Project Gutenberg's The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. Series 2, by Robert H. Newell This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. Series 2 Author: Robert H. Newell Release Date: December 26, 2010 [EBook #34754] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS, SERIES 2 *** Produced by Chris Curnow, Henry Gardiner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Transcriber's note: The original publication has been replicated faithfully except as listed here. THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS. SECOND SERIES. NEW YORK: Carleton, Publisher, 413 Broadway. (LATE RUDD & CARLETON.) M DCCC LXIII. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862. By GEO. W. CARLETON. In the Clerk's office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS. [p. v] LETTER LIII. NOTING THE LAMENTABLE INCONVENIENCES OF A "PRESS-CENSORSHIP," AND PARTIALLY REVEALING THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDANT ON A MARVELLOUS STRATEGIC CHANGE OF BASE BY THE MACKEREL BRIGADE 9 LETTER LIV. ILLUSTRATING THE DISASTROUS EFFECTS OF STRATEGY UPON NATIONAL LITERATURE, AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE ORIGINAL TALE READ BY OUR CORRESPONDENT BEFORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB 17 LETTER LV. SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE BLACK REPUBLICANS, AND DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE 60 LETTER LVI. WHEREIN ARE PRESENTED SOME FEMININE REFERENCES, AN ANECDOTE BY THE EXECUTIVE, AND CERTAIN NOTES OF A VISIT TO THE FESTIVE SHENANDOAH VALLEY 69 LETTER LVII. SUGGESTING MENTAL RELAXATION FOR A TIME, AND INTRODUCING A FAMILIAR SKETCH OF THE WAR- STRICKEN DRAMA IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS 80 LETTER LVIII. SHOWING HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED AN AFFECTING GENERAL ORDER, EXEMPLIFYING THE BEAUTIES OF A SPADE CAMPAIGN AS EXHIBITED IN STRATEGY HALL, AND CELEBRATING A NOTABLE CASE OF NAVAL STRATEGY 88 LETTER LIX. INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN 97 LETTER LX. REPORTING THE SECOND REGULAR MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AND THE BRITISH MEMBER'S CITATION OF THE ENGLISH POETS 105 LETTER LXI. PORTRAYING A SOCIAL EFFECT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP CURRENCY, DESCRIBING THE GREAT WAR MEETING IN ACCOMAC, RECORDING THE LATEST EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND INTRODUCING A DRAFTING ITEM 118 LETTER LXII. CONTAINING FRESH TRIBUTES OF ADMIRATION TO THE DEVOTED WOMEN OF AMERICA, AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT COLONIZATION SCHEME OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BLACK RACE 128 LETTER LXIII. GIVING A FAMILIAR ZOOLOGICAL ILLUSTRATION OF THE "SITUATION," AND CELEBRATING THE BRILLIANT STRATEGICAL EVACUATION OF PARIS BY THE MACKEREL BRIGADE 138 LETTER LXIV. SHOWING HOW THE CO-MOPOLITANS MET AGAIN, TO BE INTRODUCED TO THE "NEUTRAL BRITISH GENTLEMAN," AND HEAR M. BONBON'S FRENCH STORY 143 LETTER LXV. NOTING THE REMARKABLE RETROGRADE ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE UPON WASHINGTON, AND THE UNSEEMLY RAID OF THE RECKLESS CONFEDERACY 166 LETTER LXVI. IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT ASTONISHES US BY ENGAGING IN SINGLE COMBAT WITH M. MICHELET, AND DEMOLISHING "L'AMOUR" AND "LA FEMME" 174 LETTER LXVII. GIVING ASSURANCE OF THE UNMITIGATED SAFETY OF THE CAPITAL, EXEMPLIFYING COLONEL WOBINSON'S DRAFTING EXPERIENCE, AND NARRATING A GREAT METAPHYSICAL VICTORY 184 LETTER LXVIII. INTRODUCING ONCE MORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, WITH A CURIOUS "LAMENT," AND A STORY FROM THE SPANISH MEMBER 196 LETTER LXIX. ILLUSTRATING THE IMPERTURBABLE CALMNESS OF THE NATIONAL CAPITAL, AND NOTING THE MEMORABLE INVASION OF ACCOMAC 220 LETTER LXX. COMMENCING WITH HISTORICAL REFERENCE; RELATING THE EPISODE OF SPURIOSO GRIMALDI, AND DETAILING THE LAMENTABLE FAILURE OF CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH TO PERISH HEROICALLY 228 LETTER LXXI. SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT AND THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED GREAT EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATIONS, AND HOW THE CHAPLAIN WROTE A RADICAL POEM 238 LETTER LXXII. REPORTING THE LATEST SMALL STORY FROM "HONEST ABE," AND DESCRIBING THE MOST MERCENARY BAYONET CHARGE ON RECORD 250 LETTER LXXIII. MAKING MENTION OF ANOTHER MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AT WHICH THE TURKISH AND RUSSIAN MEMBERS READ THEIR STORIES 260 LETTER LXXIV. CONCERNING THE SERIOUS MISTAKE OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, THE CHAPLAIN'S POETICAL DISCOVERY, THE PROMOTION OF COMMODORE HEAD, AND THE RECEPTION OF THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMATION BY THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY 299 LETTER LXXV. SETTING FORTH THE FALSE AND TRUE ASPECTS OF BEAMING OLD AGE RESPECTIVELY, AND SHOWING HOW THE UNBLUSHING CONFEDERACY MADE ANOTHER RAID 310 LETTER LXXVI. REFERRING TO THE MOSQUITO AS A TEST OF HUMAN NATURE, EXPLAINING THE LONG HALT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND NOTING THE COURT OF INQUIRY ON CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN 320 LETTER LXXVII. SHOWING WHAT EFFECT DEMOCRATIC TRIUMPHS HAVE UPON THE PRESIDENT, NOTING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S STRANGE MISTAKE ABOUT A BRITISH FLAG, AND INDICATING THE STRATEGIC ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE 328 LETTER LXXVIII. IN WHICH THE STORY TOLD BY THE GERMAN MEMBER OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB IS DULY REPORTED 337 LETTER LXXIX. SHOWING HOW THE NATIONAL INSANITARY COMMITTEE MADE A STRANGE BLUNDER; HOW THE BELOVED GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE WAS REMOVED AND EXALTED; AND ENDING WITH AN INFALLIBLE RECIPE 358 THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS. SECOND SERIES. LETTER LIII. NOTING THE LAMENTABLE INCONVENIENCES OF A "PRESS-CENSORSHIP," AND PARTIALLY REVEALING THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDANT ON A MARVELLOUS STRATEGIC CHANGE OF BASE BY THE MACKEREL BRIGADE. Washington, D. C., July 6, 1862. When in the course of human