You will observe, my boy, that this same great mathematical idea is advanced in the Message as it is printed; but our Honest Abe has chosen to vary the terms somewhat. If you have a gold dollar, my boy, salt it down for five hundred years, and some future generation of offspring will call you blessed for leaving them $3,250 in postage-stamps.

On my last journey toward Paris, finding the Mackerel Brigade still halting before that ancient city, I rode straight to the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, whom I found making himself a fall overcoat from some old newspapers, while the Chaplain sat near by, making himself a pair of shoes from a remnant of calico.

"Well, paladin," says I to Villiam, "what is it that so long detains our n.o.ble army on the path of conquest?"

Villiam sighed as he used a little more paste to fasten the sleeves of the garment he was constructing, and says he:

"It's the overcoats."

"Why," says I, epigrammatically, "don't they go far enough forward in front?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "they come far enough forward in front, but then they leave the rear exposed. On Monday," says Villiam, reflectively, "Company Three's overcoats arrived, and I requested the warriors to attire themselves after the designs of frequent fashion-plates. But scarce had their manly forms commenced to a.s.sume the garments, when the garments tore frantically from their warlike shapes."

"Hum!" says I, questioningly, "the overcoats were Rebels in disguise."

"No," says Villiam, gloomily, "but it took two Mackerels to hold an overcoat together while another warrior put it on, and when it was b.u.t.toned in front, the rear presented the aspeck of two separate departments. I am now making myself a stronger coat of Democratic newspapers," says Villiam, explainingly, "in order that my Const.i.tution may be protected from harm."

I glanced at him askant, my boy, and says I, innocently, "I see a still better reason for your clothing yourself for battle in newspapers."

"Ah!" says Villiam, complacently, "you think that I adopt the intellectual garment to show that my line of battle is ten cents a line."

"No, my hero," says I, pleasantly, "I think you clothe yourself for battle in printed matter, to make sure that 'he who runs may read.'"

I would not say positively that Villiam "saw" this agreeable remark, my boy. I am not prepared to affirm that he took the hit; but as the canteen left his hand, my ears recognized a hasty whiz, and the effect upon the side of the tent, near my head, was perforating.

Turning from the spot, I next had my attention attracted by a tall whiskered chap, in a paralyzed whirlpool of gray rags, who was closely examining a stack of Mackerel muskets near at hand. Hearing me ask his object, he remarked casually that I was a "mudsill," and says he:

"As the unconquerable Southern Confederacy has a great contempt for the Yankee army, it has sent me here to see whether these muskets are worth taking. If they proved to be worth taking, the war was to continue; if not, I was to offer indirect proposals for peace, as the Sunny South does not wish to protect a struggle that does not pay."

Instead of replying to him, I stepped aside to give place to the Conservative Kentucky chap, who had just been denouncing the Message to the Mackerel Chaplain in the tent, and was greatly outraged by the Chaplain's response.

It seems that he had abruptly addressed the Chaplain, and says he: "If that Message wants to make the n.i.g.g.e.r the equal of the conservative element by implication, I hereby announce that Kentucky considers herself much offended. I fight for that flag," says he, hotly, pointing to the national standard,--"I fight for the stars on that flag, to aid the cause of the white man alone; and with the black man Kentucky will have nothing to do whatever."

The Chaplain looked dreamily at the flag, as it patched the sky above him, and says he:

"For men of your way of thinking, my friend, that banner should bear a sun, rather than the stars."

"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap. "How so?"

"Why," says the Chaplain, gravely, "beneath the stars alone, you cannot tell a black man from a white man. The master and slave of the broad noonday are equals under the stars; for if the sun shines upon the one working that the other may be idle, the gentle planets of the night make master and bondman of one hue and perfect equals in Nature's own Republic,--starry Night. The banner for you, my friend, should bear the sun, to show that it is but for a day."

The conservative Kentucky chap came away swearing, my boy; and hence, it was in no very good humor that he now saluted the Confederate raggedier.

"Hem!" says he, ungraciously, "where did all those rags come from, and what is their name?"

The Confederacy hastily put on a pair of white cotton gloves, and says he:

"Am I addressing the Democratic Organization?"

