The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers Volume I Part 25

"It was a gay victory, my learned Theban; but it makes me mad when I think how that slippery rascal, Floyd, found an egress down the river."

The Senator pulled up his collar, my boy, observed to the tumbler-sergeant that he would take the same with a little more sugar in it, and then says he:

"In that observation you sum up the whole cause of this unnatural strife. It is, indeed, the negro, whose wrongs are now being revenged upon us by an inscrutable Whig Providence; and if the Government does not speedily strike the fetters from the slave, that slave may yet be used to fight horribly against us. I shall cite the significant fact you mention in my next exciting speech."

I opened my eyes at this outburst until they looked like the bottoms of two quart bottles beaming in the sunshine, and then says I:

"You talk as fluently as a Patent Office Report, my worthy Nestor; but I don't exactly perceive what my remark has to do with the colored negro."

"Why," says he, "didn't you say that the traitor Floyd found _a negress_ down the river?"

For an instant, my boy, I felt very dizzy, and was obliged to lean my head against a tumbler for a moment.

"Your ears, my friend," says I, "are certainly long enough to hear correctly what is said to you; but this time you've made a slight mistake. I said that Floyd had found _an egress_ down the river."

The Senator looked at me for a moment, and says he:

"Sold by a soldier! Good morning."

I wonder how those nice, pleasant, gentlemanly chaps down in South Carolina enjoy Uncle Samuel's latest hit? I can fancy their damaging effects, my boy, upon the const.i.tution of

THE SOUTH CAROLINA GENTLEMAN.

Down in the small Palmetto State, the curious ones may find A ripping, tearing gentleman, of an uncommon kind-- A staggering, swaggering sort of chap, who takes his whiskey straight, And frequently condemns his eyes to that ultimate vengeance which a clergyman of high standing has a.s.sured us must be the sinner's fate; A South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

You trace his genealogy, and not far back you'll see A most undoubted octoroon, or mayhap a mustee; And if you note the s.h.a.ggy locks that cl.u.s.ter on his brow, You'll find that every other hair is varied with a kink, that seldom denotes pure Caucasian blood; but, on the contrary, betrays an admixture with a race not particularly popular now-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

He always wears a full-dress coat--pre-Adamite in cut-- With waistcoat of the loudest style, through which his ruffles jut.

Six breastpins deck his horrid front: and on his fingers shine Whole invoices of diamond rings, which would hardly pa.s.s muster with the Original Jacobs in Chatham street, for jewels gen-u-ine-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

He chews tobacco by the pound, and spits upon the floor, If there is not a box of sand behind the nearest door; And when he takes his weekly spree, he clears a mighty track Of everything that bears the shape of whisky-skin, gin-and-sugar, brandy-sour, peach-and-honey, irrepressible c.o.c.ktail, rum-and-gum, and luscious apple-jack-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

He looks on grammar as a thing beneath the notice quite Of any Southern gentleman whose grandfather was white; And as for education--why, he'll plainly set it forth, That such d--d nonsense never troubles the heads of the Chivalry; though it may be sufficiently degrading to merit the personal attention of the poor wretches unfortunate enough to make their living at the North-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

He licks his n.i.g.g.e.rs daily, like a true American; And "takes the devil out of them" by this sagacious plan.

He tries his bowie knives upon the fattest he can find; And if the darkey winces, why--he is immediately arrested at the instance of the First Families in the neighborhood, on a charge of conversing with a fiendish abolitionist, and conspiring to poison all the wells in the State with strychnine, and arm the slaves of the adjoining plantations with knives and pistols; for all of which he is very properly sentenced to five hundred lashes--after which to prison he's consigned (by) This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

If for amus.e.m.e.nt he's inclined, he coolly looks about For a parson of the Methodists, or some poor peddler lout; And having found him, has him hung from some majestic tree-- Then calls his numerous family to enjoy with him the instructive and entertaining spectacle of a "suspected abolitionist"

receiving his just reward at the hands of an incensed com-mu-ni-ty-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

He takes to euchre kindly, too, and plays an awful hand, Especially when those he tricks his style don't understand; And if he wins, why then he stoops to pocket all the stakes; But if he loses, then he says unto the unfortunate stranger, who has chanced to win: "It's my opinion that you are a cursed abolitionist; and if you don't leave South Carolina in one hour, you will be hung like a dog." But no offer to pay his loss he makes-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

Of course he's all the time in debt to those who credit give-- Yet manages upon the best the market yields to live; But if a Northern creditor asks him his bill to heed, This honorable gentleman instantly draws two bowie-knives and a pistol, dons a blue c.o.c.kade, and declares, that in consequence of the repeated aggressions of the North, and its gross violations of the Const.i.tution, he feels that it would utterly degrade him to pay any debt whatever; and that, in fact, he has at last determined to SECEDE!-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

And when, at length, to Charleston of the other world he goes, He leaves his children mortgages, with all their other woes.

