It is beautiful to see how the Grim Old Fighting c.o.x is improving the morals of the venerable Mackerels, and winning their affection, confidence, and respect. Coming, unexpectedly, upon a Mackerel, who had just laid aside his umbrella, and removed his spectacles, in order that he might weep the more freely, he fired a pistol over his head, and says he:

"What is the matter, my dear sir?"

"Oh!" says the poor Mackerel, sobbing, "I am in sore need of the pay which is due me for two years' faithful strategy to the Union, and know not where to get it."

The Grim Old Fighting c.o.x was much affected, and says he, softly: "You must humbly kneel, and beseech Providence for it."

The afflicted chap toyed with his spectacles, and says he: "But suppose Providence should refuse?"

"Then come to ME!" thundered the Grim Old Fighting c.o.x, with the air of a stern national parent.

I could relate hundreds of such significant anecdotes as this, my boy; though when the Grim Old Fighting c.o.x tells them himself to all the reporters of the reliable morning journals, he invariably desires that they shall go no further; but other great events demand my immediate attention.

It was very shortly after the victorious but disastrous blowing up of the Mackerel iron-plated squadron, the "Secretary Welles," on Duck Lake, by the infatuated Confederacies of Pier No. 1,--it was shortly after this event, which I duly recounted at the time, that our unconquerable old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, invented an entirely new iron-clad after the model of a Quaker hat, the turret being of solid iron all through, and so arranged that it could be used to cover the gangway amidships. In fact, my boy, the turret was a movable block of iron, with the swivel-gun mounted on top; so that if the turret happened to be hit, the artillery would not be disabled, and if the artillery was disabled, the turret would still be as good as ever.

(Patent applied for.) There was some discussion as to what name should be given to this formidable monster, nearly the whole six-barrelled Indian language having been almost exhausted by our national navy; but finally it was resolved to call her the "Shockingbadhat,"--an old Choctaw t.i.tle of much simplicity, signifying originally "The Head what errs," but now understood as meaning "The Head waters."

There has also been a great improvement in the swivel-gun, my boy, which has been so reconstructed as to remedy the evil of immediate bursting so common to our heavier ordnance. A select committee of Mackerels having been appointed to examine our national ordnance system, and discover the cause of its inefficiency, stated in their able report that the causes of the frequent bursting of our larger guns are,--

_First._ The powder used in propelling the appropriate missile against the enemy.

_Second._ The addition of an incendiary spark to said powder.

It was further stated in the report, that, although the barrel of a gun was frequently fractured when it exploded, there was no record of the touch-hole ever having burst; and the committee believed that this curious fact should serve as a valuable suggestion to the manufacturers of future heavy ordnance.

Acting upon this truly valuable suggestion, our stern old Son of Neptune caused his swivel-gun to be reconstructed upon a novel principle; the touch-hole was extended to the usual size of a barrel, and the barrel was reduced to the usual size of a touch-hole; so that, although the terrible weapon looked precisely the same as ever, it was, in reality, _completely reversed_!

But while the "Shockingbadhat" was being built, and receiving her terrific new armament, the shameless Confederacies on their Pier in Duck Lake had been industriously building Fort Piano and mounting it with their villanous horse-pistols; so that when the new Mackerel iron-plated squadron was ready for carnage and fishing, there was a hostile projection in the way.

"Chip my turret!" says Rear Admiral Head, in his iron-plated manner, "I think I shall have to blow a few more Rebels into eternity--smash my casemate! if I don't."

I stood upon the sh.o.r.e of Duck Lake, with a bit of smoked gla.s.s to my eye as usual, when our new monster of the deep came abreast of Fort Piano, and Rear Admiral Head commenced to reconnoitre through his pocket-microscope. The venerable commander gazed steadfastly through it for a moment, and then, says he:

"Crack my plates! if I don't perceive an insect on the wall of the hostile work."

There was indeed a solitary Confederacy seated upon the front wall of Fort Piano, dining sumptuously upon some fresh hoe-cake, and says he:

"You can't pa.s.s here without a New Jersey ferry-ticket."

(New Jersey, my boy, is now a Southern Confederacy, or a Peace of one.)

I could hear the glorious old naval hero say, in a suppressed voice, to the intelligent Mackerel crew on top of the turret:

"Depress your weapon four points to windward, grease the ball, and fire at his stomach."

In another instant, the whole landscape shook with a tremendous explosion, jarring the Admiral so greatly that his spectacles fell off, and causing his blue cotton umbrella to tremble like a leaf. The ball ascended to the zenith in a parabolical curve, and was lost amongst the other planets. I do not think, my boy, that the Confederacy would have been offended at this, had not the sudden noise caused him to jump in such a manner that he dropped his hoe-cake into the dirt. Upon this occurrence, however, he sprang to his legs on the wall, drew up a long pole from behind him, disrespectfully cracked our glorious old Rear Admiral over the head with it, and then commenced shoving at the turret of the "Shockingbadhat."

Perceiving the great danger of the squadron, and unmindful of his own wound, the venerable sea-dog hastily grasped at the pole, and says he: "Ah, now, what do you want to do that for, Mr. Davis? What's the use of pushing my turret overboard?"

He said this so mildly that the Confederacy burst into a prodigious horse-laugh, and drew in his pole again.

