Accomac, a piece of shell tore off my head,—that is to say, the head of my cane.

At the second battle of Paris, while I was in the act of taking notes of the prevailing strategy, a cannon-ball took my legs off,—that is to say, the legs of my camp-stool.

In the summer of '62, as I was sitting in the doorway of my tent, on the shores of Duck Lake, a case-shot, of immense size, entered my chest,—that is to say, the chest in which I carry my linen.

Cherish me, my boy, make much of me; for there is no telling how soon some gory discharge of artillery may send me to join the angel-choir.

But here we are in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown; and the manner in which the Mackerel officers are clustered about the round table in the centre, reminds me of flies around a lump of sugar—supposing a lump of sugar to be shaped exactly like a portly black bottle.

Sergeant O'Pake rises with a manuscript in his band, and says he:

"Comrades,—let me read to you a weird legend, of which I am the sole author and proprietor, and to which I would draw your most political attention."

And the sergeant forthwith delivered this remarkable poetical report of

The deep, terror-stricken silence following this ghastly legend was suddenly broken, my boy, by a frenzied shriek from my frescoed dog, Bologna, who had followed me down from Washington, and whose stirring tail had been accidentally trodden upon by the absorbed Mackerel Chaplain. The picturesque animal, with a faint whine not unlike the squeaking of a distant saw, walked toward Captain Bob Shorty and gazed inquisitively for an instant into his face; then took earnest nasal cognizance of the boots of Captain Samyule Sa-mith; then sat for an instant on his haunches, with his tongue on special exhibition; and, finally, went out of the tent.

"Ah!" exclaimed Captain Villiam Brown, who sat nearest the bottle, and had, for the past hour, been unaccountably shedding tears,—"how much is that dorg like human life, feller-siz'ns! Like him, we make a yell at our firz 'pearance. Like him, we make our firz advances to some brother-puppy. Like him, we smell the boots of our su-su-superiors. Like him, we put out our tongues to see warz marrer with us; and, at last, like him, we—(hic)—we go out."

At the culmination of this sublime burst, Villiam again melted into tears, smiled around at us like a summer-sunset through a shower, and gracefully sank below the horizon of the table, like an over-ripe planet.

"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, "that was dying young, for Villiam; but who can tell whose turn it may be next? To guard against possibilities, my blue-and-gold Napoleons, I will at once proceed to read you a Christmas-story, written expressly for the Mackerel Brigade by my gifted friend, Chickens, who should be in every American library, and would like to be there himself. The genius of my friend, Chickens," says Captain Bob Shorty, enthusiastically, "cannot be bought for gold; but, in a spirit of patriotic self-sacrifice, he would take 'greenbacks,' if the sordid persons having control of the press should conclude to give him that encouragement which, I am indignant to say, they have hitherto, with singular unanimity of sentiment, entirely denied him. Indeed, my friend Chickens has, at times, been placed in charge of the police by certain editors with whom he has warmly argued the value of his talents, and I trust that the four shillings we have appropriated for our Christmas-story may be given him for the following tale." And Captain Bob Shorty proceeded to read:—

"THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM.

"England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,—not to mention various engravings,—I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee, dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had. Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes' housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small. There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy. What's Pell Mell? Oh, I suppose you'dcall it Pall Mall; ha, ha, ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house; but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society, Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I.

"O England! If I could but visit thee just once,—just a little tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind. Honest poverty in this country will yet—but it's of no consequence.

"Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English house.

"At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,—which differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being much superior.

"'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house, because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be my old self again.'

"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'

"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.

"'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a Ghost?'

"'You have,' said the being.

"'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'

"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation. You must get yourself Kicked!'

"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement; 'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me—except it is the potboy, and his legs are too short.'

"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until the kick is obtained.'

"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table, and—was gone.

"Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings: Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'

"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store and shoulder a gun myself, sir.

"'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough, and have it over.'

