The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers Volume Ii Part 38

"When I was practicing law out in Illinois," says the Honest Abe, twisting the bow of his black necktie around from under his left ear, "there was an old c.o.c.k, with two sons, living near me in a tumble-down old shanty. He lived there until half his roof blew off one windy night, and then he concluded to move to a new house, where the chimney didn't take up all the upper story. On the day when he moved, he'd got most all his traps changed to the other residence, and had sent one of his sons to see that they were all got safely indoors, when suddenly a shower commenced to come up. The old man and his other offspring, who had stayed to hurry him, were taking up a carpet from the floor at the time the first dose of thunder cracked, and the offspring says he, 'Hurry up, old crazy-bones, or we'll be ketched in the freshet before you get up this here rich fabric.' The stern parent heeded the admonition, and went ripping away the carpet around the edges of the room, until he came near where the offspring was standing, and there it stuck. He pulled, but it wouldn't come, and he says, says he: ''Pears to me that dod-rotted tack must be a tenpenny nail--it holds on so.'

You see, the old screw was very blind without his specs," says the Honest Abe, b.u.t.toning his vest askew, "and he couldn't see just where the tack was. Another peal of thunder at this moment made the irascible offspring still madder, and he says, says he: 'You misabul old cripple, if you don't hurry up we'll be ketched, I tell you!' As he made this dutiful remark he went stamping to the window, and at the same moment the cantankerous tack came out, and the aged parent went over on his back with the carpet up to his chin. He got up and dusted, and says he: 'Well, now, that _is_ cur'ous--how suddent it went.' Then he proceeded to rip away again, until it came near the window, and there it stuck once more. The wild offspring saw him tugging again, and it made him so wrathy that he says, says he: 'Why in thunder didn't you take the nails out first, you crooked old sinner, you? It's enough to make me weep afresh for the old woman, to see how you--' But he didn't finish his observation; for, as he walked toward where the hammer lay, the tack came out, and the old 'un went to bed again under the carpet. Up sprang the sad parent, spitting rags, and he says, says he: 'Well now, how cur'ous--to think it should come so suddent!' Still on he went, until the carpet was all up from around the edges; but when he tried to draw it away on his shoulder, it was fast somewheres yet. R-r-rum-b.u.m-boom!

went the thunder; and says the infuriated offspring, says he: 'Well, I never did see such a blundering old dad as you be. We'll be ketched in the rain as sure as gra.s.shoppers; and all because you didn't take my advice about the hammer in the first place.' The poor old 'un tugged, and pulled, and panted, and says he: 'Well, now, it _is_ cur'ous, I swun to ma.s.sey. There can't be no tacks way out in the middle of the floor here, can they?' To make sure, the old blind-pate was going down on his knees to take a mouse-eye view, when all of a sudden he gave a start, and he says, says he: 'Why, 'pears to me, Sammy, _you're standin' on the carpet yourself!_' And so he was--so he was," says the Honest Abe, smiling into the fire, "and that was the why the carpet had stuck fast in so many places."

"Now," says the Honest Abe, poking the Democratic chap in the ribs with his knuckles; "if your organization wants me to move vigorously in this war, tell them not to be standing on my carpet all the time. Otherwise, I must still keep tacking about."

The Democratic chap had been slowly rising from his chair as this small moral tale drew toward its exciting conclusion, and at the last word he fled the apartment with quivering watch-seal.

Our President, my boy, has a tale for every emergency, as a rat-trap has an emergency for every tail.

It was on the morning of this same day, that I had a pleasing conversation on the state of our foreign relations with a phlegmatic British chap connected with the English Ministry, who is remaining here for the purpose of beholding anarchy in the North, which he has been requested to immediately communicate to one of Great Britain's morning journals. We were taking Richmond together at Willard's, my boy, and had just been speaking of the English Southern pirate "Alabama" in terms of neutrality, when suddenly the phlegmatic chap drew a roll of silk from one of his pockets, fastened it to his cane, unfurled it before my eyes, and says he:

"By the way, sir, 'ow do you like this ere h'original h'idea of mine?

Do you see what it is?"

"Yes, friend Bifstek," says I, Frenchily, "that is indeed the Black Flag."

The chap turned very red in the face, my boy, and says he: "The Black Flag! what a 'orrible h'idea! You must be thinking of the h'Alabama.

What h'induces you to suppose such a thing!"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Why," says I, "there's the Skull and Crossbones plain enough."

"Skull and Crossbones!!" says he, "why, that's the beautiful Hinglish crest--a crown and sceptres; and this is my new h'original design, ye know, for a new Hinglish Revenue Flag."