"As no possible good could be attained by taking Fort Piano, the indomitable old Rear Admiral at once returned with the squadron to his original anchorage; having gained all that was required, and proved his iron-clad monster to be fully qualified for actual service. Everything is now ready for the antic.i.p.ated conquest of Duck Lake."

I give you the above in quotation marks, my boy, because it is the official report as it appears in all the reliable morning journals, and clearly and satisfactorily explains everything. The first of April is close at hand.

Yours, fortuitously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XC.

GIVING A DEEP INSIGHT OF WOMAN'S NATURE; PRESENTING A POWERFUL POEM OF THE HEART BY ONE OF THE INTELLECTUAL FEMALES OF AMERICA; AND REPORTING THE SIGNAL DISCOMFITURE OF MR. P. GREENE.

WASHINGTON, D.C., April 5th, 1863.

Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetable development, may be felicitously likened unto a delicate cabbage, with an invisible worm feeding upon its sensitive petals. To the eye of the ordinary and unfeeling observer, the cabbage is in perfect health, and its intense greenness is thoughtlessly accepted as a sure indication of an unravaged system. Man, proud man, with all his boasted human wisdom, would smile incredulously, if told that the tender vegetable--the magnified and nervous white rose, as it were--had beneath all its seeming verdancy, an insatiable and remorseless worm gnawing at its hidden core. Man, I say, would thus wallow in his miserable ignorance, and persist in his disgusting blindness. But mark that dainty little figure coming up the garden-walk, my boy. It does not walk erect, like boastful Man, does not spit tobacco-juice like haughty Man; and as it approaches nearer, we perceive that it is a hot-house Pig. Ay, my lord: I say to you, in all your glory of human understanding and trifling degree of sn.o.bbishness, it is a Pig. Yes, madam: I remark to you, in your jewels, and laces, and absurd new bonnet,--it is only a Pig.

_very_ a Pig! O-O-ONLY a Pig! And why should we say "only" a Pig; as though a Pig were so _very_ inferior to proud Man? We all accord to the awful and unfathomable German Mind a preternatural gift of philosophy, so far above the contemptibly-limited thing we call human understanding that no man can ever understand a word of it; and how does that German Mind express itself when it desires to describe the Vast, the Extensive, and the Somewhat Large? Why, it simply observes "Das is von 'PIG' thing." And is not this unaffected remark sufficient, my boy, to raise the wrongfully despised Pig to the dignity of an adjective, at least? But look once more at the hot-house Pig in question, as he stoops thoughtfully to the cabbage which derisive Man has esteemed perfectly sound. He pushes it once with his nose; he raises his eyes, blinking in the glorious sunshine; his tail vibrates a moment; a solemn wink,--a grunt of deep reflection,--and he _turns to another cabbage_!

Yes! this despised little roasting-pig, this unconsidered Flower, as it were, has surpa.s.sed all the vaunted wisdom of stuck-up Man, and discovered the worm at the core of the sensitive cabbage!

Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetable development, is a metaphorical Cabbage with a figurative worm at its palpitating core. That worm is a pa.s.sionate yearning for TRUE SYMPATHY.

Heartless but wealthy Man comes along, and says: "This Cabbage is in perfect health, and I will Husband it." He _does_ Husband it my boy, and what is the consequence? Not knowing anything about the existence of the worm, he cannot, of course, furnish that TRUE SYMPATHY which is necessary to end its horrible gnawings; and so the worm keeps feeding until the Cabbage Heart becomes a mere sh.e.l.l, when the least zephyr will break it. How different the result had that Heart been--or, that is to say, how changed would the case have been had she--or, in other words, what an opposite spectacle might we--or, rather she--if he--if she--

Really, my boy, I am all in a cold perspiration; for I find that I must have made some dreadful mistake in my argument. Hem! There really _must_ be some strange mistake in it, my boy; for I cannot follow it out without making it scandalously appear, that a man, to really understand a Woman's Heart, must be something of a Pig. This conclusion would be very insulting to the women of America, and there certainly must be some mistake about it.

What led me into this philosophical vein of a.n.a.lytical thought was a touching poem of the home affections, which was sent to me for perusal on Monday by one of the intellectual Young Women of America. It is one of those revelations of Woman's inner-self which move us to tearful compa.s.sion for a s.e.x doomed to be the victim of man's selfishness and its own too-great sensibilities. The terrible picture of woe is called

"WOMAN'S HEART.[5]

"BY SAIRA NEVERMAIR.

"We went to the world-loved Ball last night,-- Claude and I, in our robes of gold; He in a coat as black as jet, And I in the jewels I wore of old.

"Diamonds covered my head in pounds, Seventy large ones lit my neck,-- Over my skirts they burned in quarts, Counting in all a goodly peck.

"Hopped the canary 'neath the wires,-- Spoke the canary not a word; When to my heart the chill has struck, How can I sing?--can ary bird?

"We were together, Claude and I, Bonded together as man and wife; Little I thought, as I uttered my vows, What was the real Ideal of life.

"He is my Husband to love and obey,-- Those were the words of the priest, I think,-- He is to purchase the clothes I wear, Order my victuals and order my drink!

"Well, it is well if it must be so: Woman the slave and man the lord; She the scissors to cut the threads After the darning, and he the sword.

"Was it for this I played my cards, Tuned the piano's tender din, Cherished a delicate health, and ate Pickles and pencils to make me thin?