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

Speaking of the patriarch of the Navy Department, my boy, they say that the respected Ancient has under consideration a new and admirable plan for making the blockade efficient. The idea is, to furnish all the naval captains with spectacles made of looking-gla.s.s, so that when they are asleep, on the quarterdeck, their gla.s.ses will reflect the figure of any rebel craft that may be trying to slip by. These spectacles could all be ready in twenty years; and when the Secretary told a Congressman of the plan, the latter thought carefully over the suggestion, "as dripping with coolness it rose from the Welles," and says he:

"My dear madam, the idea lacks but one thing--the looking-gla.s.s spectacles ought to be supplied with a comb and brush, so that the captain could fix himself up after capturing the pirate. Ah, madam,"

says the Congressman, hastily picking up the Jack of Clubs, which he had accidentally pulled out with his pocket-handkerchief, "you will rank next to Mary, the mother of Washington, in the affections of future generations."

The _mother_ of Washington, my boy!--the MOTHER of Washington!--why, the Secretary is already celebrated as the grandmother of Washington--city.

On the occasion of my last visit to Yorktown, my boy, I found the Mackerel Brigade so well up in animal spirits that each chap was equal to a pony of brandy, and capable of capturing any amount of gla.s.s artillery. At the present time, my boy, the brigade is formed in the shape of a clam-sh.e.l.l, with the right resting on a beer wagon, and the left on a traveling free-lunch saloon. I was examining the new battery of the Orange County Howitzers--whose guns have such large touch-holes that the chaps keep their crackers and cheese in them when not in action--and was also overhearing the remarks of a melancholy Mackerel concerning what he wished to be done with his effects in case he should perish with old age before the battle commenced--when I beheld Captain Villiam Brown, approaching me on the most geometrical beast I ever saw--an animal even richer in sharp corners, my boy, than my own gothic steed, Pegasus.

"Ha!" says Villiam, hastily swallowing something that brought tears to his eyes, and taking a bit of lemon-peel to clear his voice, "you are admiring my Arabian courser, and wondering whether it is one of the three presented to Secretary Seward by the Emperor of Egypt."

"You speak truly, my Bayard," says I; "that superb piece of horseflesh looks like the original plan of the city of Boston--there's so many bisecting angles about him."

"Ah!" says Villiam, with an agreeable smile, "in the words of the anthem of childhood--

"'The angles told me so.'"

Villiam's idea of angels, my boy, const.i.tutes a theory of theology in itself.

"What call you the charger?" says I.

"Euclid," says Villiam, pausing for a moment, to catch the gurgle of a canteen just reversed. "Ah!" says Villiam, recovering his presence of mind, "this here marvel of natural history is a guaranteed 2.40."

"No!" says I.

"Yes," says Villiam, calculatingly, "this superb animal is a sure 2.40--he cost me just Two dollars and Forty cents. But come with me,"

said Villiam, proudly, "and see the sharpshooter contingent I have just organized to aid in the suppression of this here unnatural rebellion."

I followed the splendidly-mounted warrior, my boy, to a spot not far from the nearest point of the enemy's lines, where I found a lengthy Western chap polishing a rifle with a powerful telescope on the end of it. He had just been organized, and was preparing to make some carnage.

"Now then, Ajack," said Villiam, cla.s.sically, "let us see you pick off that Confederacy over there, which looks like a mere fly at this distance."

The sinewy sharpshooter sprang to his feet, called a drummer-boy to hold his chew of tobacco, looked at the rebel gunner through his telescope, shut up the telescope, took aim with both eyes shut, turned away his head, and _fired_!

I must say, my boy, that I at first thought the Confederacy was not hit at all, inasmuch as he only scratched one of his legs and squinted along his gun; but Villiam soon showed me how exquisitely accurate the sharpshooter's aim had been.

"The bullet struck him," says Villiam, confidently, "and would have reached his heart, but for the Bible given him by his mother when he left home, which arrested its fatal progress. Let us hope," says Villiam, seriously, "that he will henceforth search the Scriptures, and be a dutiful son."