As slowly fades the vital spark, he doubles up his fists, And softly murmurs through his teeth: "I die under a full conviction of my errors in life, and freely forgive all men; but still I only hope that somewhere on the other side of Jordan I may just come across some ab-o-li-tion-ists!!"-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time.

Yesterday afternoon, my boy, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Centaurs, ordered Captain Samyule Sa-mith to make a reconnoissance toward Flint Hill with a company of skeleton cavalry, having learned that several bushels of oats were stored there.

Samyule drew up his company in line against a fence, and then says he:

"Comrades, we go upon a mission that is highly dangurious, and America expects every hoss to do his duty. If we meet the rebels," continued Samyule, impressively, "they will try hard to capture some of our hosses; for they're badly off for gridirons down there, and three or four of our spirited animals would supply them for the season. If any of you see them coming after the hardware, just put your gridirons on a gallop and fall back."

At the conclusion of this speech, Private Peter Jenkins observed that he'd been falling back ever since he got his horse; for which he was sentenced to laugh at all the colonel's jokes for a week.

Would that I possessed the fiery pen of bully Homer, to describe the gallant advance of that splendid _corps_, as it trotted fiercely on to victory or death. At its head was Captain Samyule Sa-mith, mounted on a horse of some degree of merit, his coat-tails flapping behind him like banners at half-mast, and his form bouncing about in the saddle like an inspired jumping-jack. There was Lieutenant Tummis Kagcht, recently of the German navy, riding an animal with prows as sharp as a yacht and that was broadside to the road at least half the time. There was private Peter Jenkins, seated directly over the tail of a yellow-enameled charger, that walked at right-angles with the fences, and never stopped to take breath until it had gone three yards.

There was Sergeant O'Pake, late of Italy, who bestrode a sorrel, whose side was full of symmetrical gutters to carry the rain off, and who kept his octagon head directly under the right arm of the horseman ahead of him. There was private Nick O'Demus, with his sabre tucked neatly into the eyes of his neighbor, managing an anatomical curiosity that walked half of the time on his hind-legs, and creaked when it came to ruts in the road.

Onward, right onward, went this glittering cavalcade, my boy, until they came to an outskirt of Flint Hill, where a solitary remnant of a First Family might have been seen sitting on a fence, eating a sandwich.

"Tr-r-aitor!" shouted Captain Samyule Sa-mith, in tones of milk-souring thunder, "where is the rest of the Confederacy, and what do you think of the news from Fort Donelson?"

The Confederacy hiccupped gloomily, my boy, as he took an impression of its front teeth on the sandwich, and says he:

"The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year."

"That's very true," said Samyule, pleasantly, "and proves you to be a person of some eddication. But tell me, sweet hermit of the dale,"

pursued Samyule, "where are the oats we have heard about?"

The solitary Confederacy checked a rising cough with another bite at his ration, and says he:

"You have the oats already; for they were eaten last night by six Confederate chickens, and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens to a prospecting detachment of the Mackerel Brigade this morning. Don't talk to me any more," continued the Confederacy, sadly, "for I am very miserable, and haven't seen a quarter in six months."

Samyule seemed touched, and put his hand half-way into his pocket, but remembered his probable children, and refrained from romantic generosity.

"Let me see Mr. Johnson," says he, reflectively, "and I will question him concerning the South."

The Confederacy indulged in a plaintive cat-call, whereupon there emerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being, richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr.

Johnson.

"You have sent for me," says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, "and I have come. If you do not want me, I will return."

"You have seen the tragic Forrest?" said Samyule.

"The forest is my home," replied Mr. Johnson, "and in its equal shade my humble hut stands sacredly embowered. As the gifted Whittier might say:

"There lofty trees uprear in pillared state, And crystal streams the thirsty deer elate; While through the halls that base the dome of leaves Fall sunshine-harvests spread in golden sheaves.

"There toy the birds in sweet seclusion blest, To leap the branches or to build the nest, While from their throats the grateful song outpoured Wakes woodland orchestras to praise the Lord.

"There walks the wolf, no longer driven wild By panting hounds and huntsman blood-defiled; But tamed to kindness, seeketh peacefully The soothing shelter of a hollow tree.

"Who would be free, and tow'r above his race, In the full freedom spurning man and place, Deep in the forest let him rear his clan Where G.o.d himself stands face to face with man."

Just as the oppressed African finished this rhythmical statement of his platform, my boy, a huge horse-fly, alighting on the nose of Captain Samyule Sa-mith, awoke that hero from the refreshing slumber into which he had fallen.

"Tell me, Johnson," says he, "how you got your eddication, for I thought that persons from Afric's sunny mountain went to school about as often as a cat goes to sea."