by R. H. Newell
Get thee to the bankments high, Where a thousand cannon sleep, While the call that bids them wake Bids a score of millions weep.
Thou shalt find an army there, Working out the statesman's plots, While a poison banes the land, And a noble nation rots.
Thou shalt find a soldier-host Tied and rooted to its place, Like a woman cowed and dumb, Staring Treason in the face.
Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move! And if thou wouldst pass the line, Give the password of the night-- Halt! and give the countersign.
God of Heaven! what is this Sounding through the frosty air, In a cadence stern and slow, From the figure looming there!
"Sentry, thou hast spoken well"-- Through the mist the answer came-- "I am wrinkled, grim, and old, May'st thou live to be the same!
"Thou art here to keep a watch Over prowlers coming nigh; I can show thee, looking South, What is hidden from thine eye.
"Here, the loyal armies sleep; There, the foe awaits them all; Who can tell before the time Which shall triumph, which shall fall?
"O, but war's a royal game, Here a move and there a pause; Little recks the dazzled world What may be the winner's cause.
"In the roar of sweating guns, In the crash of sabres crossed, Wisdom dwindles to a fife, Justice in the smoke is lost.
"But there is a mightier blow Than the rain of lead and steel, Falling from a heavier hand Than the one the vanquished feel.
"Let the armies of the North Rest them thus for many a night; Not with them the issue lies, 'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right.
"Through the fog that wraps us round I can see, as with a glass, Far beyond the rebel hosts Fires that cluster, pause, and pass.
"From the wayside and the wood, From the cabin and the swamp, Crawl the harbingers of blood, Black as night, with torch and lamp.
"Now they blend in one dense throng; Hark! they whisper, as in ire-- Catch the word before it dies-- Hear the horrid murmur--'Fire!'
"Mothers, with your babes at rest, Maidens in your dreaming-land-- Brothers, children--wake ye all! The Avenger is at hand.
"Born by thousands in a flash, Angry flames bescourge the air, And the howlings of the blacks Fan them to a fiercer glare.
"Crash the windows, burst the doors, Let the helpless call for aid; From the hell within they rush On the negro's reeking blade.
"Through the flaming doorway arch, Half-dressed women frantic dart; Demon! spare that kneeling girl-- God! the knife is in her heart.
"By his hair so thin and gray Forth they drag the aged sire; First, a stab to stop his pray'r-- Hurl him back into the fire.
"What! a child, a mother's pride, Crying shrilly with affright! Dash the axe upon her skull, Show no mercy--she is white.
"Louder, louder roars the flame, Blotting out the Southern home, Fainter grow the dying shrieks, Fiercer cries of vengeance come.
"Turn, ye armies, where ye stand, Glaring in each others' eyes; While ye halt, a cause is won; While ye wait, a despot dies.
"Greater victory has been gained Than the longest sword secures, And the Wrong has been washed out With a purer blood than yours."
Soldier, by my mother's pray'r! Thou dost act a demon's part; Tell me, ere I strike thee dead, Whence thou comest, who thou art.
Back! I will not let thee pass-- Why, that dress is Putnam's own! Soldier, soldier, where art thou? Vanished--like a shadow gone!
The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't takewarning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, myboy,--I refer to Saint Domingo.
Yours, musingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXIX.
INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS TACT,NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST, AND SO ON.
WASHINGTON, D.C., February 2d, 1862.
I never really knew what the term "mudsill" meant, my boy, until I sawCaptain Bob Shorty on Tuesday. I was out in a field, just this side ofFort Corcoran, trimming down the ears of my gothic steed Pegasus, thathe might look less like a Titanic rabbit, when I saw approaching me anobject resembling a brown-stone monument. As it came nearer, Idiscovered an eruption of brass buttons at intervals in front, andpresently I observed the lineaments of a Federal face.
"Strange being!" says I, taking down a pistol from the natural rack onthe side of my steed, and at the same time motioning toward my sword,which I had hung on one of his hip bones, "Art thou the shade ofMetamora, or the disembodied spirit of a sand-bank?"