events, my boy, it becomes necessary for a chap of respectable parentage to write a full and graphic account of a great battle, without exasperating the press-censor by naming the locality of the conflict, nor giving the number of the troops engaged, the officers commanding, the movements of the different regiments, the nature of the ground, the time of day, or the result of the struggle; when it becomes necessary for a chap of respectable parentage to do this, my boy, that chap reminds me of a poor chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. The poor chap took daguerreotype-likenesses in high style for low prices, and one day, there came to his third-story Louvre a good-looking young man, dressed in a high botanical vest-pattern and six large-sized breast-pins, and says he to the picture chap, confidentially: "There's a young woman living in Henry-street, which I love, and who admires to see my manly shape; but her paternal father refuses to receive me into the family on account of my low celery. Now," says the breastpin-chap, knowingly, "I will give you just twenty-five dollars if you'll go to that house and take the portrait of that young lady for me, pretending that you have heard of her unearthly charms, and want her picture, to add to the collection shortly to be sent to the Prince of Wales." [p. 9] [p. 10] Having witnessed the worst passions of his landlord that morning, my boy, and received a telegraphic dispatch of immediate importance from his tailor, the artist chap heard about the twenty-five dollar job with a species of deep rapture, and undertook to do the job. He went to the Henry-street palatial mansion with his smallest camera under his arm, and when he got into the parlor he sent for the young lady. But she didn't see it in that light, my boy, and she wouldn't come down. For a moment the poor chap was in a fix; but he was there to take her portrait, or perish in the attempt, and as he saw an oil-painting of the young girl over the mantelpiece, he took that, and skedaddled. The next day the breastpin-chap called at his Louvre again, and says to him: "Have you taken Sary's portrait?" "Yes," says the artist chap, "I took it." "Where is it?" says the breastpin-chap with emotion. "There it is," says the artist-chap, pointing to the oil-painting, with a pleasing expression of countenance. As high art is not appreciated in this country, my boy, a policeman called at the Louvre that afternoon and removed the artist-chap to a place which is so musical that all the windows have bars, and each man carries a stave. As my taste for music is not uncontrollable at present, my boy, and I can't write a full account of a battle, without referring in some degree to the struggle, which we are forbidden to mention, I shall not be particular as to details. I am permitted to say that I went down to Paris with my gothic steed Pegasus on Monday last, and found the Mackerel Brigade coming back across Duck Lake with the frantic intention of changing its base of operations. The Conic Section, my boy, had been ordered to advance and force the Southern Confederacy to compel it to retreat, and the rapidity with which this was accomplished was a brilliant vindication of the consummate strategy of the general of the Mackerel Brigade. I found the general a few miles back of the scene of action issuing orders—for the same, with a little more sugar, and says I: "Well, my indefatigable Napoleon, have you changed your base successfully?" The general smiled like a complacent porpoise, and says he: "We've reached our second base, my friend, being compelled to do so by the treble force of the enemy." I went on to the second base, which I reached just in time to see Captain Villiam Brown, on his geometrical steed Euclid, arresting the flight of Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Samyule Sa-mith. "Samyule! Samyule!" says Villiam, feeling behind him to make sure that his canteen was all right, "is this the way you treat the United States of America at such a critical period in her distracted history?" "I scorn your insinivation," says Samyule, "and repel your observation. I am executing a rapid flank movement according to Hardee." "Ah!" says Villiam, "excuse my flighty remarks. I do not mean to say that you can be frightened," says Villiam, soothingly; "but it's my opinion that your mother was very much annoyed by a large-sized fly just before you were added to the census of the United States of America." Villiam's idea of the connection between cause and effect, my boy, is as clear as a brandy-punch when the sugar settles. The battle now raged in a manner which I am not permitted to describe, with results I am not allowed to communicate. Villiam appeared wherever the fray was the thickest, waving his celebrated sword Escalibar (Anglo-Saxon of crowbar), and encouraging all the faint-hearted ones to get between himself and the blazing Confederacy. Borne a considerable distance backward by the force of circumstances, he had reached a comparatively clear spot in the rear, when he suddenly found himself confronted by Captain Munchausen, of the Southern Confederacy. Captain Munchausen was mounted upon the thinnest excuse for four legs that I ever saw, my boy; and what tempted nature to form such an excuse when the same amount of bone-work would have brought more money, it was not for mortal man to know. "Ha!" says Villiam, hastily reining-up Euclid, and touching his sword Escalibar, ominously, "we meet once more to discuss the great national question of personal carnage." "Sir," says Captain Munchausen, superciliously waving his keen edged poker and drawing his fiery steed up from his knees, "it is my private intention to produce some slaughter in a private family of the name of Brown." Fire flashed from Villiam's eyes, he replaced a small flask in his bosom, and says he: "Come on, and let the fight come off." Then, my boy, commenced a series of equestrian manœuvres calculated to exemplify all the latest improvements in cavalry tactics and patent circusses.