"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my dear; a realone, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah! delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'

"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.

"'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by George!'—

"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers, each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.

"'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my 'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'

"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of countenance, deliberately tickled her!

"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,—for such I must already call you,—and no American girl could be less than 'appy to perceive it.'

"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,' whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of Victoria.

"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'

"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.

"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled, like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of the editor over the fireplace.

"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.

"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'

"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked; 'you and your paper be demn'd! What do youknow about Carlyle, bless my soul! Whoare you smiling at? Whatd'ye mean?'

"Here he knocked St. Albans down.

"'You shall hear from me—step into that next room—will write to you instantly,' panted the editor.

Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.

In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.

"'My dear Sir: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.

St. Albans.'

"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen rather than our own brothers. Thenhe would show you!

"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr. R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners make your sandbanks—fortifications, as you absurdly call them. You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'

"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle, to-day, and you must stop and see it.'

"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your so-called battle.'

"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning to feel quite hopeful.

"'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll do it with pleasure, sir.'

"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back to my own street. I give up all hope!'

"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran, he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty great-toe.

"There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid, and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of his peace with a tremendous—KICK!

"The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R. Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy.

"'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose.

"Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew, with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough, his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy, and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon.

"'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra.

"'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling.

"'Support them for life,' murmured the friends.

"'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must forgive me. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have learned a great and useful lesson.'

"Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel.

"Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter, called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely to him:

"'You said you had learned a lesson to-night?'

"'Yes.'

"'What is it?' asked the hackney-coachman.

"'It is,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, with solemnity, 'that no man need go out of his own country to be kicked!'"

As Captain Bob Shorty finished reading, he looked about him for the first time, and lo! all the Mackerel chieftains were slumbering, with their chins upon their breasts.

And now, my boy, as the New Year rolls in, let me tender you the compliments of the season, and sign myself,

Yours for festivity,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CIV.

EXPLAINING, IN A LUCID AND PERFECTLY SATISFACTORY MANNER, THE POWERFUL INACTIVITY OF THAT PORTION OF THE VENERATED MACKEREL BRIGADE RESIDING BEFORE THE ANCIENT CITY OF PARIS, AND PRESENTING CERTAIN GENIAL DETAILS OF A RECENT FESTIVE CONGLOMERATION.

Washington, D.C., March 6th, 1865.

Methinks, my boy, that I see you sagely assuming a pair of massive ears, a pair of silver spectacles, and a blue cotton umbrella, for the purpose of accurately personating the celebrated Public Sentiment, and, in that gifted character, peremptorily requiring me to explain the present use of the venerable Mackerel Brigade!

Mastering for a moment the noble rage of the unimperilled patriot at a request so vulgarly practical, I sternly refer you to the latest able articles in all our exciting and learned morning journals; wherein you will be taught that such portion of the aged Mackerel organization as has of late years invested Paris is in reality the gorgeous Pivot around which revolve all the other brass buttons of ultimate national triumph. And is not each editor of these excellent and sanguine morning journals well qualified by his military genius to represent a General Ism, oh?

But perhaps, my boy, you fail to find ocular demonstration in that illumination. It is barely possible that you refuse to acknowledge optical conviction in a lucidity of that description. It may be that your cornea lacks ability to transmit a specific image in that polarization of prismatics. It strikes me as not improbable that you—can't see it in that light.

Then come with me to the Mackerel camp before Paris, and mark where the antique Brigade is sitting-up with the expiring Confederacy. Observe how each morning's sun is reflected from the gleaming spectacles of the venerable military organization; while occasional rains make those same innumerable glasses resemble fairy lakes with dead fish in them. Note with what a respectable air of a reliable family physician each patriarchal warrior exhumes, from somewhere down his leg, the massive gold watch which he has been induced to buy for $10 of one of those national benefactors in jewelry who advertise affectionately in our more parental weekly journals of romance—and remarks, oracularly:

"It being exactly three o'clock by this here nineteen-carat repeater, that air Confederacy has got just one hour less to live."

