Chapter XXX: Letter XXIII

CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY.

WASHINGTON, D.C., December 20th, 1861.

When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out the azure main, this was her charter, her charter of the land, that Britains never, never, never shall be slaves as long as they have a chance to treat everybody else like niggers. Suffer me also to remark, that, Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep--where she keeps up her neutrality by smuggling contraband Southern confederacies, and swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets overhaul her.

Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States of America, as you will understand from the following Irish Idle which was written

PRO PAT-RIA.

Two Irishmen out of employ,
And out at the elbows as aisily,
Adrift in a grocery-store
Were smoking and taking it lazily.
The one was a broth of a boy,
Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,
His name it was Paddy O'Toole--
The other was Misther McFinnigan.

"I think of enlistin'," says Pat,
"Because do you see what o'clock it is;
There's nothin' adoin' at all
But drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.
It's not until after the war
That business times will begin again,
And fightin's the duty of all"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Bad luck to the rebels, I say,
For kickin' up all of this bobbery,
They call themselves gintlemen, too,
While practin' murder and robbery;
Now if it's gintale for to steal,
And take all your creditors in again,
I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"The spalpeens make bould to remark
Their chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;
And by the same token I think
They're never too smart to be fooled by us.
Now if it's the nagurs they mane
Be chivalry, then it's a sin again
To fight for a cause that is black"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"A nagur's a man, ye may say,
And aiqual to all other Southerners;
But chivalry's made him a brute,
And so he's a monkey to Northerners;
Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,
And look at his singular shin again;
It's not for such gintlemen fight"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"The nagur States wanted a row,
And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!
They've chosen a bed that is hard,
However they shtrive for to cotton it.
I'm thinkin', when winter comes on
They'll all be inclined to come in again;
But then we must bate them at first"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Och hone! but it's hard that a swate
Good-lookin' young chap like myself indade,
Should loose his ten shillins a day
Because of the throuble the South has made:
But that's just the raison, ye see,
Why I should help Union to win again
It's that will bring wages once more"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Joost mind what ould England's about,
A sendin' her throops into Canaday;
And all her ould ships on the coast
Are ripe for some treachery any day.
Now if she should mix in the war--
Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!
_Ould Ireland would have such a chance!_"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"You talk about Irishmen, now,
Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;
But _wait till the Phoenix Brigade
Is called to put down British Royalty_!
It's then with the Stars and the Stripes
All Irishmen here would go in again,
To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,
To think of bould Corcoran leading us
Right into the camp of the bastes
Whose leeches so long have been bleeding us!
The Stars and the Stripes here at home
To Canada's walls we would pin again,
And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"And down at the South, do ye mind,
There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,
Deluded to fight for the wrong
By rebel mis-statements and blustering;
But once let ould England, their foe,
To fight with the Union begin again,
And sure, they'd desert to a man!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"There's niver an Irishmen born,
From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.
But longs for a time and a chance
To fight for this country in Hessian-dom;
And so, if ould England should try
With treacherous friendship to sin again,
They'll all be on one side at once"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"We've brothers in Canada, too--
(And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)--
To say that to Ireland they're true
Is certainly saying the laste of them.
If, bearing our flag at our head,
We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,
They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,
And divil take all who would bother it,
Secession's a nagur so black
The divil himself ought to father it;
Hurroo! for the bould 69th,
That's prisintly bound to go in again;
It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"I'm off right away to enlist,
And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!
To kape me respectably dressed
And furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!
I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,
Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;
You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"--
"You're _right_, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap; but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.

"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in porgies!"

Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose _was_ elected?

The _Neutral Chap_, my boy!

Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him, and says they:

"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"

The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:

"I _was_ neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself, _and went in_."

It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter--they were only known to exclaim--they were barely able to articulate--that neutrality didn't pay.

Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck, until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.

"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he, "and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."

The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a fire--thus:

Nobody hurt on our side.

What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:

"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both numerious and cantankerous."

"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"

"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this time."

"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"

"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire. Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards' range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."

As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips, took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.

Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a quart.

In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle, my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the _Chiar' oscuro_ artist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will probably be ordered for the Capitol.

Yours, for high old art,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.