The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1

by R. H. Newell

  Fighting according to the Constitution, my boy, is such an admirableway of preventing carnage, that some doctor ought to take out a patentfor it as a cheap medicine.

  Yours to come, and

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.

  LETTER XL.

  RENDERING TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, WITH AREMINISCENCE OF HOBBS & DOBBS, ETC.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., April 18th, 1862.

  Having a leisure hour at my disposal, my boy, and being reminded ofinfatuating crinoline by the reception of certain bird-like notes inchirography strongly resembling the exquisite edging on deliciouspantalettes, I turn my attention to that beautiful creation which isfearfully and wonderfully maid, and wears distracting gaiters.

  Woman, my boy, at her worst, is a source of real happiness to thesterner sex. There's a chap in the Mackerel Brigade who got verymelancholy one day after receiving a letter from home, wherein he wasaffectionately called "a unnatural and wicious creetur" for not sendinghis better-half a new dress and some hair-pins. Seeing his affliction,and divining its cause, another Mackerel stepped up to him, and sayshe:

  "Is it the old woman which is on a tare?"

  The married chap groaned, and says he:

  "She's mad as a hornet. I do believe," says the married chap, turningvery pale, "that she'll take away my night-key, and teach my babes tocall me the Old File."

  "Well," says the comforting Mackerel, "then why did you get married?Why didn't you stay a single bachelor like me, and enjoy the pursuit ofhappiness in the Fire Department?"

  "Happiness!" says the married chap, "why it was expressly to enjoyhappiness that I wedded. Step this way," says the married chap, with ahorrible smile, leading his consoler aside, "ain't the women of Americamortal?"

  "Yes," says the Mackerel thoughtfully.

  "And don't they die?"

  "Yes," says the Mackerel. "That is to say," added the Mackerel,contemplatively, "they sometimes die when there's new and expensivetombstones in fashion."

  "Peter Perkins!" says the married chap, with a smile of wild bliss, "Iwouldn't miss the happiness I shall feel when my angel returns to hernative hevings, for the sake of being twenty bachelors. No!" says themarried chap, clutching his bosom, "I've lived on the thought of thatair bliss ever since the morning my female pardner threw my box oflong-sixes out of the window, and called in the police because Ibrought a waluable terrier home with me." Here the married chapuncorked his canteen and eyed it with speechless fury.

  Tears came to the eyes of the unwomantic Mackerel; he extended hishand, and says he:

  "Say no more, Bobby--say no more. If you ain't got the correck idea ofHeaven there's no such place on the map."

  I give you this touching conversation between two of nature's noblemen,my boy, that you may appreciate that beautiful dispensation ofProvidence which endows woman with the slighter failings of humanity,yet gives her the power to brighten the mind of inferior man withglorious visions of joy beyond the grave.

  My arm has been strengthened in this war, my boy, by the inspiration ofwoman's courage, and aided by her almost miraculous foresight. Onlyyesterday, a fair girl of forty-three summers, thoughtfully sent me abox, containing two gross of assorted fish-hooks, three cook-books, onedozen of Tubbses best spool-cotton, three door-plates, a package ofpatent geranium-roots, two yards of Brussels carpet, Rumford'sillustrated work on Perpetual Intoxication, ten bottles offurniture-polish, and some wall-paper. Accompanying these articles, sovaluable to a soldier on the march, was a note, in which thekind-hearted girl said that the things were intended for our sick andwounded troops, and were the voluntary tributes of a loyal anddreamy-souled woman. I tried a dose of the furniture-polish, my boy, ona chap that had the measles, and he has felt so much like a sofa eversince, that a coroner's jury will sit on him to-morrow.