The fact, my boy, that this timely observation would apply with about equal accuracy to the whole human family, need not deter your insidious self from answering in the affirmative, when I ask you, calmly, if it does not seem that a military organization of such intellect, mustbe engaged in some unspeakably profound scheme of victory, even though to the uneducated eye it may present somewhat the aspect of a muddy old gentleman with his head against a stone-wall?

And this business of showing the possible identity of apparent dead-pause with actual velocity, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. He was a cast-iron chap, my boy, whose most powerful conception of enterprise in trade was vividly associated with the duty of being forever in his shirt-sleeves; and he kept a hardware shop at which the economical women of America could get such bargains in flat-irons and door-plates, as were a temptation to marry none but the most impoverished young men.

Many customers had this very practical hardware chap, and one of them was an aged file in a broad-brimmed hat, blue spectacles, and a silk umbrella, who had about him that air of Philadelphia which at once suggests an equal admixture of chronic slumber and profundity. Being a widower and a happy man, it was the daily custom of this aged file to spend several hours of intellectual refreshment in the hardware shop, smiling benignantly upon the ancient maidens who came thither to buy curling-tongs, and enlivening the soul of the cast-iron chap with fine, laborious treatises on the general idiocy of popular perception.

"I tell you, my child," this aged file would remark, polishing his spectacles with a red silk handkerchief,—"I tell you, the popular perception wants nicety; wants delicacy; wants capacity to distinguish between the noisy, bustling style of operation by which it loves to be deceived,—Populus vult decipi,—and the silent, almost imperceptible agencies through which all really great results are accomplished."

Having heard this chaste sentiment repeated daily for about three years, my boy, the very practical hardware chap began to find his nature growing embittered, and resolved to do something desperate. So, one morning, after listening quietly to the essay of the aged file, and refusing to tell a small boot-blacking child of six years old the lowest price for one of Jones's Patent steam-ploughs, this cast-iron chap suddenly removed his hands from around an object on the counter, which he had, apparently, been attempting to conceal, and revealed to view a boy's lignum-vitæ peg-top, which stood seemingly exactly balanced on its steel tip.

"Who would think now," said he, reflectively, "that it could be turning all the time?"

The aged file advanced his blue spectacles to the very verge of the top, and says he:

"Well, now, it's wonderful, an't it? Any one would think, to look at that simple toy, that it stood perfectly still; and yet its velocity of movement must be prodigious. Go into yonder street," exclaimed the aged file, dropping his umbrella in the excitement of the moment,—"go into yonder street and bring in any man you please, and that man could swear that this top is not spinning at all. And why? Simply because the velocity of this top, being several millions of revolutions per minute, is greater than his ignorant eye can comprehend. Upon my soul!" ejaculated the aged file, bending once more to the top, with great enthusiasm, "upon my soul! it's wonderful."

Over the counter came the hardware chap, with one bound, and says he:

"Why, you durned old fool, the top an't moving at all!"

And sure enough, the very practical cast-iron chap had just stuck the top up with his hand, in order to bring the popular perception theory of the aged file to grief.

Ordinary persons, my boy, observing the Mackerel Brigade any time these three years, might think it was not moving at all; but we know its General to be the Top of the heap, and we know that he is making revolutions—in the whole art of war.

Let, then, the venerable and strategical Mackerel Brigade strike off impressions of itself in the mud before Paris; while the conic section, under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, walks calmly through the depths of storied Accomac; while Captain Samyule Sa-mith and the Anatomical Cavalry prosecute Confederate railroad researches, and Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated squadron keeps watch and fishes for bass near the captured Fort Piano, on Duck Lake. For the present, be mine the pleasanter duty of imperfectly reporting that stately Ball at the Patent Office, which clinched the re-inauguration of our Honest Abe, and was attended by none of the old aristocracy of the capital, save those who had received invitations.