"My ducky darling," responded the aeolian voice of Captain Bob Shorty,"you behold a mudsill just emerged from a liquified portion of thesacred soil. The mud at present inclosing the Mackerel Brigade isunpleasant to the personal feelings of the corps, but the effect at adistance is unique. As you survey that expanse of mud from ArlingtonHeights," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "with the veterans of theMackerel Brigade wading about in it up to their chins, you are forciblyreminded of a limitless plum-pudding, well stocked with animatedraisins."
"My friend," says I, "the comparison is apt, and reminds me ofShakspeare's happier efforts. But tell me, my Pylades, has the dredgingfor those missing regiments near Alexandria proved successful?"
Captain Bob Shorty shook the mire from his ears, and then, says he:
"Two brigades were excavated this morning, and are at present buildinga raft to go down to Washington after some soap. Let us not uttercomplaints against the mud," continued Captain Bob Shorty,reflectively, "for it has served to develop the genius of New England.We dug out a Yankee regiment from Boston first, and the moment thosewooden-nutmeg chaps got their breath, they went to work at the mud thathad almost suffocated them, mixed up some spoiled flour with it, andare now making their eternal fortunes by peddling it out for patentcement."
This remark of the captain's, my boy, shows that the spirit of NewEngland still retains its natural elasticity, and is capable of greaterefforts than lignum vitae hams and clocks made of barrel hoops and oldcoffee-pots. I have heard my ancient grandfather relate an example ofthis spirit during the war of 1812. He was with a select assortment ofPequog chaps at Bladensburg, just before the attack on Washington, andword came secretly to them that the Britishers down in the Chesapeakewere out of flour, and would pay something handsome for a supply. Now,these Pequog chaps had no flour, my boy; but that didn't keep them outof the speculation. They went into the nearest graveyard, dug up allthe tombstones, and put them into an old quartz-crushing machine,pounded them to powder, sent the powder to the coast, _and sold it tothe Britishers for the very best flour, at twelve dollars and a half abarrel_!
And can such a people as this be conquered by a horde of godlessrebels? Never! I repeat it, sir--never! Should the Jeff. Davis mob everget possession of Washington, the Yankees would build a wall around theplace, and invite the public to come and see the menagerie, at twoshillings a head.
On Wednesday, some of our dryest pickets caught a shabby, long-hairedchap loafing around the camps with a big block and sheet of paper underhis arm, and brought him before the general of the Mackerel Brigade.
"Well, Samyule," says the general to one of the pickets, "what is yourcharge against the prisonier?"
"He is a young man which is a spy," replied Samyule, holding up thesheet of paper; "and I take this here picture of his to be the GreatSeal of the Southern Confederacy."
"Why thinkest thou so, my cherub? and what does the work of artrepresent?" inquired the general.
"The drawing is not of the best," responded Samyule, closing one eye,and viewing the picture critically; "but I should say that itrepresented a ham, with a fiddle
laid across it, and beefsteaks in thecorners."
"Miserable vandal!" shouted the long-haired chap, excitedly, "you knownot what you say. I am a Federal artist; and that picture is a map ofthe coast of North Carolina, for a New York daily paper."
"Thunder!" says the general--"if that's a map, a patent gridiron mustbe a whole atlas."
I believe him, my boy!
As a person of erudition, it pleased me greatly, my boy, to observethat our more moral New York regiments cultivate a taste for reading,and are even so literary that they can't so much as light their pipeswithout a leaf out of a hymn-book. I was talking to an angular-shapedchap from Montgomery county the other day about this, and says he:
"Talk about reading! Why, there's fifty newspapers sent in a wrapper toour officers alone, every day. There's ten each of the _Tribune_ and_Times_, ten each of the _Boston Post_ and _Gazette_, ten of the_Montgomery Democrat_, and one _New York Herald_."
"Look here! my second Washington," says I, "your story don't hangtogether. You say you have fifty papers daily; but according to myaccount that copy of the _Herald_ makes fifty-one."