  The remainder of this susceptible young creature's note, my boy, wascalculated to move a heart of stone. She asked if it hurt much to bekilled, and said she should think the President might sue Jeff Davis,or commit habeas corpus or some other ridiculous thing, to stop thisdreadful, spirit-agonizing war. She said that her deepest heart-throbsand dream-yearnings were for the crimson-consecrated Union, and thatshe had lavished her most harrowing hope-sobs for its heaven-triumph.She said that she had a friend, named Smith, in the army, and wished Icould find him out, and tell him that the human heart, though repiningat the absence of the beloved object, may be coldly proud as a scornfulstatute to the stranger's eye, but pines like a soul-murderedwater-lily on the lovely stream of its twilight-broodingcontemplations.

  Anxious to oblige her, my boy, I asked the General of the MackerelBrigade if he knew a soldier "of the name of Smith?"

  The General thought awhile, and says he:

  "Not one. There are many of the name of Sa-mith," says the general,screening his eye from the sun with a bottle, "and the Smythes arenumerous; but the Smiths all died as soon as the Prince of Wales cameto this country."

  This is an age of great aristocracy, my boy, and the name of Smith isconfined to tombstones. I once knew a chap named Hobbs, who made knobs,and had a partner named Dobbs; and he never could get married until hechanged his title; for what sensitive and delicately-nerved femalewould marry a man whose business-card read, "Try Hobbs & Dobbs' Knobs?"Finally, he called himself De Hobbs, and wedded a Miss Podger--pronouncedPo-gshay. After that, he cut his partner, ordered his friends to ceasecalling him Jack, and in compliance with the wishes of his wife'sfamily, got out a business-card like this:

  JACQUES DE HOBBS, TRY HIS DOOR-PERSUADERS.

  But, to return to the women of America, there was one of them came outto our camp not long ago, my boy, with six Saratoga trunks full ofmoral reading for our troops. She was distributing the cheerful worksamong the veterans, when she happened to come across Private Jinks, whohad just got his rations, and was swearing audibly at the collection ofwild beasts he had found in one of his biscuits.

  "Young man," says she, in a vinegar manner, "do you want to be damned?"

  Private Jinks reflected a moment, and says he:

  "Really, mem, I don't know enough about horses to say."

  The literary agent was greatly shocked, but recovered in time to handthe warrior a small book, and told him to read it and be saved.

  It was a small and enlivening volume, my boy, written by a missionarylately served up for breakfast by the Emperor of Glorygoolia, andentitled "The Fire that Never is Quenched."

  Jinks looked at the book, and says he:

  "What district is that fire in?"

  The daughter of the Republic bit off a small piece of cough candy, andsays she:

  "It's down below, young man, where you bid fair to go."

  "And will it never be put out?" says Private Jinks.

  The deeply-affected crinoline shook her head until all her combsrattled, and says she:

  "No, young man; it will burn, and burn, young man."

  "Then I'm safe enough!" says Private Jinks, slapping his knee; "for I'ma member of Forty Hose, and if that air fire is to keep burning,they'll have to have a paid Fire Department down there, and shut usfellows out."

  The daughter of the Republic instantly left him, my boy; and when nextI saw her, she was arguing with one of the chaplains, who pretended tobelieve that firemen sometimes went to Heaven.

  Woman, my boy, is an angel in disguise; and if she had wings what arise there would be in bonnets!

  Yours, for the next Philharmonic,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.

  LETTER XLI.

  CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINESKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY."

  WASHINGTON, D.C., April 25th, 1862.

  There is a certain something about a sick-room, my boy, that makes methink seriously of my latter end, and recognize physicians as trueheroes of the bottle-field. The subdued swearing of the sufferer on hisbed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse, as she comes into theroom to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not toomil
d for the patient, the sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as sherecognizes the tread of Jacob Barker, the sergeant's bull-terrier,outside; all these are things to make the spectator remember that weare but dust, and that to return to dust is our dustiny.

  Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania Mud-larkswas made sick in a strange manner. A draft of picked men from certainregiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river. You maybe aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicateconstitutions; and, as the Mud-lark happened to burst into a profuseperspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft,he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to beddirectly. I went to see him, my boy; and whilst he was relating to mesome affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar, amember of the Medical Staff of the United States of America came in tosee the patient.

