Chapter LXV: Letter LII

DESCRIBING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLE POPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH IN DYING.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 25th, 1862.

How beautiful is Old Age, my boy, when it neither drinks nor swears. There is an oily and beneficent dignity about fat Old Age which overwhelms us with a sense of our crime in being guilty of youth. I have at last been introduced to the Venerable Gammon, who is all the time saying things; and he is a luscious example of overpowering Old Age. He is fat and gliding, my boy, with a face that looks like a full moon coming out of a sheepskin, and a dress indicating that he may be anything from a Revolutionary Forefather to the patriarch of all the Grace Church sextons. I can't find out that he ever did anything, my boy, and no one can tell why it is that he should treat everybody in office and out of it in such a fatherly and fatly condescending manner; but the people fairly idolize him, my boy, and he is all the time saying things.

When I was introduced to the Venerable Gammon he was beaming benignantly on a throng of adoring statesmen in the lobby of Congress, and I soon discovered that he was saying things.

"Men tell us that this war has only just commenced," says the Venerable Gammon with fat profundity, "but they are wrong. _War is like a stick, which has two ends--the end nearest you being the_ BEGINNING."

Then each statesman wanted the Venerable Gammon to use _his_ pocket-handkerchief; and five-and-twenty desperate reporters tore passionately away to the telegraph office to flash far and wide the comforting remarks of the Venerable Gammon.

Are we a race of unsuspecting innocents, my boy, and are we easily imposed upon by shirt-ruffles and oily magnitude of manner? I believe so, my boy--I believe so.

Speaking of Congress; I attended one of its sittings the other day, my boy, and was deeply edified to observe its manner of legislating for our happy but distracted country.

The "Honorable Speaker" (_ne_ Grow) occupied the Chair.

Mr. PODGERS (republican, Mass.) desired to know if the tax upon Young Hyson is not to be moderated? Speaking for his constituents he would say that the present rate was entirely too high to suit any grocer--

Mr. STAGGERS (conservative, Border State) wished to know whether this body intended to legislate for white men or niggers? His friend, the pusillanimous scoundrel from Massachusetts, chose to oppose the tax on Young Hyson because--to use his own words--it would not "suit a negro, sir--"

Mr. PODGERS thought his friend from the Border State was too hasty. The phrase he used was "_any grocer_."

Mr. STAGGERS withdrew his previous remark. We were fighting this war to secure the Constitution and the pursuit of happiness to the misguided South, and he accepted his friend's apology.

Mr. FIGGINS (democrat, New Jersey) said that he could not but notice that everything all the Honorable gentlemen had said during this session was a fatal heresy, destructive of all Government, degrading to the species, and an insult to the common sense of his (Figgins') constituents. His constituents demanded that Congress should set the country at rights before Europe. It would appear that at the least imperious sign from Europe, the American knee grows--

Mr. JUGGLES (con., Border State) desired to inquire of the House whether the great struggle in which we are now engaged is for the benefit of the Caucasian race or the debased African? His friend, the puling idiot from New Jersey, had seen fit to remark that the American negroes--

Mr. FIGGINS denied that he had spoken at all of negroes. He was about to say, that at the slightest behest of Europe "the _American knee grows flexible to bend_."

Mr. JUGGLES wished it to be understood that he was satisfied with his Honorable friend's explanation. He would take something with the Honorable Gentleman immediately after adjournment.

Mr. CHUNKY (rep., New Hampshire) was anxious to inquire whether it was true, as stated in the daily papers, that General McDowell had been ordered to imprison all the Union men within his lines on suspicion of their being Secessionists, and place a guard over the property of the Secessionists, on suspicion of their being Union men? If so, he would warn the Administration that it was cherishing a viper which would sting it:

"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,
May wound you with its thorn,
And--"

Mr. WADDLES (Union, Border State) protested against the decency of a Constitutional body like Congress being insulted with the infamous and seditious abolition doggerel just quoted by his friend, the despicable incendiary from New Hampshire. We were waging this war solely to put down treason, and not to hear a rose, the fairest of flowers, mentioned in the same breath with the filthy colored man--

Mr. CHUNKY was sorry to observe that his Honorable friend had misunderstood his language. The line he had used was simply this:

"The rose you deftly _cull-ed, man_."

Mr. WADDLES was glad that his valued friend from New Hampshire had apologized. He had only taken exception to what he considered a fatal heresy.

That was enough for me, my boy, and I left the hall of legislation; for I sometimes become a little wearied when I hear too much of one thing, my boy.

I mentioned my impression to the Venerable Gammon, and says he:

"Congress is the soul of the nation. Congress," says the Venerable Gammon, with fat benignity, "_is something like a wheel, whose spokes tend to tire_."

He said this remarkable thing in an overtowering way, my boy, and I felt myself to be a crushed infant before him.

Early in the week, I took my usual trip to Paris, and found Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, making an advance from the further shore of Duck Lake, for sanitary reasons. It was believed to be detrimental to the health of the gay Mackerels to be so near a body of pure water, my boy, for they were not accustomed to the element.

"Thunder!" says the general, brushing off a small bit of ice that had adhered to his nose, "they'll be drinking it next."

Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to command the advance; but when he heard that the Southern Confederacy had two swivels over there, he was suddenly taken very sick, and cultivated his bed-clothes.

When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer got abroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprising civilian chaps to his bedside.

One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating and affectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:

"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertising mejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires," says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form and send it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising young man."

I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found it to read thus:

"BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE ----.

"This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his
---- (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at ----
on the ---- day of ----, 1776, and entered West Point in his ----
year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign,
and was created brigadier-general on the -- of ----, 1862."

These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't entirely fill this one up.

Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:

"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks, and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains. Works of a Union Martyr--Eloquent Writings of a Hero--Should be in every American Library--Take it home to your wife--Twenty editions ordered in advance of publication--Half-calf, $1.--Send in your orders."

Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he:

"I never wrote anything in my life."

"Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do--your early poems in the weekly journals--anything."

"But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaper in all my life."

"What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek--"never wrote a line to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us, suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily.

Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyule went on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chap from New York. Says the chap to me:

"My name is Brown--Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Of course," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected to the memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on a pedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "I will give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on the panel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get up something neat and appropriate, thus:

WE MUST ALL DIE;

BUT

BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST]

"There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be very neat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being."

I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excited him so that he regained his health.

"If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertising cuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until next season."

And he got well, my boy--he got well.

I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says the chaplain:

"I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule was at the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof of realizing his critical condition."

"How?" says I, skeptically.

"Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told our beloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, and asked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make his passage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to see that he was buried _with a fan in his hand_."

Can it be, my boy, that the soul of a Mackerel will need a fan in another world? Let us meditate upon this, my boy--let us meditate upon this!

Yours, seriously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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