—Round and round each other rode the fierce foemen, bobbing convulsively in their saddles like exasperated jumping-jacks, and cutting the atmosphere into minute slices with their deadly blades. Now did the determined Villiam amble sideways toward the rebel, thrusting fiercely at him when only a few yards intervened [p. 11] [p. 12] [p. 13] between them; and anon did the foaming Munchausen wriggle fiercely backward against the haunches of the steed Euclid, slashing right and left with tumultuous perspiration. It was when this thrilling combat was at the hottest that the steed Euclid, being exasperated by a large blue-bottle fly, arose airily to his hind legs, and carried the Union champion right on top of his enemy. Down came the glittering Escalibar on the shoddy helmet of the astonished Munchausen; but the deadly blade was not sharp enough for its purpose, and only caused the foeman to make hasty profane remarks. "Ah!" says Villiam, bitterly, eyeing his sword as Euclid waltzed backward, "I forgot to sharpen my brand after cutting that last plate of smoke-beef." "Surrender!" shouted the unmanly Munchausen, noticing that Villiam was sheathing his blade, and bearing gracefully down upon him in an elaborate equestrian polka. "Never!" says Villiam, drawing his revolver, and firing madly into the setting sun. Swiftly as the lightning flashes did the Confederate champion follow suit with his pistol, sending a bullet horribly whizzing into the nearest tree. "Die!" shouted Villiam, prancing excitedly in all directions, and delivering another shot. Then he gazed upon his revolver with an expression of inexpressible woe. The weapon had deceived him! "Perish!" roared Munchausen, discharging another barrel as he went hopping about. After which, he ground his teeth, and gazed upon his pistol with speechless fury. The weapon had played him false! I was gazing with breathless interest on this desperate encounter, my boy, expecting to see more slaughter, when Captain Munchausen suddenly turned his spirited stallion, and fled frantically from the scene; for he had heard the shouts of the approaching Mackerels, and did not care to be taken just then. "Ha!" says Villiam, gazing severely at Company 3, Regiment 5, as it came pouring forward, "has the Southern Confederacy concluded to submit to the United States of America?" What the answer was, my boy, I am not allowed to say; but you may rest satisfied that a thing has been done which I am not permitted to divulge; and should this lead, as I hope it will, to a movement I am not suffered to make public, it cannot fail to result in a consummation which I am forbidden to make known. But if, on the other hand, the strategic movement which I am not at liberty to describe should be followed by a stroke I am restrained from explaining, you will find that the effect it would not be judicious in me to set forth, will produce a consequence which the War Department denies me the privilege of developing. I was speaking to a New England Congress chap, this morning, concerning the recent events which I am compelled to remain silent about, and, says he: "The proper way to save the Union is to bewilder the rebels by issuing calls for fresh troops at breakfast-time, and countermanding the calls as soon as the coffee comes in. Strategy," says the grave legislative chap, thoughtfully, "is not confined to the tented field; it may be used with good effect by Cabinet ministers; and our recent proposal to reduce the army 150,000 men was a piece of consummate legislative strategy." Legislative strategy is a very good thing to bewilder the rebels, my boy; and if it also bewilders everybody else, the moral effect of the adjournment of Congress will prove rather beneficial than otherwise to our distracted country. Yours, under suppression, Orpheus C. Kerr. LETTER LIV. ILLUSTRATING THE DISASTROUS EFFECTS OF STRATEGY UPON NATIONAL LITERATURE, AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE ORIGINAL TALE READ BY OUR CORRESPONDENT BEFORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB. Washington, D. C., July 9th, 1862. A few weeks ago, my boy, when national strategy seemed rapidly coming to a distinct understanding with the American Eagle, and the fall of Richmond had resolved itself into a mere question of time—as slightly distinguished from Eternity, —I became a member of the Cosmopolitan Club. This club, my boy, is a select draft from the host of clumsy but respectable foreigners now assembled here to criticize the military performances of our distracted country, and I have the honor to represent my native land, solus, in it. Its members are, a civilized Russian chap named Vitchisvitch, a Turk named N. E. Ottoman, an Englishman named Smith- Brown, a Frenchman named Bonbon, a German named Tuyfeldock, a Spaniard and myself. The object of this small international organization, which meets once every three weeks, is to advance the cause of free and easy literature in the lulls of national strife, and preserve coherent ideality and tolerable grammar from falling into disuse. The foreign chaps, my boy, all speak much better English than a majority of our brigadiers; and in order to give [p. 14] [p. 15] [p. 16] [p. 17] [p. 18] a system to our proceedings, it has been resolved, that each of us, in turn, shall relate an old-fashioned story relating to his own particular country; and that all shall take pains to contribute miscellaneous items for the general delectation of the club. The privilege of producing the first story was voted to me, my boy, and at the meeting of the Cosmopolitan last evening, I produced from my pocket a manuscript already secured from me by a wealthy journal (Vanity Fair.—Ed.) for a fabulous sum, and proceeded to regale assembled Europe with A QUARTER OF TWELVE. CHAPTER I.