Chapter XXXIII: 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.

WASHINGTON, D. C., October 26th, 1862.

Early this morning, my boy, I sauntered across the Long Bridge and took my seat upon the topmost rail of a fence enclosing a trampled meadow. There I sat, like Marius, my boy, contemplating the architectural ruin embodied in my Gothic steed, Pegasus, and ever and anon whistling abstractedly to my frescoed dog, Bologna.

By the gods! I really love these dumb friends of mine. The speculative eye of the world sees in poor Pegasus nothing more than an architectural dream--the church architecture of the future--and, I must confess, my boy, that the Gothic charger _does_ look something like a skeleton chapel at a distance; it sees in Bologna only a mongrel cur, whose taste for the calves of human legs is an epicurean outrage on walking society. But for me, my boy, there is a human pathos in the patient fidelity of these zoological curiosities which appeals to my best manhood. I have had a hard and thankless life of it; my experience with the knowing political chaps of the Sixth Ward was enough to grind everything like human tenderness out of my nature, and make me turn into an arrogant and contemptuous misanthrope; but there are times when the cold nose of Pegasus against my cheek, or a wag from that speaking tail of Bologna--which curls up behind him like a note of interrogation, to ask how his master feels--will give me such a sensation of wishing to protect and be kind to the Helpless, that I feel myself a better man for the practical Christianity of such humble society.

There is my mosquito, the youthful Humboldt, too! He came to me one night, about two years ago, my boy, practising much profound strategy to capture my nose; and when I foiled him by a free use of both arms of the service, the unterrified and humming manner in which he changed the base of his operations and came on again, excited my admiration and respect. Catching him in a little net cage made from the musquito bars of my bed, I kept him safely by me, and now use him as a test of human nature. In God's providence, each minute created thing has its appointed use, my boy, and depend upon it, the use of the musquito is to test human nature.

There was a veteran political chap from Albany called upon me last Sunday night. A sage and aged chap of infinite vest, who wears the broad-brimmed hat of reticent respectability, and nestles in much shirt-collar like a centuried owl. Having taken a pinch of snuff after the dirty manner of a Gentleman of the Old School, he merely paused to take a hasty glance at the plan for the next Senatorial election in his note book, and then says he:

"I'm grievously dis'pointed, yea, piteously vexed, to see the partisan spirit raging so furiously in State elections, at a time when an expiring country calls upon all her sons, irrespective of party, to join hands in the great work of saving her. Why cannot these turbulent denouncers of each other be like me, who recognize no division of party in this national crisis? I would have a union of all men to vote for the one great ticket of my choice; and even the democrat I would recognize as a fellow being in such a case."

I suspected this grievous old chap to be a hypocrite, my boy, and I managed to let Humboldt free from his cage for the purpose of testing him. As the aged chap commenced to get warm, Humboldt began to make raids round his sagacious head, and with divers slaps in the air, the aged chap waxed spirited, and says he;

"Pshoo! pshoo!--As I was saying, we should all strive to conciliate our political adversaries--pshoo! and endeavor to promote a spirit of unity even with the most disaffected peace men--pshoo, you beast!--and not act like Greeley and Wendell Phillips, and Beecher--confound it, pshoo!--and other infernal fanatics; who, by their indiscreet, imprudent--curse it, pshoo!--and infernal, God-forsaken niggerism, are wounding the tenderest feelings--thunder and lightning, pshoo!--and rousing the hellish passions of really good democrats, who thereby make capital from their sadly mistaken--blazes and blue lightning, pshoo!--and devilish craziness, which is unfortunately confusing--good heavens, pshoo, pshoo!--and damning their own party, and knocking thunder out of the gubernatorial canvass; besides--besides--"

Here this aged chap made a flying leap at Humboldt, missed his aim, and then dashed madly from the room.

Depend upon it, my boy, a musquito is a great test of human nature. The little chap operates like an outside conscience, and brings the real thing to the surface.

Why does not the Mackerel Brigade advance?

This, my boy, is the question of the hour. For what do our heroes wait? Is it for india-rubbers, or umbrellas, or fine-tooth combs? No! be not deceived: it is for none of these.

Hem! The fact is, my boy, many respectable though married Mackerels entered the army of the Accomac when they were in the prime of life; and as old age steals softly upon them, as the seasons and the bases of operations run through their changes, and year succeeds year, the eye-sight of many of them waxes dim, and fails in the process of Nature. I know some thousands of Mackerels, my boy, who are already so blind that they have not seen a rebel for six months; and hence, no advance-movement can be judiciously made until the brigade is supplied with spectacles. Without these, the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade will not do anything until he gets ready. It was the want of these, as I now discover, that prevented our troops seeing the Southern Confederacy when he made his late raid across Awlkwyet River. Let the spectacles be at once procured, my boy; or an indignant and bleeding nation will at once demand a change in the Cabinet.

