The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers Volume Ii Part 10

The distance between our fleet and the spectator being fully two yards, Villiam had thoughtfully provided bits of smoked gla.s.s for our party, and we now brought them to bear upon the scene of approaching slaughter. The Mackerel crew on board our squadron appeared to be wholly absorbed in the pleasing experiment of following, with a straw, the motions of a fly whose wings he had just pulled off, and Commodore Head had fallen into a refreshing slumber in the midst of his fishing.

In fact, no means had been left unemployed to guard against a surprise.

Now, it happened that the nautical Confederacy did his paddling with his back to the bow of his iron-plated monster, and before he knew it, his ram went smack against the Mackerel fleet, with a sound like the smashing of many dinner-plates. So tremendous was the shock, that the stool upon which Commodore Head was tilted, gave way beneath his weight, and he came down upon the deck with a crash like m.u.f.fled thunder. Simultaneously, the Confederacy discharged his blunderbuss two points to windward, and would have followed up his advantage by boarding at once; but by this time the Mackerel crew had recovered his presence of mind, and poured such a shower upon the intruder from a watering-pot which he found in the stern-sheets, that the latter retreated in great disorder.

Meanwhile, our gallant old naval hero had regained his feet, and having carefully put away his fishing tackle and box of bait, he made his appearance on the starboard, with his spy-gla.s.s under one arm, his speaking trumpet under the other, and his log-book between his teeth.

No sooner did the now thoroughly exasperated Confederacy behold his venerable figure, than he hastily shut up his umbrella and violently cracked him over the head with it, knocking off his spectacles, and greatly damaging his new white hat.

"Batter my armor!" thundered the commodore, picking up his spectacles and bending them straight again. "I don't want you to do that again."

"Scorpion!" roared the Confederacy, dropping his umbrella, and dancing up and down in his ram, with his arms in a boxing att.i.tude. "Come on, base old being!"

"Then take thy doom," shrieked the maddened commodore, quickly striking a match on the bottom of one of his boots, and touching off the swivel gun. With a report like the explosion of a deadly pistol, the trusty weapon hurled its contents about two inches above the head of the Mackerel crew, wildly tearing off the cap of the latter, and shaking the staunch craft from stem to stern.

Somewhat alarmed by this demonstration, the Confederacy commenced shoving off with his ram, using his blunderbuss and umbrella as oars, and singing the Southern Ma.r.s.eillaise.

"Out with the sculls and give chase!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Commodore Head, in a great perspiration. It was found, upon examination, that the sculls had been left on sh.o.r.e, and it was further discovered that the Mackerel fleet was aground; otherwise our victory would have been more complete.

With eyes strained to the utmost we were gazing upon all this from the beach, when Villiam suddenly placed a hand upon my arm, and says he: "Hark!"

We listened. There was a sound as of a faint human cry. It approached nearer. We could distinguish words. Nearer and nearer. The words now came clear and distinct to our quickened ears.

"Extry a-Her-rr-rr-ald, capture of Vicksburg and sinking of the rebel ram by Commore Head!"

Since newspapers have become so plentiful in this once distracted country, my boy, that even the babe shews them upon its mother's lap, the poorest man is enabled to see instantaneously, through a gla.s.s as it were, the most distant events--a gla.s.s, my boy, which makes things appear much larger at a distance than they seem to those close by.

Yours, admiringly, ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER LIX.

INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN.

WASHINGTON, D. C., August 2d, 1862.

Some enthusiasm was excited here in the early part of the week, my boy, by the return of the Venerable Gammon from a visit to his aged family at Mugville, whither he goes regularly once a month for the benefit of the sagacious chaps of the press. A great blessing is the Venerable Gammon to the palladium of our liberties, my boy; for no sooner does our army cease to change its base of operations, and do other things calculated to make the war interesting and lengthy, than he pulls out his ruffles, sighs frequently, and melts away to Mugville. Then all the sagacious press chaps rush to the telegraph office and flash feverish paragraphs to the intelligent morning journals: "Highly important--Sudden departure of the Venerable Gammon for Mugville to attend the death-bed of a relative--Believed in military circles that this indicates a change in the Cabinet--Border States delegation has again waited on the President--More vigorous policy needed."