The old aristocracy of the capital, my boy, having been accustomed only to association with the ministers from combined Europe, and the chivalry who had, now and then, a nice wife or daughter to sell, could not be expected to countenance a plebeian carnival for which they had not received invitations. They could not be expected so soon to forget those elegant family entertainments of the olden time, when the hospitable board, with its green covering, groaned under the weight of gold and silver; when, instead of salads and pates in crockery platters, the plates were of delicately enamelled pasteboard, containing from one to ten diamonds each, or, perhaps, a king or queen served up cold with mint sauce.

The Old Aristocracy! lineal descendants of the British cavaliers! I should weep, my boy, over their possible extinction forever, were it not that the assiduity of the London Prisoners' Aid Society, in sending ticket-of-leave men to New York, promises to keep the species going.

Behold me, at the proper hour, suspended between the shoulders of three or four fat citizens of America in the entrance-hall, and being thus borne into the festive scene like a being too delicate to walk. This, too, at the expense of only the linen "duster" which I had donned to preserve my broadcloth from the dust in the dancing room, and which I had the satisfaction of seeing distributed in ribbons around the necks and bodies of a score of my neighbors, like so many charms to keep off enchantments. The crowd, the management, and the number of guests with umbrellas and top-boots, were all the subjects of ill-disguised sneers among the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.

And now I emerge into fountains of satin and mechlin cascades, with numerous citizens of America up to their waists in the surf, and looking about as comfortable as though bathing at Newport in full dress. Yonder stands our Honest Abe, in sombre costume, like a funeral procession standing on end to let something pass under it.

Leaning thoughtfully against the wall, my boy, I was gazing meditatively upon this scene, and thinking how many of these fair beings would be destroyed by railroad accidents on the way to their homes in other cities—I was thinking of this, my boy, when I heard a voice saying:

"How powerful is human instink! let a fire-bell ring, and at least half of these manly beings would make a bust for the street to join their native fire departmink. Let the hall-bell ring, and nearly all these fair petticoats would involuntarily rush to 'tend the door. Such is human instink."

Like one in a dream, I turned me where I stood and beheld the form of Captain Villiam Brown, his left hand upon his hip and his right caressing the neck of a small case-bottle in his bosom. I eyed him pleasantly a moment, and, said I:

"Well met, my Union Blucher!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, pensively, "how powerful is Human Instink!"

"Explain, my Blue and Gold."

"Human Instink," says Villiam, softly, "is an involuntary tendency to our normal condition."

"Ahem," said I, sagely, "that sounds like Seward."

"Come with me," says Villiam, gravely, "and I will show you the power of Human Instink."

He led me quietly, my boy, to a corner of the great room, where the guests were nearly all males, and suddenly roared out this extraordinary question:

"Say, Johnny-y-y, how's yer do-o-org?"

The magical sound caught them unprepared, my boy, and before there was time to remember where they were, they unanimously responded with:

"Bully!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's Instink. They all were fellow-firemen last year, and remember the language of the Departmink."

Deeply impressed with a sense of that subtle sympathy with early usages which never leaves a man in life, I again let the hero of a hundred battles lead the way to another corner, where fifty fair ones stood apart in a cluster, waiting for their escorts. Then it was that Captain Villiam Brown suddenly assumed an air of unspeakable abstraction, and commenced humming the tune of the song:

Without at all thinking or knowing why they were doing so, my boy, two-thirds of those fair ones took up the tune at the first note and hummed it through!

"The fair sect," says Villiam, cautiously, "once heard its mother sing that song, as she had learned it in her native palace; and has the Instink to remember it."

Thus, taking new and beautiful lessons in the ever-fresh volume of animate nature, we sauntered into the ballroom, where our Honest Abe and his lady were viewing the performances from a pair of handsome elevated chairs. Ay, sir: handsome (!) chairs; and that, too, when many an honest poor man in the land has not a single chair with a gilt back to rest upon. Thus are we drifting toward (start not!)—yes sir and madam, toward—Royalty!! Thus, too, are we incurring the highest scorn of the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.