—F. F. VICISSITUDES. The forces of the Southern Confederacy—so called because a majority of them were forced into the service—had just won another glorious victory over their disinclination to retreat, and were rapidly following it up, propelled by the National Army. The richest and best blood of the South was profusely running for the cause to which it was devoted, accompanied by those notable possessors in whose cases it poured in vein. Seated at his breakfast-table in the city of Richmond, with his wife for a vis-a-vis at a board that might well have groaned for more things than one, and his daughter at his right hand, was Mr. Ordeth, a scion of one of those Virginia Families very properly designated as "First" for the reason that no other Families on earth have ever felt inclined to second them in anything. Mr. Ordeth was a personage of fiery and chivalrous visage, from the lower circumference of which depended iron-grey whiskers, so similar in shape to the caudal appendage of a mule, that one might suppose nature to have intended the construction of an asinus domesticus when first she commenced to mould the mortal material, but, having inadvertently planted the tail at the wrong end, was satisfied to finish him off as a man. His hair was too much of a brush in its own character to agree well with an artificial brush in the objective case; he wore a robe de chambre richly illustrated with impossible flowers growing on improbable soil—let us say on holey ground; his nether continuations were spotted here and there with diminutive banners of broadcloth secession, and it was noticeable as he stretched his feet under the table that his slippers had once done duty as crochet watch-cases. The table spread for the morning meal was peculiarly Virginiatic, being very rich in plate and poor in provender; for hoe-cake and fried Carolina potatoes were the only eatables visible, whilst the usual places of coffee-pot, bread-plate and salt-cellar were supplied with cards inscribed: "Coffee $20 per lb., in consequence of Blockade."—"Flour $24 per bbl."—"Salt $25 per lb." If any member of the Family felt inclined to wish for any of these last articles, he, or she, had but to glance at the card substitutes to lose instantaneously all appetite for said articles. There was philosophy in this idea, mon ami. "Libby," said Mr. Ordeth, addressing his daughter, whose auburn curls and pretty face were none the less attractive because they crowned what seemed to be a troubled fountain of extremely loud calico with a dash of moonlight on top —"Libby," said he, "pass me the morning journal." The morning journal, which had recently augmented its value as a family and commercial sheet by coming out on superior wrapping paper, was passed to her father by Libby, she having first satisfied herself, with a sigh of disappointment, that the list of deaths did not contain the name of a single one of her friends. Woman, mon ami, does not regard death as you and I do. To her it is a sleep in which the slumberer himself becomes a dream for the rest of the world; and its announcement is to her the mere evening breeze that softly lifts another leaf in the sacred Volume of Memory, and lets the starlight, falling through a shower of tears, rest on a name henceforth to live immortal in the heart. I was told this by a young lady who wears spectacles and writes for the Boston press. As Mr. Ordeth perused the latest news from the seat of war, his bosom heaved to such an extent that one or two of the pins confining the front of his dressing-gown to his throat gave out. "Honoria," said he, addressing his quiet little wife, who was spasmodically eating and repairing a rent in her dress simultaneously,—"we have again defeated the hordes of Lincoln, and I think, my dear, that we had better get ready to leave Richmond. The Enquirer says: 'Yesterday a half a hundred of our troops were attacked near Fredericksburg by nearly forty thousand Yankees, whom they compelled to retreat after them toward this city. We took four hundred prisoners who will be demanded of the enemy immediately, and all of our men, save the messenger bringing the news, are now briskly pushing forward in the direction of Fort Lafayette.' You see, my dear, we always whip them inland. The Yankees gain all their victories on water." Which is very true; for it is as much a fact that the national troops win their triumphs on water, as it is that the rebels do their best on whiskey. Mrs. Ordeth made no verbal reply to her husband's exultations, but assumed that simpering expression of countenance by which ladies are accustomed to denote their amiable willingness to swallow without question whatever the speaker may say. [p. 19] [p. 20] [p. 21] "Providence is evidently favorable to the South," continued the head of the Family, impressively, "and has thus far treated us in a gentlemanly manner; but should it happen, Honoria, that the Hessian vandals of Lincoln should reach this city, I myself will be the first to fire all I hold dear, rather than let it fall into the hands of the invader. Yes!" exclaimed Mr. Ordeth with enthusiasm, rising from his chair and moving excitedly toward the door of the apartment,—"with my own hands would I apply the torch to you and to my child." "O Victor," said Mrs. Ordeth, with tears springing to her eyes, "I reckon you would." "Aside from the wrongs of the South," continued the inspired Ordeth, pushing his bowie-knife a little further round behind his back, that it might not hurt his hip,—"we have Family losses to avenge. Only yesterday, my uncle was struck at Yorktown with a shell that completely tore his head from his body." "How perfectly absurd!" ejaculated the hitherto silent Libby. "Why it's actually ridiculous," said Mrs. Ordeth. And so it was. The sex have a keen perception of the ludicrous. "How I wish that our vigilants had caught that low-minded Abolition whelp, Peters," continued the Virginian, grinding his teeth; "but he disappeared so suddenly that day, that I was entirely bewildered. To think that the hound—my cousin's son as he is—should dare to demand payment of a bill from a Southern gentleman! He will find congenial souls among Lincoln's hordes, I reckon." The speaker evidently recognized the fact that a man with a bill to collect would derive very little benefit from Southern hoards, at any rate. A close observer might have noticed that Miss Libby's cheeks betrayed the faintest tint of virgin wine at this last speech of her father's; but as it is not my business to inquire the wine wherefore of everything, I shall say no more about that at present. While speaking, the paternal Ordeth had placed his hand unconsciously as it were on the knob of the door; and now, with a sudden movement, he opened the door. Or rather, he simply turned the knob; for the door fairly forced itself open against him, and there unexpectedly tumbled half way into the room a somewhat venerable person