  This venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet, and twopick-axes on the table, and then says he:

  "How do you find yourself, boy?"

  The Mud-lark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air, andsays he:

  "I think I've got the guitar in my head, Mr. Saw-bones, and am about tojoin the angel choir."

  "I see how it is," says the surgeon, thoughtfully; "you think you'vegot the guitar, when it's only the drum of your ear that is affected.Well," says the surgeon, with sudden pleasantness, as he reached afterhis saw and one of the pick-axes, "I must amputate your left leg atonce."

  The Mud-lark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda, and sayshe:

  "I don't see it in that light."

  "Well," says the surgeon, in a sprightly manner, "then suppose I put afly-blister on your stomick, and only amputate your right arm?"

  The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma byinventing some pills with iron in them. He proved that the blood of sixhealthy men contained enough iron to make six horse-shoes, and theninvented the pills to cure hoarseness.

  The sick chap reflected on what his medical adviser had said, and thensays he:

  "Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous. I must seesome relative before I permit myself to be dissected."

  "Whom would you wish me to send for?" says the surgeon.

  "My grandmother, my dear old grandmother," said the Mud-lark, with muchfeeling.

  The surgeon took me cautiously aside, and says he:

  "My poor patient has a cold in his head, and his life depends, perhaps,on the gratification of his wishes. You have heard him ask for hisgrandmother," says the surgeon, softly, "and as his grandmother livestoo far away to be sent for, we must practice a little harmlessdeception. We must send for Secretary Welles of the Navy Department,and introduce him as the grandmother. My patient will never know thedifference."

  I took the hint, my boy, and went after the Secretary; but the latterwas so busy examining a model of Noah's Ark that he could not be seen.Happily, however, the patient recovered while the surgeon was gettinghis saw filed, and was well enough last night to reconnoitre in force.

  The Mackerel Brigade being still in quarters before Yorktown, I am atleisure to stroll about the Southern Confederacy, my boy; and onThursday I paid a visit to Cotton Seminary, just beyond Alexandria,where the Southern intellect is taught to fructify and expand. Thiscelebrated institution of learning is all on one floor, with a largechimney and heavy mortgage upon it, and a number of windows suppliedwith ground glass--or, rather, supplied with a certain openness asregards the ground.

  Upon entering this majestic edifice, the master, Prex Peyton, descendedat once from the barrel on which he was seated, and gave me a trueVirginian welcome:

  "Though you may be a Lincoln horde," says he, in a manorial manner,"the republic of intellect recognizes you only as a man. The Southernmind knows how to recognize a soul apart from its outer circumstances;for what say the logicians? _Deus est anima brutorem!_ Take a seat onyonder barrel, friend Hessian, and you shall hear the wisdom of theyouthful minds. First class in computation stand up."

  As I took a seat, my boy, the first class in computation came to thefront; and it is my private impression, my boy--my privateimpression--that each child's father was the owner of a rag plantationat some period of his life.

  "Boys," says the master, "how is the table of Confederate moneydivided?"

  "Into pounds, shillings, and pence."

  "Right. Now, Master Mason, repeat the table."

  Master Mason, who was a germ of a first family, took his fingers out ofhis mouth, and says he:

  "Twenty pounds of Confederate bonds make one shilling, twenty shillingsmake one penny, six pennies one drink."

  "That's right, my pretty little cherubs," says the master. "Now go andtake your seats, and study your bowie-knife exercises. Class inGeography, stand up."

  The class in geography consisted of one small Southern Confederacy, myboy, with a taste for tobacco.

  "Master Wise," says the master, confidently, "can you tell us whereAfrica is?"

  Master Wise sniffed intelligently, and says he:

  "Africa is situated at the corner of Spruce and Nassau streets, and isbounded on the north by Greeley, on the south by Slavery, on the eastby Sumner, and on the west by Lovejoy."

  "Very true, my bright little fellow," says the master; "now go back toyour chawing."