There was dancing of the ordinary sort in plenty; many solid men of Boston of the oldest age going to the verge of apoplexy in their efforts at double-shuffle; but how can description do justice to the Honorable Gentleman from the Sixth Ward, who performed the celebrated Conflagration Hornpipe!

First, the Honorable Gentleman threw his whole weight upon his left leg, elevated one ear as though intently listening, and tapped distinctly upon the floor with his right heel the number of the district. Then came a confused scuffling, first upon one foot and then upon the other, to represent the hurry and excitement of getting the machine out of the house and whirling her to the scene of the conflagration. The next figure, performed alternately upon the toe, heel, and side of the shoe, was an imitation of the noble machine in motion; the whole winding up with the Honorable Gentleman's seizing his partner around the waist and plunging into a polka, symbolizing the gallant fireman's rescue of a consuming female from a sixth-story window.

This beautiful dance, my boy, was considered an unanswerable argument in favor of a Volunteer Fire Department; but its finishing effect was somewhat marred by a piercing note from the famous night-key bugle of the Mackerel Brass Band: who, in an enfeebled state of mind, was found wandering about the palace a trifle intoxicated, and received prompt direction to the apartments of Detective Baker.

After witnessing, also, the noted walk-around known as the Revenue Stamp, we joined the march for supper, and I sweetly expressed to Captain Villiam Brown my fear of being crowded from the eatables.

"Oh!" says Villiam, catching his case-bottle just in time to save it from sliding through his ruffles to the floor; "I shall work upon human Instink."

Here, this ornament of our National Mackerel organization inserted an elbow under the right ear of a fair being in blue just before us, and says she:

"I don't admire to see you men treating ladies in that manner. The ideor!"

"Ah, Mrs. Nubbins," says Villiam, pleasantly, "when your father, the milkman, used to serve our house, I"—

"Here—you can pass, sir," said the fair being in blue; and Captain Villiam Brown walked forward deliberately upon the trailing skirts of a beauteous object in pink.

"You're tearing my things—creature!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, to me, "you don't remember stand Number Twelve, Fulton Market, where Miss Poodlem's grandmother used to"—

"There's plenty of room here, sir," observed the beauteous object in pink, and Captain Villiam Brown accidentally brushed against a beatitude in white.

"Plebeian!"

"My fren," says Villiam, as though he and I were entirely alone together on a desert island, "when old Binks gave up the soap-boiling business last fall, and came to"—

"Did you wish to pass, sir?" said the beatitude in white; and we soon found ourselves beside the banquet board, where all went merry as a fire-bell.

Then did we gorge ourselves, my boy, like the very First Families under similar circumstances; revelling in such salads as were known to the ancients just before the breaking out of the Asiatic cholera, and paying general attention to a bill of fare which was heartily despised by the old aristocracy of the capital who had received no invitations.

It was past midnight when we retreated to a double-bedded room at Willard's, and as Captain Villiam Brown took his goblet of final soda, he gracefully tipped my glass, and says he:

"I propose a sentimink."

Villiam raised the Falernian nectar aloft, gazed solemnly at me, and says he:

"Human Instink!"

Let us believe, my boy, that the instincts of those who come to the higher social surface in this, our trying time of war, are, by their own purity from anything actually malignant, sure indications that the nation's heart is good to the very bottom. Let us believe that the pride of Ascent, vain-glorious as it may seem, is nobler in raising the public laugh than is the tyrannical pride of Descent, which too often forces the public tear. Let us believe that, in the course of time, when the soft white hand of Peace shall have thrown a wreath of flowers across the muzzles of our guns, these unaccustomed tradesmen-courtiers who now throng the halls of our upright First Citizen and Friend will prove the sound ancestral stock of a race of brave gentlemen and women fair, to defend and adorn our Republican Court.

