The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1

by R. H. Newell

  I followed the splendidly-mounted warrior, my boy, to a spot not farfrom the nearest point of the enemy's lines, where I found a lengthyWestern chap polishing a rifle with a powerful telescope on the end ofit. He had just been organized, and was preparing to make some carnage.

  "Now then, Ajack," said Villiam, classically, "let us see you pick offthat Confederacy over there, which looks like a mere fly at thisdistance."

  The sinewy sharpshooter sprang to his feet, called a drummer-boy tohold his chew of tobacco, looked at the rebel gunner through histelescope, shut up the telescope, took aim with both eyes shut, turnedaway his head, and _fired_!

  I must say, my boy, that I at first thought the Confederacy was not hitat all, inasmuch as he only scratched one of his legs and squintedalong his gun; but Villiam soon showed me how exquisitely accurate thesharpshooter's aim had been.

  "The bullet struck him," says Villiam, confidently, "and would havereached his heart, but for the Bible given him by his mother when heleft home, which arrested its fatal progress. Let us hope," saysVilliam, seriously, "that he will henceforth search the Scriptures, andbe a dutiful son."

  I felt the tears spring to my eyes, for I once had a mother myself. Icouldn't help it, my boy--I couldn't help it.

  The second shot of the unerring rifleman was aimed at a haplesscontraband, who had been sent out to the end of a gun by the enemy, tosee that the ball did not roll out before the gunner had time to pullthe trigger. Crack! went the deadly weapon of the sharpshooter, anddown went the unhappy African--to his dinner.

  "Ah!" says Villiam, skeptically, "do you think you hit him, Ajack?"

  "Truelie, stranger," responded the unmoved marksman, sententiously. "Hewill die at twenty minutes past three this afternoon."

  Sick of this dreadful slaughter, my boy, I turned from the spot withVilliam, and presently overtook the general of the Mackerel Brigade,who was seated on a fence by the roadside, trying to knock the cork outof a bottle with a piece of rock. We saluted, and went on to the camp.

  Sharpshooters, my boy, are a source of much pain to hostile gunners,and if one of them should happen to put a bullet through the head ofnavigation, it would certainly cause the tide to fall.

  Yours, take-aimiably,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.

  LETTER XLIII.

  CONCERNING MARTIAL LITERATURE: INTRODUCING A DIDACTIC POEM BY THE"ARKANSAW TRACT SOCIETY," AND A BIOGRAPHY OF GARIBALDI FOR THE SOLDIER.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., May 7th, 1862.

  Southern religious literature, my boy, is admirably calculated toimprove the morals of race-courses, and render dog-fights theinstruments of wholesome spiritual culture.

  On the person of a high-minded Southern Confederacy captured the otherday by the Mackerel pickets, I found a moral work which had been issuedby the Arkansaw Tract Society for the diffusion of religious thoughtsin the camp, and was much improved by reading it. The pure-mindedArkansaw chap who got it up, my boy, remarked in pallid print, thatevery man "should extract a wholesome moral from everythingwhatsomedever," and then went on to say that there was an excellentmoral in the beautiful Arkansaw nursery tale of

  THE BEWITCHED TARRIER.

  Sam Johnson was a cullud man, Who lived down in Judee; He owned a rat tan tarrier That stood 'bout one foot three; And the way that critter chawed up rats Was gorjus for to see.

  One day this dorg was slumberin' Behind the kitchen stove, When suddenly a wicked flea-- An ugly little cove-- Commenced upon his faithful back With many jumps to rove.

  Then up arose that tarrier, With frenzy in his eye, And waitin' only long enough To make a touchin' cry, Commenced to twist his head around, Most wonderfully spry.

  But all in vain; his shape was sich, So awful short and fat-- And though he doubled up hisself, And strained hisself at that, His mouth was half an inch away From where the varmint sat.

  The dorg sat up an awful yowl And twisted like an eel, Emitting cries of misery At ev'ry nip he'd feel, And tumblin' down and jumpin' up, And turnin' like a wheel.

