The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3 by R. H. Newell
LETTER LXXXII.
NOTING THE UTTER DESTRUCTION, BY AN INEBRIATED JOURNALIST, OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON'S BENIGNANT SPEECH; INTRODUCING THE NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE; AND DESCRIBING A CURIOUS PHENOMENON ON DUCK LAKE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 15th, 1863.
The venerable Gammon, has melted sadly home to Mugville since theremoval of the late idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade, and aworshipping peasantry are exasperated at his unnatural wrongs.
I cannot exactly, see, my boy, how this venerable man is so deeplyinjured by the said removal; in fact, it does not appear to me that hecan have any interest in the change whatever; but his appearance ofdeep affliction has called scalding tears to all beholding eyes, andthe attached populace crawl in the dust at the subduing aspect of hisinexpressible woe.
It was on the Tuesday evening of this revered and aged patriot'sarrival in adoring Mugville, that he was tumultuously serenaded by thebrass-band of the Young Men's Democratic Christian Association, whichis composed exclusively of constitutional chaps. He was franticallybesought to respond; and then it was that he fell a hapless andvenerable victim to the great, heart-rending mistake of an inebriatedreporter for a reliable morning journal. The beloved old being meant tomake only a few pithy, telling remarks to the enthusiastic band, andthis was, in fact, his veritable
SPEECH.
"Thank you for your compliment. (A voice: '_How are you, old boots?_' '_We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort!_' and cheers.) We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution. (A voice: '_What's old Abe about?_' '_Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette!_' '_Well, it's our own fault, you know._' '_We deserve worse treatment!_' and hisses.) We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans (a voice: '_We can give the Rebels what they want!_' and applause), but we also hate home-tyranny. Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed? (A voice: '_To please the Rebels!_ '_We have licked the Black Republicans in New York!_' '_We've done the Rebels!_' '_Good!_') To spite us! That's so, boys! (A voice: '_And we'll make them love us yet?_' '_The New York election tickles them!_' and cheers.) Whose good was he removed for? (A voice: '_For Jeff Davis!_' '_Three cheers, boys!_' and great enthusiasm.) Let History show! (A voice: '_We'll make him President in 1864!_') Good night."
Here you have the true speech of the Venerable Gammon, my boy, with allthose patriotic interruptions which lend such a chaste rhetorical charmto the extemporized oratory of our distracted country; but how shall Iexpress the pangs which tore the breasts of the fond populace, when thereliable morning journal of Mugville came out next morning with sixpounds of heavy editorial to show that the Venerable Gammon hadruthlessly betrayed the excellent national Democratic organization! Howshall I depict the public misery that ensued in Mugville when thatreliable morning journal, upon the authority of its inebriatedreporter, gave _this_ as a correct report of the revered patriarch's
SPEECH.
The speaker said: "How are you, old boots? (A voice: '_Thank you for your compliment._') We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort and cheers. (A voice: '_We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution!_') What's old Abe about? Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette! Well; it's our own fault, you know; we deserve worse treatment and hisses. (A voice: '_We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans!_') We can give the Rebels what they want and applause. (A voice: '_But we also hate home tyranny!_' '_Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed?_') To please the Rebels we have licked the Black Republicans in New York; we've done the Rebels good. (A voice: '_To spite us, that's so, boys!_') And we'll make them love us yet! The New York election tickles them, and cheers. (A voice: '_Whose good was he removed for?_') For Jeff Davis three cheers, boys, and great enthusiasm. (A voice: '_Let history show!_') We'll make him President in 1864! (A voice: '_Good night!_')"
You see, my boy, this horrible twistification was the result of thereporter's getting confused about who was the speaker--him on the hotelbalcony or the talkative chaps in the street. If our excellent nationalDemocratic Organization would have less talking during their publicspeeches, my boy, there need be no such inhuman mistakes as that whichhas calumniated and utterly prostrated the Venerable Gammon.
On Wednesday I took a trot on the war-path upon the architecturalstreet, Pegasus, and found the veteran Mackerel Brigade back at Parisagain. They had made a great march from the Blue Ridge, my boy, andwhen I reached the front I found a scientific chap from Cincinnatitaking observations. He stuck a tall stick into the ground, andscratched a long line on the damp sod, from the foot of this stick tothe extreme right of the spectacled Brigade, letting the toes of thefront rank of the Mackerels just touch it. Then he attached a powerfulmagnifying-glass to about the centre of the upright stick, andcommenced looking through it very intently all along the line he haddrawn.
I observed him attentively, and says I: "What is the nature of yourcontract with the Government, my serious friend?"
He rubbed the glass with his blue silk pocket-handkerchief, and sayshe: "I have invented this useful arrangement to ascertain whether ornot the Army of Accomac is really advancing. I closely watch the lineto which the toes of the front rank of the army are already very near,and could almost swear that the forward movement is still going on. Theaverage speed of this army," says the scientific chap, calculatingly,"has hitherto been six miles in six weeks; but now that the war isabout to commence in earnest, I think that the troops are making bettertime."
And so they were, my boy, so they were; for the heel of the firstrank's boots were almost on the line in less than an hour,--noConfederacies being in sight.
Noticing a circle of Mackerel Officers a short distance in my rear, Idismounted from Pegasus and walked thither for greater speed,discovering that the brilliant staff were admiring the great equestriangambols of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade.