  "You see, friend Hessian," says the master, turning to me, "how muchsuperior Southerners are, even as children, to the depraved Yankees. Inmy teaching experience, I have known scholars only six years old toplay poker like old members of the church, and a pupil of mine euchredme once in ten minutes."

  I thanked him for his courtesy, and was proceeding to the door, when Iobserved four boys in one corner, with their mouths so distorted thatthey seemed to have subsisted upon a diet of persimmons all theirlives.

  "Venerable pundit," says I, in astonishment, "how came the faces ofthose offspring so deformed?"

  "O!" says the master, complacently, "that class has been studyingCarlyle's works."

  I retired from Cotton Seminary, my boy, with a firm conviction of theutility of popular education, and a hope that the day might come when aProfessorship of Old Sledge would be created in the New YorkUniversity.

  Yours, for a higher civilization,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.

  LETTER XLII.

  REVEALING A NEW BLOCKADING IDEA, INTRODUCING A GEOMETRICAL STEED, ANDNARRATING THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF THE MACKEREL SHARPSHOOTER ATYORKTOWN.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., May 2d, 1862.

  Speaking of the patriarch of the Navy Department, my boy, they say thatthe respected Ancient has under consideration a new and admirable planfor making the blockade efficient. The idea is, to furnish all thenaval captains with spectacles made of looking-glass, so that when theyare asleep, on the quarterdeck, their glasses will reflect the figureof any rebel craft that may be trying to slip by. These spectaclescould all be ready in twenty years; and when the Secretary told aCongressman of the plan, the latter thought carefully over thesuggestion, "as dripping with coolness it rose from the Welles," andsays he:

  "My dear madam, the idea lacks but one thing--the looking-glassspectacles ought to be supplied with a comb and brush, so that thecaptain could fix himself up after capturing the pirate. Ah, madam,"says the Congressman, hastily picking up the Jack of Clubs, which hehad accidentally pulled out with his pocket-handkerchief, "you willrank next to Mary, the mother of Washington, in the affections offuture generations."

  The _mother_ of Washington, my boy!--the MOTHER of Washington!--why, theSecretary is already celebrated as the grandmother of Washington--city.

  On the occasion of my last visit to Yorktown, my boy, I found theMackerel Brigade so well up in animal spirits that each chap was equalto a pony of brandy, and capable of capturing any amount of glassartillery. At the present time, my boy, the brigade is formed in theshape of a clam-shell, with the right resting on a beer wagon, and theleft on a traveling free-lunch saloon. I was examining the ne
w batteryof the Orange County Howitzers--whose guns have such large touch-holesthat the chaps keep their crackers and cheese in them when not inaction--and was also overhearing the remarks of a melancholy Mackerelconcerning what he wished to be done with his effects in case he shouldperish with old age before the battle commenced--when I beheld CaptainVilliam Brown, approaching me on the most geometrical beast I eversaw--an animal even richer in sharp corners, my boy, than my own gothicsteed, Pegasus.

  "Ha!" says Villiam, hastily swallowing something that brought tears tohis eyes, and taking a bit of lemon-peel to clear his voice, "you areadmiring my Arabian courser, and wondering whether it is one of thethree presented to Secretary Seward by the Emperor of Egypt."

  "You speak truly, my Bayard," says I; "that superb piece of horsefleshlooks like the original plan of the city of Boston--there's so manybisecting angles about him."

  "Ah!" says Villiam, with an agreeable smile, "in the words of theanthem of childhood--

  "'The angles told me so.'"

  Villiam's idea of angels, my boy, constitutes a theory of theology initself.

  "What call you the charger?" says I.

  "Euclid," says Villiam, pausing for a moment, to catch the gurgle of acanteen just reversed. "Ah!" says Villiam, recovering his presence ofmind, "this here marvel of natural history is a guaranteed 2.40."

  "No!" says I.

  "Yes," says Villiam, calculatingly, "this superb animal is a sure2.40--he cost me just Two dollars and Forty cents. But come with me,"said Villiam, proudly, "and see the sharpshooter contingent I have justorganized to aid in the suppression of this here unnatural rebellion."