from Afric's sunny fountains. From the manner in which this colored person fell across the sill, it was evident that he had been upon his knees the instant before. The ladies uttered little shrieks and then went on with their hoe-cake; but Mr. Ordeth viewed the intruder with a glance of suspicion. "Jocko, you black reskel!" said he, in a suppressed manner, "what are you doing here?" The oppressed African, who, like most slaves was pious, rose to his feet with touching humility, and said he: "Ise watchin', Mars'r, for de Angel of de Lor'." "Oh," returned the haughty Virginian, scorning to show how deeply he was affected, "you're watchin' for that, are you?" "Yes, Mars'r," said the attached slave; "and I hab pray dat my good Mars'r may gib up drinkin' and be one of the good angels too. Oh, Mars'r Ordeth, I hab wrastle much for you in prayer." I know not how that slaveholder's heart was affected by this beautiful instance of his humble bondman's devotion; but I do know, mon ami, that he reached forth his right hand, seized the chattel by the collar, and was heard to carry on a blasphemous conversation with him for the space of fifteen minutes thereafter, in the hall. CHAPTER II.—"ROBERT, ROBERT TOI QUE J'AIME." In a room directly over the one last mentioned—a room whose only furniture was a rude bedstead, a looking-glass with a writing-table under it and a gas-bracket extending half way across it, and a lounge extemporized from three tea-boxes and a quilt—stood Mr. Bob Peters, aged twenty-three, a bachelor and a fellow man. The time was just twenty-four hours after the scene depicted in my first chapter, and as the rays of the sunny Southern sun poured through a window upon the figure of Mr. Bob Peters, they revealed an individual who was evidently unable, just then, to make a raise himself. Robert was a tall, smooth-faced, good-natured-looking youth, wearing a coat that buttoned up to his very chin and was painfully shiney at its various angles, corners, and button-holes; a pair of inexpressibles very roomy and equally glossy about the knees; a brace of carpet slippers, and (although indoors) a hat in a "Marie Stuart" condition. That is to say, the style of hat worn thus inappropriately by Mr. Bob Peters, corresponded to a fashion in vogue with the ladies not long ago, when the latter imagined that a bonnet very much mashed down in front caused each and all of them to present a touching and life-like resemblance to the unfortunate Queen of Scots. In fact, this bonnet did really give them just about such a frightened look as they might be supposed to wear should some modern Elizabeth Tudor order them [p. 22] [p. 23] [p. 24] [p. 25] all to instant execution. Adding to the consideration of Mr. Bob Peters' severely straitened costume the fact that he was smoking an incredibly cheap segar, it is reasonable to infer that he was rather hard-up when awake and not much troubled with soft down when asleep. Viewing Mr. Bob Peters financially and judging him by a golden rule, one could see about him considerable that was due unto others, as each of the others was likely to be dun unto him. "Bless my soul!" soliloquized Mr. Bob Peters, hastily turning from a long and profound contemplation of himself in the mirror and commencing to pace noiselessly up and down the room,—"here's misery! Shut up in the garret of one of the First Families, with a chap thirsting for my blood at the head of the domestic circle down stairs, and the whole Confederacy ready to bolt me without salt—which is very dear here just now. Here's a situation for an unmarried man!" exclaimed Mr. Bob Peters, insanely tearing his "Marie Stuart" from his head and bitterly crunching it in his hand —"confined here as a prisoner by the young woman of my affections to save my life from her own father's sanguinary designs. Upon my soul!" groaned Mr. Bob Peters, drearily slapping his left leg, "it's enough to make me take to drinking, and I—" "Dear Bob!" Were you ever awakened from a horrid nightmare dream of capital punishment and sudden death, mon ami, by the soft, persuasive voice of woman calling you to a breakfast of etherial rolls and new-born eggs? If so, you can understand the feelings of Mr. Peters when these fond words roused him from his terrible reverie. He spun blithely round on his dexter heel, absorbed the faithful Libby to his manly breast, and incontinently kissed for his lips a coating of lustrous bandoline from the head of the fashionable maiden. "Oh bliss!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Peters, standing on one foot by way of intensifying the sensation, "my angel visits me in my dungeon, as angels visited other good men in the Scriptures." "Oh Bob, how you do smell of smoke," said the devoted Libby. "And thanks to your thoughtfulness for the regalias which have so lightened my lonely hours, since the day when you brought me up to this room and then told a virtuous and unsuspecting police that I had fled in the direction of the aurora borealis. By the way Libby," said Mr. Bob Peters, thoughtfully, "my segar-lighters are all out, and if you could make me a few more out of the rest of those Confederate Treasury Notes—" "I will, I will," responded Miss Ordeth, lifting first one white shoulder and then the other, as though she would thereby work down her waist more firmly into the belt formed by Mr. Bob Peters' right arm; "but now, dear Bob, we must think of how you are to be got safely away from this house and out of the city. If my pa should find out that you have been here all this time, when he thought you were running for dear life, he would—I really believe"—said Miss Libby Ordeth, with increasing eyes, "that he would actually apply the torch to me without waiting for the Yankees!" Mr. Bob Peters shuddered and turned pale, barely saving himself from fainting by clasping his companion more tightly and leaning heavily against her lips. The infatuated girl did not see the face peering in through the half open door behind her, as she continued:— "Quarter-past twelve is the hour, Bob, though I can't say on what night it shall be, yet. You must be already to start on any night, and in the meantime our meetings are, if possible, to be continued." "You say that quarter-past twelve is the