"You address the large Kentucky branch," says the Conservative chap, pulling out his ruffles.

"Then," says the Confederacy, "I am prepared to make an indirect proposition for peace. My name is Mr. Lamb, by which t.i.tle the Democratic Organization has always known the injured Confederacy, and I propose the following terms: Hostilities shall at once cease, and the two armies be consolidated under the t.i.tle of the Confederate States Forces. The war-debts of the North and South shall be so united that the North may be able to pay them without confusion. An election for a new President shall at once be held, everybody voting save those who have shown animosity to the sunny South. France shall be driven out of Mexico by the consolidated armies, the expense being so managed that the North may pay it without further trouble. Upon these terms, the Confederacy will become a peaceful fellow-man."

"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap, "What you ask is perfectly reasonable. I will consider the matter after the manner of a dispa.s.sionate Democrat, and return you my answer in a few days."

Here I hastily stepped up, and says I, "But are you not going to consult the President at all about it, my Jupiter Tonans?"

"The President? the President?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with a vague look. "Hem!" says he, "I really forgot all about the President!"

The Democratic Organization, my boy, in its zeal to benefit its distracted country, is occasionally like that eminent fire company in the Sixth Ward, which n.o.bly usurped with its hose the terrible business of putting out a large conflagration, and never remembered, until its beautiful machine was all in position, that another company of fellow-firemen had exclusive possession of all the waterworks.

Yours, comparingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER Lx.x.xIV.

PROVING THAT RUSSIA IS INDEED OUR FRIEND; INSTANCING THE TERRIFIC BOMBARDMENT OF PARIS; AND TELLING HOW THE NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE DELIGHTED ALL WITH HIS SURPRISING "SHAPE."

WASHINGTON, D.C., February 2d, 1863.

The sagacious Russian bear, my boy, is found to regard the Eagle of our distracted country with more than his ordinary liking for fancy poultry, and our shattered bird may feel proud of a friendship proffered by such an excellent beast. Truth to tell, the present aspect of our national chicken is not calculated to inspire an idolatrous pa.s.sion in the breast of European zoology. All his tail-feathers have seceded, and are in rebellion against him; and he has got a black eye, my boy, from strategic gambols with the playful Southern Confederacy.

Hence, we should accept the bear's affection as a marvel of disinterested emotion; for I am almost sure, my boy, I am almost sure that nothing handsomer than a bear could have much real love for such a fractured fowl.

A relative of mine, named A. Merry Kerr,[2] went to Russia some time ago, being secretly deputed by Government to expend the amount of his pa.s.sage-money in a judicious manner. He writes to me of his friendly reception by Gorchakoff, and says he:

[2] Excepting Mr. Bayard Taylor, no ordinary traveler ever excited so much wild affection in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of foreign kings and n.o.blemen as this gentleman.

"Mr. Gorchakoff ordered my trunks to be put away under the throne for the time being, and then hastened me to his own private bedroom, whose windows command a full view of all you can see through them. Having brushed me off and kissed me, he ordered some fried candles for two, and then says he:

"How comes on the Union cause, whose pregnant misery on Potomac's sh.o.r.e has caused the heart of the Czar untold anguish? How often has his majesty said to me: 'The North _must_ triumph, Prince; and mark me when I say, that two more centuries will not roll by without witnessing the fall of Richmond.'"

"Sir," says I,--

"'The lightning-motion of the fish, Beneath the sea, will just compare With victory's impulse to our flag,-- That striped ba.s.s of upper air.'

"The North must conquer, you see, Mr. G."

Upon hearing me speak thus, Mr. Gorchakoff laid my head upon his bosom and smoothed my hair, and says he: "Oh, how I love your country! Russia will never join any scheme of foreign intervention against your beautiful fish."

He said this in such a tone of real fondness that tears sprang to my eyes, and says I:

"Heaven bless you, my Muscovy duck!"

"With a look of the deepest tenderness, Mr. Gorchakoff now extended himself at full length upon the top of a bureau near my chair, and allowed his head to hang over in such a manner that he was enabled to press his cheek against mine.