Chapter XXI: Letter XIV

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY, AFTER THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY.

WASHINGTON, D.C., September 30th, 1861.

Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets and other long-haired creatures suppose to be eternally flapping through the imaginary atmosphere of time; yet the high old battle so long expected has not got any further than "heavy firing near the Chain Bridge," which takes place every afternoon punctually at three o'clock--just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of Chain Bridge lasts a few years longer, it will finally become a nuisance to the First Families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be heavy firing is not that exactly; the other day, a series of loud explosions were heard on Arlington Heights, and twenty-four reporters immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon, and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal loss--one killed, and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan came to inquire into the cause of the explosions, this report was somewhat modified:

"What was that firing for?" he asked an orderly, who had just come over the river.

"If you please, sir," responded the sagacious animal, "there was no firing at all. It was Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way."

Villiam has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be made.

Last night, my boy, an old rooster from Cattaraugus, who wants a one-horse post-office, and thinks I've got some influence with Abe the Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me; and, as soon I opened the window to damn them, he called unanimously for a speech. At this time, my boy, an immense crowd, consisting of two policemen and a hackman, were drawn to the spot, and greeted me with great applause. Feeling that their intentions were honorable, I could not bear to disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the following

SPEECH.

_Men of America_:--It is with feelings akin to emotion that I
regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that
it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty.
Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:

"The night shall be filled with burglars,
And the chaps that infest the day
Shall pack up their duds like peddlers,
And carry the spoons away."

It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise
large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and
immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign
shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene
was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary
pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do
I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and
other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that

"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,
The immortal ears of jack are hers;
But Sarah languishes in pain
And dyes, amid her worshipers."

I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is
no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful
termination without some action on the part of the Government. If
to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is
abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good
article of black ink can be made out of black men, is
republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now,
except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I
pronounce him an accursed secessionist:

"How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gathers beeswax all the day,
From every opening flower."

Men of America, shall these things longer be?--I address myself
particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't
understand a word of English--shall these things longer be? That's
what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for
an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it.
Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason
at our very hearthstones. Treason--merciful Heavens!

"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,
The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;
I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."

And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit
to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer
this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I
might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about
tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of
three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each
man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I
am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other
words:

"The minstrel returned from the war,
With insects at large in his hair,
And having a tuneful catarrh,
He sung through his nose to his fair."

Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors,
who forget the words of Jackson--words, let me add, which I myself
do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled
cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that
Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new
song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are
overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds,
which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can
express the horrors of such unnatural crime?

"Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber's chains have bound me,
Soft Mary brings a light,
And puts a shawl around me."

Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at
present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An
Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the
man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves
with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the
insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be
when I am a well-red man?"

And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I
am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,

"Let us then be up and wooing,
With a heart for any mate,
Still proposing, still pursuing,
Learn to court her, and to wait."

At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon by a young man, who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry; he had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash.

Yours, particularly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.