The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers Volume I Part 22

"Crash the windows, burst the doors, Let the helpless call for aid; From the h.e.l.l within they rush On the negro's reeking blade.

"Through the flaming doorway arch, Half-dressed women frantic dart; Demon! spare that kneeling girl-- G.o.d! 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 pa.s.s-- 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 take warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy,--I refer to Saint Domingo.

Yours, musingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XXIX.

INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILl.u.s.tRATING 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 saw Captain Bob Shorty on Tuesday. I was out in a field, just this side of Fort Corcoran, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g down the ears of my gothic steed Pegasus, that he might look less like a t.i.tanic rabbit, when I saw approaching me an object resembling a brown-stone monument. As it came nearer, I discovered an eruption of bra.s.s b.u.t.tons at intervals in front, and presently I observed the lineaments of a Federal face.

"Strange being!" says I, taking down a pistol from the natural rack on the 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 of Metamora, 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 the sacred soil. The mud at present inclosing the Mackerel Brigade is unpleasant to the personal feelings of the corps, but the effect at a distance is unique. As you survey that expanse of mud from Arlington Heights," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "with the veterans of the Mackerel Brigade wading about in it up to their chins, you are forcibly reminded of a limitless plum-pudding, well stocked with animated raisins."

"My friend," says I, "the comparison is apt, and reminds me of Shakspeare's happier efforts. But tell me, my Pylades, has the dredging for 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 building a raft to go down to Washington after some soap. Let us not utter complaints 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 those wooden-nutmeg chaps got their breath, they went to work at the mud that had almost suffocated them, mixed up some spoiled flour with it, and are now making their eternal fortunes by peddling it out for patent cement."

This remark of the captain's, my boy, shows that the spirit of New England still retains its natural elasticity, and is capable of greater efforts than lignum vitae hams and clocks made of barrel hoops and old coffee-pots. I have heard my ancient grandfather relate an example of this spirit during the war of 1812. He was with a select a.s.sortment of Pequog chaps at Bladensburg, just before the attack on Washington, and word came secretly to them that the Britishers down in the Chesapeake were 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 out of the speculation. They went into the nearest graveyard, dug up all the tombstones, and put them into an old quartz-crushing machine, pounded them to powder, sent the powder to the coast, _and sold it to the Britishers for the very best flour, at twelve dollars and a half a barrel_!

And can such a people as this be conquered by a horde of G.o.dless rebels? Never! I repeat it, sir--never! Should the Jeff. Davis mob ever get possession of Washington, the Yankees would build a wall around the place, and invite the public to come and see the menagerie, at two shillings a head.

On Wednesday, some of our dryest pickets caught a shabby, long-haired chap loafing around the camps with a big block and sheet of paper under his arm, and brought him before the general of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Well, Samyule," says the general to one of the pickets, "what is your charge against the prisonier?"

"He is a young man which is a spy," replied Samyule, holding up the sheet of paper; "and I take this here picture of his to be the Great Seal of the Southern Confederacy."

"Why thinkest thou so, my cherub? and what does the work of art represent?" 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 it represented a ham, with a fiddle laid across it, and beefsteaks in the corners."

"Miserable vandal!" shouted the long-haired chap, excitedly, "you know not what you say. I am a Federal artist; and that picture is a map of the coast of North Carolina, for a New York daily paper."

"Thunder!" says the general--"if that's a map, a patent gridiron must be a whole atlas."

I believe him, my boy!

As a person of erudition, it pleased me greatly, my boy, to observe that 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 pipes without a leaf out of a hymn-book. I was talking to an angular-shaped chap from Montgomery county the other day about this, and says he:

"Talk about reading! Why, there's fifty newspapers sent in a wrapper to our 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 hang together. You say you have fifty papers daily; but according to my account that copy of the _Herald_ makes fifty-one."

"Did I not tell you that they came in a wrapper?" says the chap, with great 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 at some new horses he had just imported from the Erie Ca.n.a.l stables for the Western cavalry, and was much pleased with the display of bone-work. One animal, in particular, interested me greatly; he was born in 1776, had both of his hind-legs broken on the frontier, in one of the battles of 1812, and lost both his eyes and his tail at the taking of Mexico. The colonel stated that he had selected this splendid animal for his own use in the field.

Another fine calico animal of the stud was attached to the suite of Washington at the famous crossing of the Delaware, and is said to have surprised the Hessians at Trenton as much as the army did. Previous to losing his teeth he was sold to a Western dealer in hides for three dollars; and the dealer, being an enthusiastic Union man, has let the Government have the animal for one hundred and ten dollars.

A mousseline-de-laine mare also attracted my notice. She was sired by the favorite racer of the Marquis de Lafayette, and has been d.a.m.ned by everybody attempting to drive her. The pretty beast comes from the celebrated Bone Mill belonging to the Erie Ca.n.a.l, and only cost the Government two hundred dollars.

Believing that the public funds are being judiciously expended, my boy, I remain,

Fondly thine own,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER x.x.x.