Yours, blithely,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CV.

BEING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S LAST EFFORT PRIOR TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF A NEW MACKEREL CAMPAIGN; INTRODUCING A METRICAL PICTURE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE SINGLE COMBAT ON RECORD; AND SHOWING HOW THE ROMANCE OF WOMAN'S SENSITIVE SOUL CAN BE CRUSHED BY THE THING CALLED MAN.

Washington, D.C., March 12th, 1865.

This sagacious business of writing national military history once a week, my boy, has at times presented itself to my mind as a public obligation nearly equal in steady mutual delight to the wholesome occupation of organ-grinding. Mark the Italian nobleman who discourses mercenary twangs beneath your window, and you shall find him a person of severe and gloomy visage,—a figure with an expression of being weighed down to the very earth by a something heavier than the mere mahogany box of shrieks out of which he grinds popular misery by the block. Not that he has a distaste for music, my boy; not that he was the less enthusiastic at that past period "when music, heavenly maid, was young" to him; but because the daily recurrence to his ears of precisely the same sounds for ten years, has a horribly depressing effect of unmitigated sameness; and music has become to him an ancient maiden of exasperating pertinacity. It quite affects me, my boy, when I see one of those melancholy sons of song carrying a regularly organized monkey around with him; for it is evident he finds in such companionship a certain relief from the anguish of monotony. Guided by the example, I sometimes get a Brigadier to keep me company also, and you can hardly imagine how often I am saved from gloom by the amusement I experience in seeing his shrewd imitation of a real soldier.

But even this resource may fail; for there are periods when such imitations are very bad indeed; and then the mind of the wearied scribe, like that of my departed friend, the Arkansaw Nightingale, may at any moment expire for want of food. Shall I ever forget the time, my boy, when the Nightingale came to Washington, as President of the Arkansaw Tract Society, for the express purpose of protesting against the war, and procuring a fresh glass of the same he had last time?

"This war," says he, waiting for it to grow cooler, and thoughtfully contemplating the reflection of himself in the bowl of a spoon,—"this war, if it goes on, wont never shet pan till the hair's rubbed off the hull country, and the 'Merican Eagle wont hev enough feathers in his tail to oil a watch-spring. Tell you! stranger, it'll be wuss than Tuscaloosa Sam's last tackle; and that wasn't slow."

"What was that?" says I.

"What!" says the Nightingale, stirring in a little sugar, "did you never hearn tell of Tuscaloosa's last? Then here's the screed done into music under my pen and seal; and as it an't quite as long's the hundred nineteenth psalm, you don't want a chair to hear it."

Whereupon the Arkansaw Nightingale whipt from some obscure rear pocket a remarkable handful of written paper, and proceeded to excite me with

There's dramatic genius for you, my boy, and you will join me in raining a pint or so of tears in memory of one who perished because his mind had nothing to feed upon, and who left his bottle very empty.

Deferring for the present all account of the Mackerel strategy now coming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incident illustrative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America, and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:

There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog, who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable sex whose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicer little woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," make charlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to confer immeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since the well-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be let alone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in the war, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night to talk about it.

'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused up the partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:

"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for my country."

"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.

"No, but what canI do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman's part in the war?"

"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, with the nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it any longer. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matter and tell you what really iswoman's part in the war."

So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little woman wondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lord would advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacher of intelligent contrabands.

Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, and silently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The little woman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosily sitting, and says she:

"Well, dear?"

Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot. Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.

"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, and there is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you to mend your husband's stockings; and this—this—is Woman's Part in the Wore!"

Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed; only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to be useful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome and exasperating.

Yours, sympathetically,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CVI.

WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND CERTAIN PROFOUND REMARKS UPON THE VARIATIONS OF GOLD, ETC., AND A WHOLESOME LITTLE TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THAT FAMOUS POPULAR ABSTRACTION, THE SOUTHERN TREASURY NOTE.

Washington, D.C., March 22, 1865.

The venerable Aaron, my boy, was the first gold speculator mentioned in history, and it exhausted all the statesmanship of Moses to break up the unseemly speculation, and bring Hebrew dry goods and provisions down to decent prices. Were Aaron alive now, how he would mourn to find his auriferous calf going down at the rate of ten per cent. a day, while the Moses of the White House reduced that animal more and more to the standard of very common mutton!

Alas, my boy, what madness is this which causes men to forget honor, country, ay, even dinner itself, for ungrateful gold! Like all writers whose object is the moral improvement of their kind, I have a wholesome contempt of gold. What is it? A vulgar-looking yellow metal, with a disagreeable smell. It is filthy lucre. It is dross. It is also 156.

Not many months ago I knew a high-toned chap of much neck and chin, who made five hundred thousand dollars by supplying our national troops with canned peaches, and was so inflated with his good luck in the cholera-morbus line, that he actually began to think that his canned peaches had something to do with the successes in the field of our excellent military organization. Being thus elevated, this finely-imaginative chap believed that his services deserved the mission to France; and, as that was refused him, it was but natural for him to become at once a Southern Confederacy in sentiment, and pronounce our Honest Abe a tyrant of defective education.

Just before the last election, I met him at the Baltimore railroad depot, and says he: "I have just invested a cool five hundred thousand in gold. It is positively sure," says he, glibly, "it is positively sure that the reëlection of our present despot will send gold straight up to five hundred. I tell you," says he, in a wild ecstasy, "it'll ruin the country, and I shall clear a half million."

He was a Jerseyman of fine feelings, and took a little hard cider for his often infirmity.

Yesterday I saw that man again, my boy, and I gave him a five-cent note in consideration of his great ability in sweeping a street-crossing. He deserted his canned peaches, and was cr-r-rushed.

But what is this manuscript upon my table, as I write? It is a veracious and wholesome little tale of

"THE SOUTH.—BY A NORTHER.

"'Twas night, deep night, in the beautiful city of Richmond; and the chivalrous Mr. Faro was slowly wending his way through Broad street to the bosom of his Confederate family, when, suddenly, he was confronted by a venerable figure in rags, soliciting alms.

"'Out of my path, wretch!' ejaculated the haughty Virginian, impatiently; and, tossing two thousand dollars ($2000) to the unfortunate mendicant, he attempted to pass on.

"The starving beggar was about to give way, and had drawn near the barrel which he carried on a wheelbarrow, for the purpose of adding to its contents the pittance just received, when the small amount of the latter seemed to attract his attention for the first time, and again he threw himself in the way of the miserly aristocrat.

"'Moses Faro,' he muttered, in tones of profound agitation, 'you have your sheds full ($000000000) of Southern Bonds, while one poor barrel full ($000) must supply me for a whole day; yet would I not exchange places with a man capable of insulting honest poverty as you have done this night.'

"The proud Virginian felt the rebuke keenly; and as he stood, momentarily silent, in the presence of the hapless victim of penury, he could not help remembering that he had, on that very morning, willingly given his youngest son five thousand dollars ($5000) to purchase a kite and some marbles. Greatly stricken in conscience, and heartily ashamed of his recent meanness, he turned to the suppliant, and said, kindly:

"'Give me your address, and to-morrow morning I will send you a cart full ($000) of means. I would give you more now, but I have only sixty thousand dollars ($60,000) about me, with which to pay for the pair of boots I now have on.'

"'Moses Faro,' responded the deeply-affected pauper, 'your noble charity will enable me to pay the nine thousand dollars ($9000) I owe for a week's board; and now let me ask, how goes our sacred cause?'

"'Never brighter,' answered the wealthy Confederate, with enthusiasm. 'We have succeeded to-day in forcing five more cities through the Yankee lines, and are dragging three whole Hessian armies to this city.'