It was then, my boy, that I discovered my error, and apologized for my obliquity of vision. It was strange, indeed, that I should mistake for a skull the insignia of royalty, even though a crown is not unfrequently found identified with a numskull.

On the same Tuesday, my boy, there was a small election in a town just this side of Accomac, and I went down there early in the morning, to the office of the excellent independent evening journal, that I might see the returns as soon as they came in. The editor was talking to two chaps--a Republican and a Democrat--and, says he:

"The organ which my humble talents keep a-going is strictly independent, and I have no choice of candidates. I care only for my country, one and individual," says the editor, touchingly, "and can make no arbitrary discrimination of mere parties; but as you both advertise your tickets in my moral journal, a sense of duty may induce me to favor the side whose advertis.e.m.e.nt weighs the most."

After this gentle insinuation, my boy, each chap hastily commenced to write his advertis.e.m.e.nt. The Republican inscribed his upon a _very_ heavy piece of brown wrapping-paper to make it weighty; but the Democrat selected a plain bit of foolscap, only putting in a hundred-dollar Treasury Note, to keep it from blotting.

When the editor came to look at the two, he coughed slightly, and says he: "I have always been a Democrat."

"But my advertis.e.m.e.nt certainly weighs the most," says the Republican chap, hotly.

The editor ate a chestnut, and says he: "Not in an intellectual sense, my friend."

"My paper is twice as heavy as his," says the chap; "and as to the Treasury Note, I had some scruples--"

"There!" says the editor, interruptingly, "you tell the whole story, my friend. In the temple of a free and reliable press, as well as elsewhere, some scruples bear very little proportion in weight to one hundredweight."

The American press, my boy, might occasionally adopt as an appropriate motto, the present Napoleon's observation, that "_L'Empire c'est la_ PAY."

Turning from intellectual matters, let me glance at our country's hope and pride, the Mackerel Brigade, each member of whom feels confident of ultimately crushing out this hideous Rebellion as soon as national strategy shall have revealed the present whereabouts of the affrighted Confederacy. Last week, my boy, the Brigade moved gorgeously from Accomac, headed by the band, who played exciting strains upon his night-key bugle; and was only fired upon from the windows of wayside houses by helpless women, against whom the United States of America do not make war.

Woman, my boy, is the most helpless of G.o.d's creatures; and is so far from having power to help any other being, that she even can't help being herself sometimes.

The sun shone brightly down upon the spectacles of the ancient Mackerels as they once more took the road toward Paris; and as the light was reflected from the glistening gla.s.ses upon the carmine noses of which they were astride, it seemed as though each warrior had a rose in the middle of his countenance to symbolize the beautiful idea, that they had all arose for their distracted country's preservation.

Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on his geometrical steed, Euclid, was conversing affably with Captain Bob Shorty, as they rode along together, when a Lieutenant of the Anatomical Cavalry came dashing toward him, and says he:

"Captain, there's something missing from the rearguard."

Villiam a.s.sumed a thoughtful demeanor, and says he: "Is it a miss fire?"

"No," says the Lieutenant, agitatedly: "but we miss two--"

"Not baggage wagons?" says Villiam, giving such a start that Euclid nearly fell upon his knees; "don't tell me that two wagons are missing."

"Why no," says the Lieutenant, with emotion, "it's not two wagons that we miss, but two Brigadiers."

"Ah!" says Villiam, fanning himself with his cap. "How you alarmed me.

I thought at first that it was two wagons. Let the procession go on, and I'll send for two more Brigs the next time I have a friend going to Washington."

It would please me, my boy, to detail the further movements of the Mackerels, but the cause of strategy demands that I should say no more on that topic just at present.

The beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade was at Washington when he heard of the advance which his enemies would pretend that he did not lead in person, and says he to the messenger:

"Are my gallant children ready for a fight?"

"Much so," says the messenger.

"Is the weather clear, my child?"

"Salubrious."

"Thunder!" says the General, valorously. "Then I really believe that I must move my headquarters across the Potomac!"

The Potomac, my boy--to speak with all due reverence for sacred things--in the numerous backs and forths it so constantly imposes upon the military, would seem calculated to turn this war into another Crusade, and make all our heroes literal soldiers of the "cross."

Yours, metaphorically, OEPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER LXXVIII.

IN WHICH THE STORY TOLD BY THE GERMAN MEMBER OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB IS DULY REPORTED.

WASHINGTON, D. C., November 12th, 1862.

Herr Tuyfeldock, my boy, the high-Dutch cosmopolitan, supernaturalized the last meeting of the club with his old-fashioned story of

HERMANN, THE DEMENTED.