  But still that most owdacious flea Kept up a constant chaw Just where he couldn't be scratched out By any reach of paw. But always half an inch beyond His wictim's snappin' jaw.

  Sam Johnson heard the noise, and came To save his animile; But when he see the crittur spin-- A barkin' all the while-- He dreaded hiderfobia, And then began to rile.

  "The pup is mad enough," says he, And luggin' in his axe, He gev the wretched tarrier A pair of awful cracks, That stretched him out upon the floor, As dead as carpet-tacks.

  MORAL.

  Take warnin' by this tarrier, Now turned to sassidge meat; And when misfortin's flea shall come Upon your back to eat, Beware, or you may die because You can't make both ends meet.

  The Arkansaw Tract Society put a note at the bottom of this morallyric, my boy, stating that the "wicked flea here mentioned is the samevarmint which is mentioned in Scripture as being so bold; 'the wickedflea, when no man pursueth but the righteous, is as bold as a lion.'"

  Speaking of literature, my boy, I am happy to say that the members ofthe Mackerel Brigade have been inspired to emulate great examples bythe biographies of great soldiers which have been sent to the camp fortheir reading by the thoughtful women of America. For instance, here wehave the

  LIFE OF GENERAL GARIBALDI.

  BY THE NOBLEST RUM 'UN OF THE MALL.

  CHAPTER I.

  HIS BIRTH.

  At that period of the world's history when the Past immediately preceded the Present, and the Future was yet to come, there existed in a small town of which the houses formed a part, a rich but respectable couple. Owing to a combination of circumstances, their first son was a boy of the male gender, who inherited the name of his parents from the moment of his birth, and who is the subject of our story. When he was about five hours old, his male parent said to him:

  "My boy, do you know me?"

  In an instant the eyes of the child flashed Jersey lightning, he ceased sucking his little fistesses, his hair would have stood on end if there had been any on his head, and he exclaimed in tones of thunder-r-r:

  "_Viva Liberte et Maccaroni!_"

  Mr. Garibaldi instantly clasped the little cherubim to his stomach, while Mrs. Garibaldi waved the tri-colored flag above them both, and requested the chambermaid to bring her a little more of that same burning-fluid, with plenty of sugar in it.

  Thus was Garibaldi ushered into the world; and the burning fluid is for sale by all respectable druggists and grocers throughout the country, with S. O. P. on the wrapper.

  CHAPTER II.

  HIS EDUCATION.

  On arriving at years of indiscretion, our hero began to display a tendency to "seven-up," Old Sledge, and other card-inal virtues, calculated to fit him for playing his cards right in future years. Just about this time, too, his parents resolved to send him to school, and it is as the young scholar we must now regard him.

  Behold him, then, at his tasks, in a red shirt amputated at the neck, and two yellow patches (the badge of Sardinia) flaming from the background of his seat of learning. He readily mastered the Greek verbs and roots, comprehended liquorice root, studied geography, etymology, sycorax, and mahogany; could decline to conjugate the verb toby, and quickly knew enough about algebra to prove that X plus Y, _not_ being equal to Z, is _minus_ any dinner at noon, and _plus_ one of the tightest applications of birch that ever produced the illusion of a red-hot stove in immediate contact with the human body.

  CHAPTER III.

  GARIBALDI GOES TO SEA.

  Just before the breaking-out of the rebellion at Rome, the trade in garlic and domestic fleas took a sudden start, and the Po was cr
owded with vessels of all nations--especially the halluci-nations. One day, young Garibaldi was in the act of stabbing a barrel of molasses to the heart with a quill, on Pier 4, P. R. (Po River), when he was descried by the captain of a fishing-smack, detailed by Government to watch the motions of the English fleet.

  "Boy, ahoy!" says the Captain.

  The future liberator of Italy dropped his murderous quill, wiped his nose with a pine shaving, and answered, in trumpet-tones:

  "You're another!"