Whereupon the editors of all the intelligent morning journals ecstatically print the paragraphs, affixing to them: "_Note by the Editor._--Washington is a town in the so called District of Columbia--situated on the Potomac. We infer from our correspondent's dispatch that it has not yet been taken by the rebels."

American journalism, my boy, in presenting a vast amount of matter daily, is eminently calculated to impress the youthful brain with a keen sense of what a wide distinction there is between Mind and Matter.

Immediately on the return of the Venerable Gammon, he commenced saying things, which made all the rest of mankind seem like withered children in comparison with him. He was beaming genially on the throng at Willard's, and says I to him:

"It would appear, my beloved _Pater Patria_, that military matters are not quite as interesting as a woman with a headache just now."

The Venerable Gammon pitied my youth, and waved his hand fatly by way of a silent blessing to all the world. "Military affairs," says he, effulgently, "are like metaphysics. Military affairs," says the Venerable Gammon, benignantly, "are like that which we do not understand--they defy our comprehension and comprehend our defiance."

Then all the Congressmen looked at each other, as much as to say the Union was saved at last; and I felt like a babe in the presence of the great Behemoth of the Scriptures.

How the Venerable Gammon has anything at all to do with this war, I can't find out, my boy, but when the affectionate populace learned that the Venerable Gammon had returned from Mugville, they swarmed around his carriage, and entreated him either to spit upon them, or save them from slow decay by a speech. It was then the Venerable man raised his hand in soothing benediction, and says he:

"My friends, you are young yet, and have much to learn concerning war.

I can only say to you, my friends, that all goes well with McClellan; and, if you will only hasten to fill up old regiments, raise a few thousand new ones, and go yourselves, the advance upon Richmond may commence at any time."

The most enthusiastic cheering followed this comforting speech of the Venerable Gammon, and six ecstatic chaps immediately offered to volunteer as major-generals.

Shall we presume to talk of drafting, my boy, when there is such readiness on the part of the people to lead the troops? I think not, my boy, I think not. Let the draft be protested.

On Wednesday I again took a trip to Paris, accompanied by my frescoed dog, Bologna, and found upon reaching that city that the Mackerel Brigade had built itself a theatre, after the manner of Drury Lane, and was about to partake of the rich intellectual drama. This chaste temple might possibly be taken for a cowshed, my boy, by those who are not conversant with architecture in one story. It occupies a spot which has been rising ground ever since the Mackerels commenced to dig trenches around it, and the front door is so s.p.a.cious that you have to go all around the building to find where it stops opening. The seats are similar to those which are supposed to have been so popular with the Count de Gra.s.se and the stage is exquisitely extemporized from several flour-barrels, with a curtain created from the flannel petticoats recently belonging to the wife of the Southern Confederacy.

Pa.s.sing over all intervening events, my boy, let me direct your special attention to the night we celebrated, when I found myself occupying a box (previously used for crackers) in the temple of the Muses, surrounded by uniforms and dazzled by the glitter of the shovels worn by the military celebrities present. In a box (marked "Sperm Candles--First quality") on my right, I noticed a number of distinguished persons whom I did not know, and to the left were grouped several celebrated visitors with whom I was not acquainted. The stage itself realized numerous brilliant footlights in the way of bottles containing gorgeous tallow-dips; and when the orchestra brought out his key-bugle and struck up the martial strain of "I want to be an Angel,"

there _was_ a dry eye in the house.

(Make a note of this last unparalleled fact, my boy; for you, nor any other mortal man, ever heard of its occurrence before.)

The curtain having been taken down by a gentleman who had forgotten to wash himself when the washstand went round last time, the play commenced; and I found it to be

THE UNION AS IT WAS.