"Did I not tell you that they came in a wrapper?" says the chap, withgreat dignity.
"You did," says I.
"Well," says he, "the _Herald_ is the wrapper."
This morning, my boy, I went with Colonel Wobert Wobinson to look atsome new horses he had just imported from the Erie Canal stables forthe Western cavalry, and was much pleased with the display ofbone-work. One animal, in particular, interested me greatly; he wasborn in 1776, had both of his hind-legs broken on the frontier, in oneof the battles of 1812, and lost both his eyes and his tail at thetaking of Mexico. The colonel stated that he had selected this splendidanimal for his own use in the field.
Another fine calico animal of the stud was attached to the suite ofWashington at the famous crossing of the Delaware, and is said to havesurprised the Hessians at Trenton as much as the army did. Previous tolosing his teeth he was sold to a Western dealer in hides for threedollars; and the dealer, being an enthusiastic Union man, has let theGovernment have the animal for one hundred and ten dollars.
A mousseline-de-laine mare also attracted my notice. She was sired bythe favorite racer of the Marquis de Lafayette, and has been damned byeverybody attempting to drive her. The pretty beast comes from thecelebrated Bone Mill belonging to the Erie Canal, and only cost theGovernment two hundred dollars.
Believing that the public funds are being judiciously expended, my boy,I remain,
Fondly thine own,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXX.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GORGEOUS FETE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, INCLUDING THEOBSERVATIONS OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN: WITH SOME NOTE OF THE TOILETTES,CONFECTIONS, AND PUNCH.
WASHINGTON, D.C., February 7th, 1862.
Notwithstanding your general ignorance of Natural History, my boy, youmay be aware that when the eagle is wounded by the huntsman, instead ofseeking some thick-set tree or dismal swamp, there to die like a commonbird, he soars straight upward in the full eye of the sun, and bathesin all the glories of noonday, while his eyes grow dull with agony, andhis talons are stiffening in death; nor does he fall from the dazzlingempyrean until the last stroke of fate hurls him downward like athunderbolt.
Our Union, my boy--our Land of the Eagle--is stricken sorely, andperhaps to death; but like the proud bird of Jove, it disdains to growmorbid in its agonies; and the occasional sighs of its patientstruggling millions, are lost in sounds of death-defying revelry at thedauntless capital.
All the best-looking uniforms in the army were invited to Mrs.Lincoln's ball at the White House on Wednesday, and of course I wasfavored, together with the general of the Mackerel Brigade, and CaptainVilliam Brown, of Accomac. My ticket, my boy, was as aristocractic as arooster's tail at sunrise:
(CUTLETS.) _E pluri bust Union._ (OYSTERS.)
ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Pleasure of your Company at the White House,
(R.S.V.P.) WEDNESDAY, Feb. 5th, 1862.
8 o'clock, P.M.
(HALF MOURNING FOR PRINCE ALBERT.)
NO SMOKING ALOUD.)]
At an early hour on the evening of the _fete_, the general of theMackerel Brigade came to my room in a perfect perspiration of brassbuttons and white kids, and I asked him what "no smoking aloud" meant.
"Why," says he, putting his wig straight and licking a stray drop ofbrandy from one of his gloves, "it means that if you try to 'smoke' anyof the generals at the ball as to the plan of the campaign, you mustn'tdo it 'aloud.' Thunder!" says the general, in a fine glow ofenthusiasm, "the only plan of the campaign that I know anything about,is the rata-plan."
Satisfied with the general's explanation, I proceeded with my toilet,and presently beamed upon him in such a resplendent conglomeration ofruffles, brass buttons, epaulettes and Hungarian pomade, that he said Ireminded him of a comet just come out of a feather-bed, with its taildone up in papers.
"My Magnus Apollo," says he, "the way you bear that white cravat showsyou to be of rich but genteel parentage. Any man," says he, "who canwear a white cravat without looking like a coachman, may pass for agentleman-born. Two-thirds of the clergymen who wear it look likefootmen in their grave-clothes."