I felt the tears spring to my eyes, for I once had a mother myself. I couldn't help it, my boy--I couldn't help it.

The second shot of the unerring rifleman was aimed at a hapless contraband, who had been sent out to the end of a gun by the enemy, to see that the ball did not roll out before the gunner had time to pull the trigger. Crack! went the deadly weapon of the sharpshooter, and down went the unhappy African--to his dinner.

"Ah!" says Villiam, skeptically, "do you think you hit him, Ajack?"

"Truelie, stranger," responded the unmoved marksman, sententiously. "He will die at twenty minutes past three this afternoon."

Sick of this dreadful slaughter, my boy, I turned from the spot with Villiam, and presently overtook the general of the Mackerel Brigade, who was seated on a fence by the roadside, trying to knock the cork out of a bottle with a piece of rock. We saluted, and went on to the camp.

Sharpshooters, my boy, are a source of much pain to hostile gunners, and if one of them should happen to put a bullet through the head of navigation, it would certainly cause the tide to fall.

Yours, take-aimiably,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XLIII.

CONCERNING MARTIAL LITERATURE: INTRODUCING A DIDACTIC POEM BY THE "ARKANSAW TRACT SOCIETY," AND A BIOGRAPHY OF GARIBALDI FOR THE SOLDIER.

WASHINGTON, D.C., May 7th, 1862.

Southern religious literature, my boy, is admirably calculated to improve the morals of race-courses, and render dog-fights the instruments of wholesome spiritual culture.

On the person of a high-minded Southern Confederacy captured the other day by the Mackerel pickets, I found a moral work which had been issued by the Arkansaw Tract Society for the diffusion of religious thoughts in the camp, and was much improved by reading it. The pure-minded Arkansaw chap who got it up, my boy, remarked in pallid print, that every man "should extract a wholesome moral from everything whatsomedever," and then went on to say that there was an excellent moral in the beautiful Arkansaw nursery tale of

THE BEWITCHED TARRIER.

Sam Johnson was a cullud man, Who lived down in Judee; He owned a rat tan tarrier That stood 'bout one foot three; And the way that critter chawed up rats Was gorjus for to see.

One day this dorg was slumberin'

Behind the kitchen stove, When suddenly a wicked flea-- An ugly little cove-- Commenced upon his faithful back With many jumps to rove.

Then up arose that tarrier, With frenzy in his eye, And waitin' only long enough To make a touchin' cry, Commenced to twist his head around, Most wonderfully spry.

But all in vain; his shape was sich, So awful short and fat-- And though he doubled up hisself, And strained hisself at that, His mouth was half an inch away From where the varmint sat.

The dorg sat up an awful yowl And twisted like an eel, Emitting cries of misery At ev'ry nip he'd feel, And tumblin' down and jumpin' up, And turnin' like a wheel.

But still that most owdacious flea Kept up a constant chaw Just where he couldn't be scratched out By any reach of paw.

But always half an inch beyond His wictim's snappin' jaw.

Sam Johnson heard the noise, and came To save his animile; But when he see the crittur spin-- A barkin' all the while-- He dreaded hiderfobia, And then began to rile.

"The pup is mad enough," says he, And luggin' in his axe, He gev the wretched tarrier A pair of awful cracks, That stretched him out upon the floor, As dead as carpet-tacks.

MORAL.

Take warnin' by this tarrier, Now turned to sa.s.sidge meat; And when misfortin's flea shall come Upon your back to eat, Beware, or you may die because You can't make both ends meet.

The Arkansaw Tract Society put a note at the bottom of this moral lyric, my boy, stating that the "wicked flea here mentioned is the same varmint which is mentioned in Scripture as being so bold; 'the wicked flea, when no man pursueth but the righteous, is as bold as a lion.'"

Speaking of literature, my boy, I am happy to say that the members of the Mackerel Brigade have been inspired to emulate great examples by the biographies of great soldiers which have been sent to the camp for their reading by the thoughtful women of America. For instance, here we have the