hour?" observed Mr. Peters, reflectively, patting the head against his shoulder in a somewhat paternal manner. "Yes, dear Bob; and I wish I could be sure of pa's going to bed earlier than that; for I know it will be hard for you to go out into the street at that time of night. You are not accustomed to such late hours at home." And, indeed, he was not; for Mr. Bob Peters' "hours" at home were apt to be considerably later, especially when he went into morning for some dear friend. "Sweet innocence!" exclaimed the young man, much affected by this evidence of thoughtfulness in his behalf, "your kindness almost makes me forget the treatment I have experienced at the hands of your being's author." "I think you can get off next Sunday night," continued Libby, "if brother is sergeant of the guard; for he promised to see that you got across the bridge and past the patrol. Jocko will open the street door for you when you start: and I want you to send me word, if you can, after you get to New-York, what kind of bonnets they're going to wear this summer." "Dear girl!" murmured Bob, fondly, "I'll find out the style and mention it to one of our Generals, who will let you know by note, as soon as he arrives here." "Dear Bob!—but I must go now. Is there anything I can send you to make you more comfortable?" As they stood there facing each other, Mr. Bob Peters closed his right eye for an instant, and suffered the muscles of [p. 26] [p. 27] [p. 28] his month to relax, thereby expressing some want too deep for words. "You shall have it," said the young girl, turning to leave the room. At the door she was met by Jocko, who entered as she passed out, for the ostensible purpose of removing the remains of the captive's recent surreptitious breakfast. The sound of the maiden's light footsteps soon died away in the passage, like the vibrations of a high-strung instrument in a passage of music, and the two men stood alone together. There they were—the White and the Black; the one a freeman in all save being deprived of his liberty; the other a slave in all save being unrestricted of his freedom. Who could tell what was working in the mind of each? Who should draw the line between those men, when all was dark for the white and a luckless wight was the black? Who should say that the white man was anything better than the black man, that the latter should bear the bonds of slavery—bonds as hard to bear even as Confederate bonds? Look at inanimate nature. Is it not the White of an egg that bears the yolk? Then why should the white man turn the yoke altogether over to the black man? But I must refuse to follow out this great metaphysical question any further. The weather is too warm. I will leave it to the Awful and Unfathomable German Mind, which delights to toy heavily with the elephants of Thought. "Mars'r," said Jocko, handing a folded paper to the fugitive prisoner, "dis was gub to me for you by my chile Efrum, dat b'longs to Missus Adams; and I hope, Mas'r, dat you will read um with fear an' trem'lin, for the Lor' is very good to let you lib in your great sins, Mars'r." How beautiful, mon ami, is that strong spirit of piety we often find developed in the uncultivated, like the rich oyster found on the barren sea-shore. Taken in connection with the children of Ham, it is as mustard to a sandwich, for moving us to occasional tears. Mr. Bob Peters waved the faithful black from his presence, and read the note, which ran thus: "Mr. Peters,—Sir:—Though, as a daughter of the Sonny South, I cannot but regard you as a traitor to our country, the memory of past hours in my soul-life induces me to act toward you as a heart-friend. I have heard, through those faithful beings of which your friends would rob and murder us, that you are a prisoner, and will save you. Contrive to get out of the house in some way on Sunday (to-morrow) evening, at a quarter of twelve, and you will find those waiting for you who will deliver you for a time from our vengeance. It is the impulsive heart-throb of a weak woman that bids me do this—not the spirit-aspiration of the Southern daughter. "Eve Adams." Mr. Bob Peters lowered the hand holding the note until it rested heavily on his right knee, and gazed before him, as he sat on his couch, with a puzzled expression of countenance. He had been sitting in this way, perfectly motionless, for five minutes perhaps, when the door was gently pushed open a few inches, a dainty white hand came through the aperture, deposited a mysterious black bottle on the floor very softly, and disappeared as it came. In an instant, Mr. Peters sprang to his feet, dashed the note to the ground, seized the bottle, and immediately applied it to his lips with great enthusiasm. His Mistress had understood that last subtle glance he gave her. With the wonderful insight of man's deeper nature peculiar to girls about eighteen years old, she had divined the one thing required to make the captive comfortable. Oh, woman, woman! In the language of a revised poet— Without the smile from partial beauty won, Ah, what were man!—a world without a son!" CHAPTER III.—THE WIDOW'S MITE. The Adamses resided in one of the aristocratic by ways crossing Main Street, and were directly descended from those distinguished and chivalric anciens pauvres of the Old Dominion, who boasted the blood of the English cavaliers, and were a terror to their foes and creditors. Adams, the husband and father, was a fine specimen of the Southern gentleman in his day, possessing an estate in Louisa County, so completely covered with mortgages that no heir could get to it, and having won great fame by inventing an entirely new and singularly humorous oath for the benefit of a Yankee governess, when that despised hireling presumed to ask for a portion of her last year's salary. He might have lived to a green old age, but for the extraordinary joy he experienced at having negotiated a second mortgage on some property not worth quite half the first, which filled this worthy man with such exceeding great joy, that he drank rather more at a sitting than would start an ordinary hotel-bar, and died soon after of delirium tremens, as such noble and chivalric souls are very apt to do. The family left by the lamented Adams, consisting of a wife