The new General is a dignified, middle-aged chap, my boy, with a facewhich expresses many whiskers, and an eye to look you through andthrough when your meaning is transparent. He is not quite two yardshigh, has a head which looks like a lustrous apple-dumpling, droppedinto the middle of a window-brush, and graduates downward into hisboots without seeming to be either growing out of them, or runningthrough them.
And he is none of your military popinjays, my boy, all plastered withbuttons and gold lace, but an earnest, hardworking soldier. His dressfor the field is characterized by genuine republican simplicity, andconsists of hardworking corduroy breeches, sternly patched; an earnestpea-jacket, resolutely out at the elbows; a pair of straightforwardslippers, unflinchingly ragged around the toes, and an untrifling silkhat, determinedly mashed-in at various points. You feel as you look athim, my boy, that he means hard work, and is indifferent to goodclothes as long as he can save his distracted country.
On the majestic brow of a true hero, a shocking bad hat is a farnobler, more glittering crown, than the circle of filthy lucre whichsurmounts the head of Europe's bloated despot. Grander, far grander isthe nightcap of a Washington, than any style of army cap I have yetseen.
The new General was mounted upon a long-tailed cob, and hishorsemanship thrilled this manly bosom with rapture. Did he wish todeliver an order to his aid, he but slightly tightened the reins of hishorse, and at once the noble animal arose to his hind legs and firedoff a pistol held for him by an orderly. Did he wish to go the rounds,he but touched the left flank of his horse, and straightway thesagacious charger struck into a graceful waltz, leaping overfive-barred gates as he went along, and dashing through hoops heldaloft by the troops. Did he desire to approach one of his Generals forconsultation, he had but to give a low whistle, and forthwith theintelligent animal limped about on three feet, as though lame, anddrank a bottle of wine presented to him by an orderly. Did he have aninclination to review his troops, he was compelled only to gently pinchhis horse's neck, and at once the graceful beast laid d
In short, my boy, it is argued from the earnest new General's badclothes, that he will speedily bring the war to a good close; and fromhis being such a particular horseman, that he will never become anyparty's footman.
But let me change my subject for a time, and relate the great triumphof our new naval artillery on Duck Lake, which majestic sheet of waterhas returned to earth with the late rains.
Rear Admiral Head has so improved the deadly swivel-gun of the Mackereliron-plated squadron, that it will send a ball some distance withoutkicking the gunner overboard. The secret of this improvement is knownonly to the Government, my boy, and will be used to advantage when ourgory conflict with combined Europe comes off.
It was on Thursday morning, my boy, when an enthusiastic military mob,consisting of Captain Villiam Brown, Captain Bob Shorty, and myself,stood once more upon the familiar shore of Duck Lake. The squadron,which has been named the "Secretary Welles," having been launched uponthe treacherous element by Rear Admiral Head and one Mackerel, we tookout our pieces of smoked glass and prepared for the naval pageant.
We could plainly see the stern old Rear Admiral bustling about on thegallant Grandmother of the Seas, as I may term the noble craft, andhear him swearing in his iron-plated manner.
"Fracture my turret," says the old sea-dog, "if I don't think this gunwill surpass the Armstrong; blockade me, if I don't."
When it became the duty of the solitary Mackerel crew to load the awfulinstrument of destruction, it was discovered that the ramrod had beenleft behind at the Navy Yard Foundry. This nautical disaster might havemarred the experiments, had not the Rear Admiral chanced to have hisbrown gingham umbrella along with him. This was used as a rammer, andthe experiment proceeded.
The first charge was twenty pounds of powder, not more than nineteen ofthem running out of the touchhole. The ball slightly touched the waterand went down, the recoil of the squadron being only the width of DuckLake.
The second shot was made with only one pound of powder, as it wasfeared that the rudder might be strained by too much concussion, and wesaw the ball drop into the ocean wave. At this shot, the "SecretaryWelles" only hopped out of the water a few inches. The third shot wasmade with half a pound of powder, as it was not deemed advisable to dotoo much damage to the surrounding country by the gunnery.
We were gazing intently at the merciless implement of death, throughour smoked glass, when this shot was fired, and suddenly beheld aphenomenon which made us catch our breath.
Mixed up with the fire and smoke, there emerged from the mouth of theswivel-gun, what appeared to be an immense brown bird of some kind,spreading its huge wings as if came out, and skimming wearily to theshore!
Captain Bob Shorty commenced to quake, and says he:
"It's a Confederate insect!"
"No," says Villiam, lowering his smoked glass, and speaking in a solemnwhisper, "It's the distracted bird of our country, floating spectrallyon the battle-smoke. Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly uncorking mycanteen, "our distracted bird is no inseck."
Was it indeed a majestic Eagle, my boy, stooping from his cloudedheights to sanctify the terrible naval scene? I guess not, my boy,--Iguess not; for we presently ascertained that, when the carelessMackerel crew rammed home that last charge, he heedlessly leftRear-Admiral Head's brown gingham umbrella sticking in the gun, and itwas the flight of the umbrella we had witnessed.
An umbrella, my boy, and a horse, may be said to have some relations.We put one up when it rains, and we rein the other up when we "put."
Yours, good-naturedly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.