A HIGH MORAL DRAMA, IN ONE ACK.

BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE.

The plot of this admirable work is very simple, my boy, and appeals to those sentiments of the human heart which affect the liver. The scene is laid in Washington, where it has been frequently seen, and the drama opens with a fine

CONSERVATIVE CHORUS.

Abram, spare the South, Touch not a single slave: Nor e'en by word of mouth, Disturb the thing we crave.

'Twas our forefather's hand That Slavery begot; There, Abram, let it stand Thine Acts shall harm it not.

At the conclusion of this spirited National Anthem, the Border States chaps who have been singing it are invited to have another interview with the President, who has only seen them twice the same morning. As they pa.s.s out, the celebrated Miss Columbia appears, wrapt in deep thought and the American flag, and reading the twenty-third proclamation for the current month. She asks her heart if she is indeed divorced--if her once happy Union is indeed broken; and as her heart refuses to answer any such common question, a doubt is allowed to remain in the bosom of the spectator. In deep agony she kneels at the monument of Washington and softly sings "Hail Columbia," while the Southern Confederacy, who has just arrived, proceeds to plant batteries all round her, a.s.sisted in the work by reliable contrabands. After some moments spent in prayer for the repose of Secretary Welles, Columbia discovered her surroundings, and is about to make a faint, when the spirit of Napoleon appears, and tells her she has nothing to fear, as he is about to change his base of operations, and take Richmond. He tells her he would have taken it long before but for the Tribune. This is a very fine scene--very fine. The spirit of Napoleon then proceeds to pick up everything he can find and throw it over to the Southern Confederacy, at the same time swinging himself around so that his left fist may be presented to the enemy instead of his right, only pausing long enough to drive back a reliable contraband who has started to desert to him. Matters are progressing admirably, and the Confederacy has only planted 24 more batteries around Columbia, when the Conservative Chorus comes tearing back to the scene, with the news that the President has determined to pay for all runaway slaves in postage-stamps! This splendid stroke of policy so completely staggers the Confederacy, that he only erects thirty-two more batteries, and acknowledges that his back-bone is broken: Strange to say, Columbia still labors under the delusion that she is in danger; but is finally re-a.s.sured by the spirit of Napoleon, who convinces her that all is going well, and at once draws his shovel and commences to dig a hole.

Columbia asks: "Wherefore this digging?" To which the response is:

"Our Union in its broken state Is discord to the soul: And therefore are we digging here To make the Union hole."

The digging proceeds until the spirit of Napoleon is sunk deep into the earth, when the Southern Confederacy deliberately steps over the hole and captures Washington, at the same time ordering Columbia to black his boots. Columbia would be utterly bereft of hope at this turn in affairs but for the cheerful conduct of the Conservative Chorus, who bid her rejoice that the good old times have come again. Columbia then remembers that she did indeed black the boots of the Confederacy in the good old times, and it suddenly flashes upon her that the Union is, in truth, restored--AS IT WAS. A brilliant blue light is thrown upon the scene, and as the curtain falls the Conservative Chorus are seen in the act of taking all the credit to themselves and indignantly refusing to pay their war taxes.

This affecting drama of real life was played entirely by gifted Mackerels, my boy, the one who acted Columbia being possessed of a voice as musical as that which sometimes comes from between the teeth of a new saw.

When the last round of applause had subsided, and I was leaving the theatre, I came upon the dramatist, Captain Villiam Brown, who appeared to be waiting to hear what I had to say about his work. Says I to him:

"Well, my versatile Euripides, your play resembles the better dramas of aeschylus, inasmuch as it is all Greek to me."

"Ah!" says Villiam, hastily a.s.suming the att.i.tude in which Shakspere generally appears in his pictures. "Did I remind you forcibly of the bard of Avon?"

"Yes," says I, kindly; "you might easily be taken for Shakspere--after dark."