and one child—a daughter, at once assumed the most becoming style of mourning, moved in a funeral procession through society for six months, and then resigned themselves to the will of Providence with that beautiful cheerfulness which may either denote a high order of Christianity, or a low order of memory, as the case may be. At the period of which the present veracious history treats, the bereaved mother and daughter were living in subdued [p. 29] [p. 30] [p. 31] [p. 32] style in the locality designated above. Among their most intimate associates were the Ordeths, between whose family and theirs there existed that pleasing and kindly familiarity which permits the most open recognition of mutual virtues in society and the most searching criticism of individual weaknesses at home. The Adamses and Ordeths met at each other's houses with gushes of endearment that edified all beholders; and if Miss Eve said to her mother on their way home from church that Libby Ordeth looked like a perfect fright in that ridiculous new bonnet of hers, it was only because her affectionate heart felt a pang at seeing her bosom-friend appear to less advantage than her own self- sacrificing self. It is a touching peculiarity of this modern friendship, mon ami, that a majority of the errors its fairest votaries detect in each other, are those of the head—not of the heart. Eve Adams, whose diminutive size had given occasion to the mot by which she was denominated the "Widow's Mite," was calling at the Ordeths when Mr. Bob Peters first came in under a flag of truce from Fortress Monroe, and was witness to the chivalric reception accorded to that gentleman by his relatives, before his pecuniary mission was known. In the exuberance of his nature, Mr. Peters had kissed her with the rest of the family, and from the moment of receiving that chaste salutation, Eve had selected the Northern stranger as her hero in that ideal novel of spiritual yellow-covers in which all maidens live, and move and have their beings until stern reality bursts upon them in the shape of a husband or a snub. From thenceforth she was a frequent visitor at the Ordeths, and laid close siege to the gay Robert's heart with all the languishment deemed necessary in such cases, and a tremendous flirtation was going on before the maiden discovered that the affections of the youth were already given to another. Then came a revulsion of feeling, opening the eyes of the Widow's Mite to the fact that Mr. Bob Peters was a thieving abolitionist, unworthy the toleration of any true daughter of the South. After this overpowering revelation, it was the first thought of Eve Adams to at once inform the festive Peters of the utter detestation in which she held him, and a favorable opportunity soon offered. At a social gathering at the Ordeth's, she had withdrawn for a moment to an ante-room, for the purpose of drawing from her bosom an elegant silver snuff-box, dipping therein a small brush, and subsequently applying the same to her pearly teeth, when Mr. Bob Peters entered unannounced, and agreeably demanded a "pinch." The situation was favorable to an avowal of enmity, and a suitable expression was rising to the lips of the maiden, when the thought of a still keener revenge kept her silent, and she contented herself with a temporary sneer and a majestic exit from the apartment. It was soon after this incident that Mr. Bob Peters' presentation to Mr. Ordeth of the bill for furniture which he had been empowered to collect by a New York house, reminded the latter that it was his duty, as a patriot, to sacrifice even his cousin's son for the good of the Confederacy. With the stern self-devotion of an ancient Roman, Mr. Ordeth not only accused his hapless relative of flagrant Abolitionism, but at once made arrangements with the military authorities for that relative's immediate incarceration as an enemy to the Commonwealth. An enemy to the Commonwealth of Virginia must be indeed an unnatural wretch; for no such wealth is known to be in existence just now, and enmity to the dead is a thing inexcusable. It was a crime of which Mr. Bob Peters was incapable; yet would he have suffered for it, had not the devoted Libby concealed him in the hour of danger. Of this concealment, Miss Eve had learned from Efrum, the son of Jocko, though she knew not how long it was to be continued. CHAPTER IV.—"TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE." Several of the Richmond churches were opened that Sunday night, and thither repaired many of the Cottonocracy, devotional children of Bale, to implore Providence in behalf of an army whose heroes have generally appeared, in the eyes of the Federal troops, to be wholly Leave-ites. The recent intelligence of "another confederate victory," at Williamsburg, had added a finishing touch to the panic created by reports of the triumphal retreat from Yorktown previously received, and the fervor of Richmond's piety on that evening was eminently worthy of a city liable at any moment to be cannonized. The reverend clergy of the rebel capital selected their texts from Exodus by instinct, as it were, and proved so conclusively that the Yankee invader was no man, that the listening congregations were impressed with an instructive and repentant sense of their own wickedness, (for they are the wicked who invariably flee when "no man" pursueth,) and several members evinced their new-born disgust at this sinful world by resolutely closing their eyes upon it at once. In his pew sat Mr. Victor E. Ordeth, with his wife and son, the latter a member of the Richmond Home Guard. Stiff and erect he sat, like a solemn note of admiration in a printer's case, ready to be used at the end of any sounding passages, suffering an expression of weighty approval to cross his countenance when the preacher hoped the same planets might not thereafter be destined to shine on the North and the South. And well he might; for there had been something in the late capture of New Orleans and other ports by the Union fleets to impress the Southern mind with no small dread of the North's tar. Libby remained at home under plea of sick-headache; but no sooner were her parents fairly out of the house, than said plea proved to be entirely invalid. At