I believe him, my boy!

On Monday morning, just as the sun was rising, like a big gold watch "put up" at some celestial Simpson's, the sentinels of Fort Corcoran were seized with horrible tremblings at a sight calculated to make perpendicular hair fashionable. As far as the eye could reach on every side of the Capital, the ground was black with an approaching mult.i.tude, each man of which wore large spectacles, and carried a serious carpet-bag and a bottle-green umbrella.

"Be jabers!" says one of the sentinels, whose imperfect English frequently causes him to be taken for the Duc de Chartres, "it's the whole Southern Confederacy coming to boord with us."

"Aisey, me boy," says the other sentinel, straightening the barrel of his musket and holding it very straight to keep the fatal ball from rolling out, "it's the sperits of all our pravious descindants coming to ax us, was our grandmother the Saycretary of the Navy."

Right onward came the mult.i.tude, their spectacles glistening in the sun like so many exasperated young planets, and their umbrellas and carpet-bags swinging like the pendulums of so many infuriated clocks.

Pretty soon the advance guard, who was a chap in a white neck-tie and a hat resembling a stove-pipe in reduced circ.u.mstances, poked a sentinel in the ribs with his umbrella, and says he:

"Where's Congress?"

"Is it Congress ye want?" says the sentinel.

"Yessir!" says the chap. "Yessir. These are friends of mine--ten thousand six hundred and forty-two free American citizens. We must see Congress. Yessir!--dammit. How about that tax-bill? We come to protest against certain features _in_ that bill."

"Murther an turf!" says the sentinel, "is it the taxes all of them ould chaps is afther blaming?"

"Yessir!" says the chap, hysterically jamming his hat down over his forehead and stabbing himself madly under the arm with his umbrella.

"Taxes is a outrage. Not _all_ taxes," says the chap with sudden benignity, "but the taxes which fall upon us. Why don't they tax them as is able to pay, without oppressing us ministers, editors, merchants, lawyers, grocers, peddlers, and professors of religion?" Here the chap turned very purple in the face, his eyes bulged greenly out, and says he: "Congress is a a.s.s."

"That's thrue for you," says the sentinel: "they ought to eximpt the whole naytion and tax the rest of it."

The mult.i.tude then swarmed into Washington, my boy, and if they don't smother the Tax Bill, it will be because Congress is case-hardened.

The remainder of the Mackerel Brigade being ordered to join the Conic Section at Accomac for an irresistible advance on Mana.s.sas, I mounted my gothic steed Pegasus on Tuesday morning.

Pegasus, my boy, has greatly improved since I rubbed him down with Sn.o.bb's Patent Hair Invigorator, and his tail looks much less like a whisk-broom than it did at first. It is now fully able to maintain itself against all flies whatsoever. The general of the Mackerel Brigade rode beside me on a spirited black frame, and says he:

"That funereal beast of yours is a monument of the home affections.

Thunder!" says the general, shedding a small tear of the color of Scheidam Schnapps, "I never look at that air horse without thinking of the time I buried my first baby; its head is shaped so much like a small coffin."

On reaching Accomac, my boy, we found Captain Villiam Brown at the head of the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade, dressed princ.i.p.ally in a large sword and bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, and taking the alt.i.tude of the sun with a gla.s.s instrument operated by means of a bottle.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "You are just in time to hear my speech to the sons of Mars, previous to the capture of Mana.s.sas by the United States of America."

Hereupon Villiam mounted a demijohn laid length-wise, and says he:

"FELLOW-ANACONDAS:--Having been informed by a gentleman who has spent two weeks at Mana.s.sas, that the Southern Confederacy has gone South for its health, I have concluded that it is time to be offensive. The great Anaconda, having eluded Barnum, is about to move on the enemy's rear:

"'Rear aloft your peaks, ye mountings, Rear aloft your waves, O sea!

Rear your sparkling crests, ye fountings, For my love's come back to me.'

"The day of inaction is past, and now the United States of America is about to swoop down like a exasperated Eagle, on the chickens left by the hawk. Are you ready, my sagacious reptiles, to spill a drop or so for your soaking country? Are you ready to rose up as one man--

"'The rose is red, The wi'lets blue, Sugar is sweet, and Bully for you.'

"Ages to come will look down on this day and say: 'They died young.' The Present will reply: 'I don't see it;' but the present is just the last thing for us to think about. Richmond is before us, and there let it remain. We shall take it in a few years:

"'It may be for years and it may be for ever, Then why art thou silent, O pride of me heart.'

"which is poickry. I hereby divide this here splendid army into one _corpse dammee_, and take command of it."

At the conclusion of this thrilling oration, my boy, the _corpse dammee_ formed itself into a hollow square, in the centre of which appeared a mail-clad ambulance.

I looked at this carefully, and then says I to Villiam:

"Tell me, my gay Achilles, what you carry in that?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, balancing himself on one leg, "them's my Repeaters.

This morning," says Villiam, sagaciously, "I discovered six Repeaters among my men. Each of them voted six times last election day, and I've put them where they can't be killed. Ah!" says Villiam, softly, "the Democratic party can't afford to lose them Repeaters."

Here a rather rusty-looking chap stepped out of the ranks, and says he:

"Captain, I'm a Repeater too. I voted four times last election."

"It takes six to make a reliable Repeater," says Villiam.

"Yes," says the chap: "but I voted for different coves--twice for the Republican candidate and twice for the Democrat."

"Ha!" says Villiam, "you're a man of intelleck. Here, sargent," says Villiam, imperiously, "put this cherubim into the ambulance."

"And, sargent," says Villiam, thoughtfully, "give him the front seat."

And now, my boy, the march for Mana.s.sas commenced, being timed by the soft music of the band. This band, my boy, is _sui generis_. Its chief artist is an ardent admirer of Rossini, who performs with great accuracy upon a night-key pressed closely against the lower lip, the strains being much like those emitted by a cart-wheel in want of grease. Then comes a gifted musican from Germany, whose instrument is a fine-tooth comb wrapped in paper, and blown upon through its vibratory covering. The remainder of the band is composed chiefly of drums, though the second-base achieves some fine effects with a superannuated accordeon.

Onward moved the magnificent pageant toward the plains of Mana.s.sas, the Anatomical Cavalry being in advance, and the Mackerel Brigade following closely after.

Arriving on the noted battle-field, we found nothing but a scene of desolation; the rebels gone; the masked batteries gone; and nothing left but a solitary daughter of the sunny South, who cursed us for invading the peaceful homes of Virginia, and then tried to sell us stale milk at six shillings a quart.

When Captain Villiam Brown, surveyed this spectacle, my boy, his brows knit with portentous anger, and says he:

"So much for wasting so much time. Ah!" says Villiam, clutching convulsively at his canteen, "we have met the enemy, and they are hours--ahead of us."

The only thing noticeable we found, my boy, upon searching the late stamping ground of the Southern Confederacy, was a beautiful "romaunt,"

evidently written by an oppressed Southern Union man, who had gone from bad to verse, and descriptive of

THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.

Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went, And he, a quid removing from his mouth, Pressed her in anguish to his manly breast And spat twice, longingly, toward the South.

"Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke, "Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hard To leave my wife, my n.i.g.g.e.rs, and my debts, And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;'

"But all to arms the South has called her sons, And while there's something Southern hands can steal, You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at home With heartless duns for ever at my heel.

"To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a week We'll take the Yankee capital, I think; But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't, Why, then, we'll take--in short, we'll take a drink.

"I reckon I may perish in the strife-- Some bullet in the back might lay me low-- And as my business needs attendin' to, I'll give you some directions ere I go.