  So delighted was the captain with this noble reply, that he flogged the whole starboard watch at the gunwales, ordered a preventer backstay on the kedge-anchor, leaped ashore to where Garibaldi was standing, and offered to make him familiar with the seas, and a second Caesar. Garibaldi replied that he had already been half-seas over, but would not object to another cruise. He said he had traveled half-seas over, "on his face," and would now travel the other half on a vessel. He went. The vessel proved to be a vessel of wrath, and Garibaldi became so familiar with the cat-o-nine-tails, that he soon _mused_ upon a plan for deserting the ship.

  CHAPTER IV.

  HE FIGHTS FOR ROME.

  All seas are liable to commotions, hence it is not strange that the Holy See encountered a storm about the time that it occurred. For some weeks, certain pure spirits had been fomenting the small beer of civil war, and in spite of vaticanation, it broke out at last, and was a rash proceeding. Garibaldi was sent for by the Goddess of Liberty to lead the insurrectionary forces, while the liberty of the goddess was endangered by the leadership of the commander of the French troops aiding the Pope. Our hero had but a handful of patriots on hand and on foot to fight with him; but he determined to struggle to the last and perish in the attempt, even though he should lose his life by it. The Frenchman had an immense array of tried soldiers on the _qui vive_ and on horseback; but Garibaldi was not dismayed, and kept his courage up to the "sticking" point by hoping for aid. Alas! the only aid they received was lemonade and cannonade--but not a brigade. They fought with the French, and were whipped like blazes. _Hinc illa slacryma!_

  CHAPTER V.

  GARIBALDI IN AMERICA.

  After wandering about Italy as an exile for some months, the bold patriot came to America and opened a cigar shop. The writer remembers entering his shop one day to purchase a genuine meerschaum, and discovering, afterwards, that it was made of plaster of Paris, and smelt--when heated--like ancient sour-krout flavored with lamp-oil. Garibaldi also sold the finest Habana cigars ever made on Staten Island, one brand of which was so strong in its integrity that it once defeated dishonesty, thus:

  One night, while Garibaldi was praying for his beloved Italy, at the house of a friend, a burglar broke into his store, with the intention of robbing it. The scoundrel broke open the till, took out all the city money (he refused to take anything but current funds), and then broke open a box of the cigars strong in their integrity, intending to have a quiet smoke before he left. Alas! for him.

  When Garibaldi opened the store in the morning, he found the burglar laying on his back, with a cigar in his mouth, and _too weak to move_! In the attempt to smoke the cigar, he had drawn his back bone clear through until it caught on his breast bone, and the back of his head was just breaking through the roof of his mouth, when the patriot found him. He was taken to the police-office, and discharged by the first alderman that came along. Such is life!

  When the Emperor of France commenced his war with Austria, Garibaldi suddenly appeared at one of the elbows of the Mincio, and having passed around the Great Quadrilateral, headed a select body of Alpine shepherds, and charged the Austrians more than they could pay. All the world knows how that war ended. The emperors of France and Austria signed a treaty by which each was compelled to go back to his own country, tell his subjects that it was "all right," and set all the wise men of the nation to discover what he had been fighting about. Sardinia was not asked to give an opinion. About this time Garibaldi was left out in the cold.

  CHAPTER VI.

  OUR HERO IN SICILY.

  As we look abroad upon the vast nations of the earth, and remember that if they were all destroyed, not one of them would be left, the mind involuntarily conceives an idea, and becomes conscious of the pregnant fact, that "what is to be will be, as what has been, was." So when we look upon families, the thought forces itself upon us that if there were no births there would be no children: without fathers there could be no mothers; and if the entire household should be swept away by disease, they would cease to live. So it is also, when we look upon an individual. Our intellect tells us that if he dies in infancy he will not live to be a man; and if he never does anything, he will surely do nothing.

  This metaphysical line of thought is particularly natural in the case of Garibaldi. Look at him as he now stands, with one foot on Sicily and the other in a boot. Had he not been educated, he would have been uneducated; had he not gone to sea he would never have been a sailor; had he not fought for Rome, he would have laid down arms in her cause; were he not now fighting for Italian independence, he would be otherwise engaged!

  Thus the aspect presented by Garibaldi throughout his career, leads our thoughts into all the deep meanderings of the German mind, and teaches us to perceive that "whatever is, is right," as whatever is not, is wrong.

  Enraged at the impotent conclusion of the French-and-Austrian war, Garibaldi determined to prosecute hostilities on his own individual curve. In consequence of the high price of ferriage on the Mincio, he moved down toward Palermo, and there called to his standard all Italians favorable to the immediate emancipation of Sicily and the removal of all duties on Maccaroni. Immediately the wildest enthusiasm raged among the friends of freedom. Six patriots attacked the fortress of Messalina, and were immediately placed in prison, with chains around their necks, and Tupper's poems in their pockets.

  By degrees, Garibaldi made ready to capture Palermo; he laid in a stock of cannon and woolen stockings, he harangued his warriors, and told them the day was theirs if they won it; he invited all the reporters to a banquet. Then he went and took Palermo.

  How did he take it?

  I know not; there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in ordinary philosophy: all I know is, that he took Palermo.

  * * * * *

  Having brought my history down to this point, I deem it proper to pausein my task until the future shall have revealed what takes placehereafter; and the past shall have ceased to interfere so outrageouslywith the present, that its limits can only be distinguished through thebottom of a tumbler. Liberty is the normal condition of the Italian,and while Garibaldi leads, the cry will be: "Liberty or death, with apreference for the former." Already the day-star of freedom gilds thehorizon of beautiful Naples, and if it should not happen to be proved acomet by some evil-minded astronomer, Italy may yet be as free as NewYork itself, and pay a war-tax of not more than some millions a year.

  This finely-written life of the great Italian patriot had such aneffect upon the Mackerels, my boy, that they all wished to _live_ likeGaribaldi--hence, they are in no hurry to die for their country.

  Lives of great men all remind us, my boy, that we may make our livessublime; but I never read one yet, that gave instructions for makingour deaths sublime--to ourselves.

  Yours, for continued respiration,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.

  LETTER XLIV.

  SHOWING HOW THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS WAS FOUGHT AND WON BY THEMACKEREL BRIGADE, AIDED AND ABETTED BY THE IRON-PLATED FLEET OFCOMMODORE HEAD.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., May 10th, 1862.

  I have just returned, my boy, from witne
ssing one of the mosttremendous battles of modern times, and shall see star-spangled bannersin every sunset for six months to come.

  Hearing that the Southern Confederacy had evacuated Yorktown, for thereason that the Last Ditch had moved on the first of May to a placewhere there would be less rent from our cannon, I started early in theweek for the quarters of the valorous and sanguinary Mackerel Brigade,expecting that it had gone toward Richmond for life, liberty, and thepursuit of happiness.

  On reaching the Peninsula, however, I learned that the Mackerel "corpsedammee" had been left behind to capture the city of Paris inco-operation with a squadron.

  Reaching the stamping-ground, my boy, I beheld a scene at once uniqueand impressive. Each individual Mackerel was seated on the ground, witha sheet of paper across his knees and an ink-bottle beside him, writinglike an inspired poet.

  I approached Captain Villiam Brown, who was covering some bare spots onhis geometrical steed Euclid, with pieces scissored out of an oldhair-trunk, and says I:

  "Tell me, my noble Hector, what means this literary scene which mineeyes behold?"

  "Ah!" says Villiam, setting down his glue-pot, "we are about to engagein a skrimmage from which not one may come out alive. These heroicbeings," says Villiam, "are ready to die for their country at sight,and you now behold them making their wills. We shall march upon Paris,"says Villiam, "as soon as I hear from Sergeant O'Pake, who has beensent to destroy a mill-dam belonging to the Southern Confederacy. Comewith me, my nice little boy, and look at the squadron to take part inthe attack."