"'Then welcome poverty for a while longer,' cried the beggar, pathetically; and so great was his exuberance of spirit at the news, that he resolved to spend five hundred dollars ($500) for a cigar in honor thereof.

"Mr. Faro walked thoughtfully on toward his residence, pondering earnestly the words he had listened to, and astonished to find how easily a rich man could give happiness to a poor one. After all, thought he, there is more contentment in poverty than in riches. Show me the rich man who can boast the sturdy lightness of heart inspiring that hackneyed rhyme, the

"Humming to himself this simple lay of contented want, Mr. Faro reached his own residence, gave eighty dollars ($80) to a little boy on the sidewalk for blacking his boots, and entered the portals of the hospitable mansion. His wife met him in the hall, and, as they walked together into the parlor, he noticed that her expression was serious.

"'Have you heard the latest news, Moses?' she asked.

"'No,' returned the haughty Southerner.

"'Well,' said the lady, 'just before you came in, I gave Sambo a hundred and twelve dollars ($112) to get an evening paper, which says that the Confederate Government is about to seize all the money in the country, to pay the soldiers.'

"A gorgeous smile lit up the features of the chivalric Virginian, and he said:

"'Let them take both my shedsfull ($00000000); let them take it all! Sooner than submit, or consent to be Reconstructed, I would give my very life even, for the sake of the Confederacy!'

Mrs. Faro still looked serious.

"'Moses,' she said, with quivering lips, 'have you not got, hidden away somewhere, a twenty-shilling gold-piece($2,500,000)?'

"Ghastly pale turned the proud Confederate, and he could barely stammer,—

"'Ye-ye-yes.'

"'Well,' murmured the matron, 'it's the gold they intend to take, I reckon.'

"That was enough. Frantically tore Mr. Faro into the street; desperately raced he to the city limits; madly flew he past the pickets and sentinels; swiftly scoured he down the Boynton Plank Road. A Yankee bayonet was at his bosom.

"'Reconstruction!' shouted he.

"They took him before the nearest post-commandant, and he only said,—

"'Let me be Reconstructed.'"

Need the reader be informed that he is now in New York, looking for a house, and in great need of some financial aid to help him pay the rent of such a residence as he has always been accustomed to and cannot live without? Yes, far from home, family, and friends, he is now one of those long-suffering, self-sacrificing Union refugees from the South, whom it is a pleasure to assist, and whose manly opposition to the military despotism of the Confederacy commends them to our utmost liberality. He will accept donations in money, and this fact should be sufficient to make all loyal men eager to extend such pecuniary encouragement as may suffice to keep him above any necessity for exertion until the presidency of some Bank can be procured for him by the Christian Commission.

I may add, my boy, that any monetary contribution intended for this excellent man, may be directed to

Yours, patronizingly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER CVII.

RECORDING THE LATEST DELPHIC UTTERANCES OF ONE WHOM WE ALL HONOR WITHOUT KNOWING WHY; AND RECOUNTING THE TRULY MARVELLOUS AFFAIR OF THE FORT BUILT ACCORDING TO TACITUS.

Washington, D.C., March 29th, 1865.

It is a beautiful trait of our common American nature, my boy, that we should be stood-upon by fleshy Old Age, and find ourselves reduced to the mental condition of mangled infants thereby. It is an airy characteristic of our gentle national temperament, to let shirt-collared Old Age, of much alpaca pants, sit down on us and cough into our ears. It is a part of our social organization as a reverential people to be forever weighed-down in our spirits by the awful respectability of double-chinned Old Age, and the solemn satisfaction it displays at its elephantine meals.

Hence, my boy, when I tell you that the Venerable Gammon beamed hither from his residential Mugville last Saturday, with a view to benefiting that wayward infant, his country, you will be prepared to learn that the populace fell upon their unworthy stomachs before him, and respectfully begged him to walk over their necks.