We then took a hack to the White House, my boy, and on arriving therewere delighted to find that the rooms were already filling withstatesmen, miss-statesmen, mrs-statesmen, and officers, who had so muchlace and epaulettes about them that they looked like walkingbrass-founderies with the front-door open.
The first object that attracted my special attention, however, was athing that I took for a large and ornamental pair of tongs leaningagainst a mantel, figured in blue enamel, with a life-like imitation ofa window-brush on top. I directed the general's attention to it, andasked him if that was one of the unique gifts presented to theGovernment by the late Japanese embassy?
"Thunder!" says the general, "that's no tongs. It's the young man whichis Captain Villiam Brown, of Accomac. Now that I look at him," says thegeneral, thoughtfully, "he reminds me of an old-fashionedstraddle-bug."
Stepping from one lady's dress to another, until I reached the side ofthe Commander of the Accomac, I slapped him on the back, and says I:
"How are you, my blue-bird; and what do you think of this brilliantassemblage?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, starting out of a brown study, and putting somecloves in his mouth, to disguise the water he'd drank on his way fromAccomac--"I was just thinking what my poor old mother would say if shecould see me and the other snobs here to-night. When I look on thewomen of America around me to-night," says Villiam, feelingly, "and seehow much they've cut off from the tops of their dresses, to makebandages for our wounded soldiers, I can't help feeling that their'neck-or-nothing' appearance--so far from being indelicate, is a verydelicate proof of their devoted love of Union."
"I agree with you, my azure humanitarian," says I. "There's preciouslittle _waist_ about such dresses."
Villiam closed one eye, turned his head one-side like a facetiouscanary, and says he:
"Now lovely woman scants her dress, with bandages the sick to bless;and stoops so far to war's alarms, her very frock is under arms!"
I believe him, my boy!
Returning to the General, we took a turn in the East Room, and enjoyedthe panorama of youth, beauty, and whiskers, that wound its variegatedlength before us.
The charming Mrs. L----, of Illinois, was richly attired in a frock andgloves, and wore a wreath of flowers from amaranthine bowers. She wasaffable as an angel with a new pair of wings, and was universallyallowed to be the most beautiful woman present.
The enthralling Miss C----, from Ohio, was elegantly clad in a dress,and wore number-four gaiters. So brilliant was her smile, that when shelaughed at one of Lord Lyons' witicisms, all one corner of the room waswrapped in a glare of light, and several nervous dowagers cried "Fire!"Her beauty was certainly the most beautiful present.
The fascinating Miss L----, o
f Pennsylvania, was superbly robed in anattire of costly material, with expensive flounces. She wore two glovesand a complete pair of ear-rings, and spoke so musically that theleader of the Marine Band thought there was an aeolian harp in thewindow. She was certainly the most beautiful woman present.
The bewitching Mrs. G----, from Missouri, was splendidly dressed in abreastpin and lace flounces, and wore her hair brushed back from aforehead like Mount Athos. Her eyes reminded one of diamond springssparkling in the shade of whispering willows. She was decidedly thefinest type of beauty present.
The President wore his coat and whiskers, and bowed to all salutationslike a graceful door-hinge.
There was a tall Western Senator present, who smiled so much above hisstomach, that I was reminded of the beautiful lines:
"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; Though round its base a country's ruin spread, Eternal moonshine settles on its head."
Upon going into the supper-room, my boy, I beheld a paradise ofeatables that made me wish myself a knife and pork, with nothing but abottle of mustard to keep me company. There were oysters _a la fundum_;turkeys _a la ruffles_; chickens _a la Methusaleh_; beef _a la BullRun_; fruit _a la stumikake_; jellies _a la Kallararmorbus_; and ices_a la aguefitz_.
The ornamental confectionary was beautifully symbolical of the times.At one end of the table, there was a large lump of white candy, withsix carpet-tacks lying upon it. This represented the "Tax on Sugar." Atthe other end was a large platter, containing imitation mud, in whichtwo candy brigadiers were swimming towards each other, with theirswords between their teeth. This symbolized "War."