Company 3, Regiment 5, is the only Company yet fitted with glasses, and was therefore selected to make a reconnoissance toward Paris, under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, on Tuesday afternoon, for the purpose of discovering whether the Confederacies there were very tired of waiting yet. Glaring through their spectacles, these gallant beings advanced until they met a Parrot shell going the other way, and then returned with hasty discipline, bringing with them a captured contraband, who was so anxious to remain in their company that he actually ran very fast.

Upon regaining the camp in Accomac, my boy, the colonel had the intelligent contraband brought before him, and says he:

"If I mistake not, friend Africa, you were escaping from the bonds of oppression when we took you?"

The intelligent contraband shifted a silver soup-ladle from one pocket to the other, and says he:

"Yes, mars'r colonel, I hab left my ole mars'r for de good of his bressed soul." Here the attached bondman sniffed and shook his head.

"Are you pious?" says Colonel Wobinson, much affected by such an example of humble devotion.

"Yes, mars'r I is dat," says the fond creature, wiping his brow with a silk vest from his dress-coat pocket, "and I wished to save my ole mars'r from de sin of de wicked. I know dat it was wrong for him to own niggas, and dat he was more sinful de more he done it. And I run away, Mars'r Colonel, to save dat ole man's bressum soul from any more dam."

Colonel Wobinson took off his spectacles in order that the steam from his tears might not dim them, and says he:

"I had not looked for this in one so black. Leave those silver spoons with me, friend Africa, and I will send them to my wife. Sergeant, convey this dark being, who has taught us all such a lesson of self-sacrifice, to the chaplain; and tell the chaplain to look out for his pocket."

How beautiful is it, my boy, to see in the uncouth, unlettered slave, a spirit of piety so shiningly practical. When I beheld the brutalized bondman evince such signs of religion, I am reminded of those tender and precocious little babes, who sometimes delight their mothers with exalted utterances of the like, and am inclined to believe that one knows just as much about it as the other does.

It pains me to say, my boy, that Captain Villiam Brown so far forgot himself on Wednesday, upon discovering the non-arrival of the spectacles, that he used language of an incendiary description against the beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade, thereby proving himself to be one of those crazy fanatics who are trying to ruin our distracted country. He said, my boy, that the adored General of the Mackerel Brigade was a dead-beat, and furthermore observed that he would be very sorry to take his word.

Such language could not pass unnoticed, and a Court of Inquiry, composed of Captains Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, and Colonel Wobert Wobinson, was instantly called. The Court had a decanter and tumbler only, to aid its deliberations, it being determined by the War Department that no fact which could be detected even by the aid of a glass, should go uninspected.

Villiam having been summoned to the presence, Samyule declared the Court in session, and says he:

"The sad duty has become ours, to investigate certain charges against a brother in arms which has heretofore been the mirror of chivalry. It is specified against him:

"'_First_--That said Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire, did affirm, declare, avow, testify, and articulate, with his tongue, licker, and organ of speech, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade was a dead-beat.

"'_Second_--That aforesaid Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire, did proclaim, utter, enunciate, fulminate and swear, that he would not take the word of the General of the Mackerel Brigade.'

"What has the culprit to say to these charges? Did he say that our idolized Commander was a dead-beat?"

Villiam smiled calmly, and says he: "The chaste remark exactly fits the orifice of my lips."

"Confine yourself to English," says Colonel Wobinson, majestically. "What do you mean by the observation?"

"Why," says Villiam, pleasantly, "I meant, that before he was beaten he must be dead. And after death, you know," says Villiam, reaching one hand abstractedly toward the decanter, "after death, you know, we must all _b'eaten_ by worms."

This explanation, my boy, was satisfactory, and conveyed a grave moral lesson; but the court felt convinced that the second charge could not be thus simply answered.

Captain Samyule Sa-mith set down the tumbler for a moment, and says he:

"You're not guilty on the first count, Villiam; but didn't you say that you wouldn't take the word of the General of the Mackerel Brigade?"

"Which I did," says Villiam.

"And what excuse have you to offer, my trooper?" says Captain Bob Shorty, pointing the question with his spoon.

"Is the general a gentleman?" says Villiam, searchingly.

The court believed him to be such.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "then if he's a gentleman, he always _keeps_ his word, and of course it is impossible to _take_ it."

Verdict of "not guilty, with a recommendation to mercy."

Courts of Inquiry, my boy, are calculated to draw out the rich humor of military character, and are equally useful and appropriate with all other jokes, in times of devastating war.

Yours, smilingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.