least, the young lady darted to her own private room in a very sprightly manner, brought out from thence a small package, and finally repaired to the apartment wherein Mr. Bob Peters kept solitary vigils and a bright lookout. Before passing in, however, she paused to have a few words with the faithful Jocko, whom [p. 33] [p. 34] [p. 35] [p. 36] she discovered on his knees before the door of the captive's cell, with his right eye slightly to the left of the knob. "Jocko!" she exclaimed, reproachfully, "what are you doing here, you ridiculous thing?" "Miss Libby," said the humble servitor, looming dimly in the shadow of the hall as he slowly arose from his feet, "Ise ben prayin' dat you might become a christian, and one ob these days, when de great Hallelugerum come, hab wings and a harp." Scarcely were these affecting words uttered, when Mr. Peters tore open the door rather disrespectfully, so greatly discomposing the devoted black that the latter incontinently fled. "My dear girl," said Bob, leading his fair visitor into the room, "I'm delighted to see you. The shutters are up, the gas is lit, and I'm prepared to do the sentimental. Oh-um-m—Lubin's Extracts!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Peters. For he had kissed her. "There, dear Robert, don't be so absurd. You know you are going to leave us to-night, and I have brought you—" here Libby blushed with that exquisitely ingenuous emotion which is excited by the consciousness of benefiting one we love —"I have brought you some things that may be of use on your journey. You won't be angry with me for it, will you, dear Bob? There's a smoking cap, and a pair of crochet slippers, and some drawing pencils, and a volume of Tupper." "My darling Libby!" remarked the deeply affected Robert, alighting on those tempting lips once more. "But did you think, love—did you think to put a quart of ice-cream and a few hair-pins in the package?" "Why, no." "Ah, well," said Mr. Bob Peters, abstractedly, "I suppose I can buy them on the road." Silence, disturbed only by the beating of those two hearts, reigned for a few seconds, then— "Bob," said Libby, looking shyly up to him, "we shall be very happy when we are married and live North?" "Yes, indeed," said Bob. "We'll live in such a beautiful house on Fifth Avenue, dear, and have such nice things. Because, you know, you can make so much money by your writings." "Millions! my love," said Mr. Bob Peters, with sudden and wonderful quietude of tone. "When I left New York prose was bringing two dollars for seven pounds in the heavy dailies, and philosophical poetry quoted at six shillings a yard, and no hexameters allowed except for Emerson and Homer. Ah!" said Mr. Peters, his melancholy deepening rapidly to bitterness, "my last poem sickened me. It was called 'Dirge: addressed to a lady after witnessing the Drama of the "Toodles,"' and commenced in this way: 'Not all the artist's pow'r can limn, Nor poet's grander verse disclose, The plaintive charm that ev'ning dim, Imparts unto the dying rose.'" "How pretty!" said Libby. "Yes, my dear," responded Mr. Peters, somewhat gloomily; "but because I used 'dim' to rhyme with 'limn,' all the papers credited it to General Morris." Recollections of this flagrant piece of injustice so affected Mr. Bob Peters, that he smote his breast and called himself a miserable man. "I really don't know but I'd better stay here and be hung like a respectable patriot," murmured the desolated young man. "How absurd!" exclaimed the young lady, "you will be glad enough to get away to-night. Remember, now, you are to start down stairs at quarter-past Twelve, precisely, and Jocko will open the front door for you. Then go straight to the bridge, where you will find my brother, who will get you by the guard." "That reminds me," observed Mr. Peters, "what time is it? I must set my repeater." Libby consulted her watch and answered that it was half-past eight, whereupon Mr. Bob Peters fished from his fob a vast silver conglomeration, and having wound it up with a noise like that of a distant coffee mill, and set it correctly, proceeded to hang it, for convenient reference, upon the gas-branch across the mirror. "Dear Bob, good bye." "Fare thee well, and if for ever, still remember me," responded Mr. Peters, with some vagueness. "We shall meet again?" said Libby, lingering. "If I did not believe it," replied Mr. Bob Peters, with vehemence, "I should at once proceed to kill myself at your feet, covering the walls and furniture of the apartment with my gore." [p. 37] [p. 38] "God bless you, Bob." They parted wiping their mouths. Miss Ordeth went down stairs in tears, had a fit of hysterics on the sofa, and fell asleep with her head in the card basket. CHAPTER V.—BETRAYED INNOCENCE. There he slumbered on that rude lounge, with his head upon his hands and his hands under his head. A man, like you— or me—or any other man. Did you ever notice how you always keep your eyes shut when you are asleep? The lids come down over your orbs, your soul's windows, like night over the sun. You shall have visions of Heaven, or Hades, according to what you had for supper. Lobster salad, or truffles, will act upon a sleeping man's great, dark soul, like one of Page's pictures on the open eye. Make it see light blue landscapes, and pallid faces looking out of pink distances. You think that young man there is sleeping upon a rude couch? No. He is sleeping upon something not palpable to your worldly eyes nor mine; he is sleeping upon an empty stomach. You dare not pity him. His scornful, stern man's soul would wither you if you talked to him of compassion. Such is man. An animal. A worm of the dust. Yet proud. Ha! you know it. You blush for your unworthy thought. Such is woman. Something aroused the sleeper suddenly. It might have been an angel's whisper, or the kiss of an insect. He sprang to his feet, shook himself, and mentally declared that he had come pretty near getting asleep. The idea was rational. "By all that's blue! it can't be, though it is, by Jupiter!" The gas was still burning brightly. Mr. Bob Peters had caught sight of his watch as it was reflected in the mirror, with the hands pointing to a quarter past Twelve. With great rapidity he grasped the repeater, stabb...