LETTER x.x.xI.

TREATING OF THE GREAT MILITARY ANACONDA, AND THE MODERN XANTIPPE.

WASHINGTON, D.C., February 16th, 1862.

There is still much lingual gymnastics, my boy, concerning the recent _fete_ sham-pate at the White House; but Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, has extinguished the grumblers by proving that the entertainment was strictly Const.i.tutional. He profoundly observes, my boy, that it comes under the head of that clause of the Const.i.tution which secures to the people of America the "pursuit of happiness;" and, as he justly remarks, if you stop the "pursuit of happiness," where's the Instrument of our Liberties?

It pleases me greatly to announce, my boy, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade believes in McClellan, and gorgeously defends him against the attacks of that portion of the depraved press which has friends dying of old age in the Army of the Potomac.

"Thunder!" says he to Captain Bob Shorty, stirring the Oath in his tumbler with a tooth-brush--"the way Little Mac is devoting himself to the military squelching of this here unnatural rebellion, is actually outraging his physical nature. He reviews his staff twice a day, goes over the river every five minutes, studies international law six hours before dinner, takes soundings of the mud every time the dew falls, and takes so little sleep, that there's two inches of dust on one of his eye-b.a.l.l.s. Would you believe it," says the General, placing the tumbler over his nose to keep off a fly, "his devotion is such that his hair is turning gray and will probably dye!"

Captain Bob Shorty whistled. I do not mean to say that he intended to be musically satirical, my boy; but if I should hear such a canary-bird remark after _I'd_ told a story, somebody would go home with his eyes done up in rainbows.

"Permit _me_," says Captain Bob Shorty, hurling what remained of the Oath into the aperture under his moustache. "You convince me that Little Mac's devotion is extraordinary," continued Captain Bob Shorty, dreamily; "but he don't come up to a chap I once knew, which was a editor. Talk about devotion! and outraging nature!" says Captain Bob Shorty, spitting with exquisite accuracy into the eyes of the regimental cat, "why, that ere editor threw body, soul, and breeches into his work; and so completely identified himself with a free and enlightened press, that his first child was a _newsboy_."

The General of the Mackerel Brigade arose from his seat, my boy, wound up his watch, brushed off his boots, threw the cat out of the window, and then says he:

"Robert, name of Shorty, did you ever read in the Bible about Ananias, who was struck dead for telling a telegraph?"

"I heard about him," says Captain Bob Shorty, "when I was but a innocent lamb, and wore my mother's slipper on my back about as often as she wore it on her foot."

"Well," says the general, with the air of a thoughtful parent, "it's my opinion that if you'd been Ananias, the same streak of lightning would have buried you and paid the s.e.xton."

From this logical and vivid conversation, my boy, you will understand that our leading military men have perfect faith in the genius of McClellan, and believe that he is equal to fifty yards of the Star-Spangled Banner. His great anaconda has gathered itself in a circle around the doomed rabbit of rebellion, and if the rabbit swells he's a goner.

This great anaconda, my boy, may remind h.e.l.lish readers of the anaconda once seen by a chap of my acquaintance living in the Sixth Ward. This chap, my boy, came tearing into a place where they kept the Oath on tap, and says he:

"I've just seen an anaconda down Broadway."

"Anna who?" says a red-nosed Alderman, dipping his finger into the water on the stove to see if it was warm enough to melt some brandy-refined sugar.

"I said Anaconda, you ignorant cuss," says the chap.

"Was it the real insect?" says the Alderman.

"It was a real, original, genuine Anaconda," says the chap.

"Ah!" says the Alderman, "somebody's been stuffin' you."

"No, sir!" says the chap, "but somebody's been stuffin' the Anaconda, though."

He'd been to the Museum.

If there should be among your unfortunate readers, my boy, any persons of such depraved minds as to perceive a likeness between this Anaconda and that Anaconda, may they be sent to Fort Lafayette, and compelled to read Tupper's poems until the rabbit of rebellion is reduced to his last quarter!

Early this morning a couple of snuff-colored pickets brought a female Southern Confederacy into camp, stating that she had called them nasty things and spit all over their guns. She said that she wanted to see the loathsome creature that commanded them, and her eyes flashed so when they took her by the arm, that her vail took fire twice, and her eyebrows smoked repeatedly.

The General of the Mackerel Brigade received her courteously, only poking her in the ribs to see if she had any Armstrong guns concealed about her. Says he:

"Have I the honor of addressing the wife of the Southern Confederacy?"

The female confederacy drew herself up as proudly as the First Family of Virginia when the butcher's bill comes to be paid, and replied, in soprano of great compa.s.s:--

"I am that injured woman, you ugly swine."

The General bowed until his lips touched a pewter mug on the table, and then says he:

"My dear madam, your words touch a tender chord in my heart, and it will give me pleasure to serve you. Your words, madam," continued the general, with visible emotion, "are precisely those which my beloved wife not unfrequently addresses to me. Ah! my wife! my wifey!" says the general, hysterically, "how often have you patted me on my head, and told me that my face looked like a chunk of beeswax with three cracks in it."

The wife of the Southern Confederacy sneered audibly, and called for a fan. There being no fan nearer than the office of Secretary Welles, she used a small whisk-broom. Says she:

"Miserable hireling of a diabolical Lincoln, your wife is nothing to me. She is a creature! I do not come here to hear her wrongs, but to express the undying wish that you and all your horde may be welcomed with muddy hands to hospitable graves. All I want is to be let alone."

"My dear Mrs. S. C.," says the general, with a touch of bra.s.s and irony, "it is a matter of the utmost indifference to me whether you are 'to be let alone,' or with the next house and lot."

"I insist upon being let alone," screamed the female Confederacy, spitting angrily.

"I am not touching you," says the general.

"All I want is to be let alone," shrieked the exasperated lady; "and I _will_ be let alone!"

The General of the Mackerel Brigade hastily wiped his mouth with a bottle, and then says he:

"Madam, if sandwiches are not plenty where you come from, it ain't for the want of tongue."

On hearing this gastronomic remark, my boy, the injured wife of the Southern Confederacy swept from the room like an insulted Minerva, and departed for Secessia. It was observed that she frowned like a thunder-cloud at every Federal she pa.s.sed, excepting one picket. Him she smiled on. She had detected him in the act of admiring her ankles as she picked her way through the mud.

Woman, my boy, has really many sweet qualities; and if her head is sometimes in the wrong, she has always a reserve of genuine goodness of heart in the neighborhood of her gaiters.

Yours, for the s.e.x,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER x.x.xII.

COMMENCING WITH A BURST OF EXULTATION OVER NATIONAL VICTORIES, REFERRING TO A SENATORIAL MISTAKE, DEPICTING A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER, AND REPORTING THE RECONNOISSANCE OF THE WESTERN CENTAURS.

WASHINGTON, D.C., February 21st, 1862.

Now swells Columbia's bosom with a pride, that sets her eyes ablaze with living fire; and, with her arms upreaching to the skies, she draws in air new crowns with stars adorned, to ring the temples of her conquering chiefs. Far in the West, she sees the livid sparks struck by Achilles from the hostile sword, and in the South beholds how Ajax bold defies the lightning of the rebel guns. Then clasping to her breast the flag we love, and donning swift Minerva's gleaming helm, she stands where Morn's first glories kiss the hills, and breathes the paean of a fame redeemed!

Three cheers for the chaps who pocketed Fort Donelson & Co., my boy, and may the rebels never have an easier boat to row than Roanoke. The other day I was talking with a New England Senator about the taking of the fort, and says I: