  THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.
NEW YORK: Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by Electrotyped by Smith & McDougal, 82 & 84 Beekman Street. Printed by C. S. Westcott & Co., 79 John Street. CONTENTS.
LETTER I. SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT CAME INTO THE WORLD: WITH SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING HIS EARLY CHILDHOOD. Washington, D.C., March 20th, 1861. Judge not by appearances, my boy; for appearances are very deceptive, as the old lady cholerically remarked when one, who was really a virgin on to forty, blushingly informed her that she was "just twenty-five this month." Though you find me in Washington now, I was born of respectable parents, and gave every indication, in my satchel and apron days, of coming to something better than this,—much better, my boy. Slightly northward of the Connecticut river, where a pleasant little conservative village mediates between two opposition hills, you may behold the landscape on which my infantile New England eyes first traced the courses of future railroads. Near the centre of this village in the valley, my boy, and a little back from its principal road, stood the residence of my worthy sire—and a very pretty residence it was. From the frequent addition of a new upper-room here, a new dormer window there, and an innovating skylight elsewhere, the roof of the mansion had gradually assumed an Alpine variety of juts and peaks somewhat confusing to behold. Local tradition related that, on a certain showery occasion, a streak of lightning was seen to descend upon that roof, skip vaguely about from one peak to another, and finally slink ignominiously down the water-pipe, as though utterly disgusted with its own inability to determine, where there are so many, which peak it should particularly perforate. Years afterwards, my boy, this strange tale was told me by a venerable chap of the village, and I might have believed it, had he not outraged the probability of the meteorological narrative with a sequel. "And when that streak came down the pipe," says the aged chap, thoughtfully, "it struck a man who was leaning against the house, ran down to his feet, and went into the ground without hurting him a mite!" With the natural ingenuousness of childhood I closed one eye, my boy, and says I: "Do you mean to tell me, old man, that he was struck by lightning, and yet wasn't hurt?" "Yes," says the venerable chap, abstractedly cutting a small log from the door-frame of the grocery store with his jack-knife; "the streak passed off from him, because he was a conductor." "A conductor?" says I, picking up another stone to throw at the same dog. "Yes," says the chap confidentially, "he was a conductor—on a railroad." The human mind, my boy, when long affected by country air, tends naturally to the marvellous, and affiliates with the German in normal transcendentalism. Such was the house in which I came to life a certain number of years ago, entering the world, like a human exclamation point, between two of the angriest sentences of a September storm, and adding materially to the uproar prevailing at the time. Next to my parents, of whom I shall say little at present, the person I can best remember, as I look back, was our family physician. A very obese man was he, my boy, with certain sweet-oiliness of manner, and never out of patients. I think I can see him still, as he arose from his chair after a profound study of the case before him, and wrote a prescription so circumlocutory in its effect, that it sent a servant half a mile to his friend, the druggist, for articles she might have found in her own kitchen, aqua pumpaginis and sugar being the sole ingredients required. The doctor had started business in our village as a veterinary surgeon, my boy; but, as the entire extent of his practice for six months in that line was a call to mend one of Colt's revolvers, he finally turned his attention to the ailings of his fellows, and wrought many cures with sugar and water Latinized. At first, my father did not patronize the new doctor, having very little faith in the efficacy of sugar and water without the addition of a certain other composite often seen in bottles; but the doctor's neat speech at a Sunday school festival won his heart at last. The festival was held near a series of small waterfalls just out of the village, my boy, and the doctor, who was an invited guest, was called upon for a few appropriate remarks. In compliance with the demand he made a speech of some compass, ending with a peroration that is still quoted in my native place. He pointed impressively to the waterfalls, and says he: "All the works of nature is somewhat beautiful, with a good moral. Even them cataracts," says he, sagely, "have a moral, and seem eternally whispering to the young, that 'Those what err falls'." The effect of this happy illustration was very pleasing, my boy; especially with those who prefer morality to grammar; and after that, the physician had the run of all the pious families—our own included. It was a handsome compliment this worthy man paid me when I was about six months old. Having just received from my father the amount of his last bill, he was complacent to the last degree, and felt inclined to do the handsome thing. He patted my head as I sat upon my mother's lap, and says he: "How beautiful is babes! So small, and yet so much like human beings, only not so large. This boy," says he, fatly, looking down at me, "will make a noise in the world yet. He has a long head, a very long head." "Do you think so?" says my father. "Indeed I do," says the doctor. "The little fellow," says he, in a sudden fit of abstraction, "has a long head, a very long head—and it's as thick as it is long." There was some coolness between the doctor and my father after that, my boy: and, on the following Sunday, my mother refused to look at his wife's new bonnet in church. I might cover many pages with further account of childhood's sunny hours; but enough has been given already to establish the respectability of my birth, despite my present location; and there I let the matter rest, my boy, for the time being. Yours, retrospectively, Orpheus C. Kerr. LETTER II. SHOWING HOW THE WRITER INCREASED IN YEARS AND INDISCRETION, AND HOW HE WAS SAVED FROM MATRIMONY BY THE LAMENTABLE EXAMPLE OF JED SMITH. Washington, D.C., March 25th, 1861. To continue from where I left off, my boy: between the interesting ages of ten and eighteen I went to school at the village academy, working through the English branches and the Accidence, with a lively sense of a preponderance of birch in the former, and occasional class-sickness in the latter. Those were my happiest days, my boy; and as I look back to them now, for a moment all my flippancy leaves me, and I forget that I am an American and a politician. Those dear old days! those short, unreal days! Only long in being long past. It was just after the eternal "Bonus—Bona—Bonum" of the master had ceased to ring in my ears, that I commenced to be a young man. I knew that I was becoming a young man, my boy; for it was then that I began to regard the unmarried women of America with sheepish bashfulness, and stumbled awkwardly as I entered my father's pew in church. Then it was that the sound of a young female giggle threw me into a cold perspiration, and a looking-glass deluded me into gesticulating in solitude before it, and extemporizing the speeches I was to make when called upon to justify the report of fame by admiring populaces. Do you remember the asinine time in your own life, my boy,—do you remember it? I know that you do, my boy, for I can feel your blush on my own cheeks. Of the few women of America who looked upon me with favor, there was one—Ellen—whom I really loved, I think; for of all the girls, the mention of her name, alone, gave me that peculiar feeling in which instinctive impulse blends undefinably and perpetually with a sense of reverent respect; or, rather, with a sense of some unworthiness of self. Ellen died before I had known her a year. I thought afterwards, like any other youngster, that I loved half-a-dozen different girls; but, even in maturer years, second love is a poor imitation. Say what you will about second love, my boy, in the breast of him truly a man, it is but an imperium in imperio—a flower on the grave of the first. There was one young woman of America in our village, my boy, about whom the chaps teased me not a little; and I might, perhaps, have been teased into matrimony, like many another unfortunate, but for the example of a Salsbury chap I met one night in one of the village stores. He was a Yankee chap with much southwestern experience, my boy, and when he heard the lads teasing me about a woman, he hoisted his heels upon the counter, and says he: "Anybody'd think that creation was born with a frock on, to hear the way you younkers talk woman. Darn the she-critters!" says he, shutting his jack-knife with a clash. "I'd rayther be as lonesome as a borryed pup, than see a piece of caliker as big as a pancake. What's wimmen but a tarnation bundle of gammon and petticoats. Powerful! Be you married folks, stranger?" "Not yet," says I. "Don't never be then," says he. "My name's Smith—one of the Smithses down to Salsbury, that's guaranteed to put away as much provender and carry as big a turkey as ever set on critters down in that deestrict. And whilst my name's Smith, there'll never be a younker to call me 'daddy,' ef a gal was to have Jerusalem tantrums after me. You'rn a stranger, and ain't married folks; but I don't mind tellin' ye about a golfired rumpus I got into down in Salsbury when I took to a gal that stuck out all around like a hay-stack, an' was a screamer at choir-meetin' and such like. Her name was Sal Green—one of the Greenses down in Pegtown—and the first time I took a notion to her was down to the old shingle meetin'-house, when Sam Spooner had a buryin'. When the parson gets out a hymn, she straightened up like a rooster at six o'clock of daybreak, and let out a string of screams that set all the babies to yelping as though big pins was goin' clean through their insides. Geewhillikins! how the critter did squawk and squeal, and turn up her eyes like a sick duck in a shower. I was jest fool enough to think it pooty; and when my old man says, says he, 'Jed, you're took all of a heap with that pooty creeter,' I felt as ef chills an' fever was givin' me partikiler agony. Says I, 'She's an armful fur the printze of Wales, and ef that Bob Tompkins don't stop makin' eyes at her over there, I'll give him sech a lacing that he won't comb his hair for six weeks.' "The old man put a chaw into his meat-safe, and shut one eye; and, sez he: 'Jed, you're a fool ef you don't hook that gal's dress fur her before next harvestin'. She's a mighty scrumptious creetur, and just about ripe for the altar. Jest tell her there's more Smithses wanted an' she'll leave the Greenses 'thout a snicker.' I rayther liked the idee: but I told the old man that his punkin-pie was all squash; because it wouldn't do to let on too soon. When the folks was startin' from the church, I went up to Sal, and sez I, 'Miss, I s'pose you wouldn't mind lettin' me see you tu hum.' She blushed like a biled lobster, and sez she: 'I don't know your folks.' I felt sorter streaked; but I gev my collar a hitch, and sez I: 'I'm Mister Smith: one of the Smithses of this deestrict, an' always willin' for a female in distress.' Then she made a curtesy, an' was goin' to say somethin', when Bob Tompkins steps up, and sez he: 'There's a-goin' to be another buryin' in this settlement, ef some folks don't mind their own chores, an' quit foolin' with other folkses company!' This riled me rite up, and sez I: 'There's a feller in this deestrict that hain't had a spell of layin' on his back for some time: but he's in immediate danger of ketchin' the disease bad.' Bob took a squint at the width of my chist, and then he turned to Sal, who was shakin' like a cabbage leaf in a summer gale, and sez he: 'Sal, let's marvel out of bad company before it spiles our morials.' With that he crooked one of his smashin' machines, and Sal was jest hookin' on, when I put the weight of about one hundred pounds under his ear, an' sez I: 'Jest lay there, Bob Tompkins, until your parients comes out to look fur your body.' He went down as ef he'd been took with a suddint desire to examine the roots of the grass, and Sal screamed out that I'd murdered the rantankerous critter. Sez I: 'The tombstun that's fur his head ain't cut yet: but I calkilate it'll be took out of the quarry ef he comes smellin' around my heels ag'in.' Jest as I made this feelin' remark, the varmint began to scratch earth as ef he had a mind to see how it would feel to be on his pins ag'in, and I crooked my elbow to Sal and thought it was about time to marvel. She layed up to me like a pig to a rough post, and we peregrinated along for some distance until we were pretty nigh hum. I was askin' her ef it hurt her much when she sung, an' she was sayin' 'not partikeler,' when all of a suddint somethin' knocked Fourth-o'-July fireworks out of my eyes, and I went to grass with my heels up. It was Bob Tompkins, and sez he: 'Lay there, Mr. Smith, and let us here from you by the next mail.' For a minute, I thought I was bound for glory, but pooty soon I come to my oats, and then I rolled over and seen Bob a-squeezing Sal's hand. All right, my prooshian blue, thinks I, there'll be a 'pothecary's bill for some family in this here deestrict: but I won't say who's to pay it at present. I jest waited to see the feller try to put his nose into Sal's face, and then I stretched to my feet, and sez I: 'This here pasture wants a little mashin' down to make it fruitful, and it's my impreshun that I can do it.' Sal see that I was bound to make somebody smell agony, so she jist ripped away from Bob, and marveled for the house, screaming 'fire,' like a scrumptious fire-department. Bob looked after her for a minit, and then he turned to me, and sez he: 'I hope your folks have got some crape to hum; because there's goin' to be a job fur our wirtuous sexton.' I kinder smiled outer one eye, and sez I: 'When Sal and I is married, we'll drop a tear fur the early decease of an individual who never would hev been born if it hadn't been for your parients.' This riled Bob up awful, and he came right at me, like a mad bull at a red shawl. I felt somethin' drop on the bridge of my nose, and see a hull nest of sky rockets all at onct; but I only keeled for the shake of a tail, and then I piled in like a mad buffalo with the cholic. It was give and take for about five minutes; and, I tell you, Bob played away on my nose like a Trojan. The blood flu some, and I was sorry I hadn't said good-bye to the folks before I left them; but I gave Bob some happy evidences of youthful Christianity around his goggles, and pooty soon he looked as ef he'd been brought up to the charcoal business. We was makin' pooty good time round the lot, when, all of a suddint, Sal came running up with her father and mother; and, sez the old feller: 'Ef you two members of the church don't stop your religious exercises, there'll be some preachin' from the book of John.' "With that, Bob took his paw out of my hair, and sez he: 'Smithses son hit me the first whack.' I jest promenaded up to the old man, and sez I: 'If you'll jest show me a good buryin'-place, I'll take pleasure in makin' a funeral for the Tompkinses.' The old man looked kinder queerious at Sally, and she commenced to snicker; and sez she: 'What are you two fellers rumpussin' about?' I looked lovin' at her, and sez I: 'It's to see who shall hev the pootiest gal of all the Greenses.' When I said this, the old man bust into a larf like a wild hyenner; and the old woman, she put her hands across her stummik and begin to larf like mad, and Sal she snickered right eout in my countenance, and sez she: 'Why, I'm engaged to Sam Slocum!' "Strannger, there's no use of talkin'. My hair riz right up like a blackin'-brush, and Bob's eyes came out like peas out of a yaller pod. There was speechless silence for two minits, and then says Bob: 'There's a couple of golfired fools somewheres in this country, and it's a pity their dads ever seen their mothers.' I see he felt powerful mean, so I walked up to him, and sez I: 'Suppose we go and look for the New Jerusalem?' He jest hooked to my elbow, and without sayin' another word, we marveled for hum. "Sence that, I hain't held no communion with petticoats, and ef I ever get married, you shall hev an invite to the funeral." As I went home that night, my boy, after hearing the story of that rude, unlettered man, I made up my mind to have nothing more to do with the uncertain women of America, until my position should be such that they would not dare to "fool" me. The women of America, my boy, are equally apt at making a fool of a man in his own estimation, and a man of a fool in their own. Yours, for celibacy, Orpheus C. Kerr. LETTER III. OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES OF JOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS THE USUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS. Washington, D.C., March 31st, 1861. As far I can trace back, my boy, we never had a literary character in our family, save a venerable aunt of mine, on my mother's side, who commenced her writing career by refusing to contribute to the Sunday papers, and subsequently won much fame as the authoress of a set of copy-books. When this gifted relative found herself acquiring a reputation, she came in state to visit us, and so disgusted my very practical father by wearing slip-shod gaiters, inking her right hand thumb nail every morning, calling all things by European names, and insisting upon giving our oldest plough horse the romantic and literary title of "Lord Byron," that my exasperated parent incurred a most tremendous prejudice against authorship, my boy, and vowed, when she went away, that he never would invite her presence again. I was only twenty years old at that time, and the novelty of my aunt's conduct had rather an infatuating effect upon me. With that perversity often observable in youngsters before they have seen much of the world, I became deeply interested in my literary relative as soon as my father commenced to speak contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took very little time to invest me with a longing and determination to be a writer. Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently rested my head upon the forefinger of my right hand, with a lofty and abstracted air; assumed an expression of settled and mysterious gloom when at church, and suffered my hair to grow long and uncombed. Speaking of the masculine literary habit of wearing the hair in this way, my boy, I find myself impressed with a profound metaphysical idea. You have probably noticed that writers following this fashion will frequently scratch their heads when inspiration plays the laggard. It is also true that wearers of long and uncombed hair who are not writers, will scratch their heads in the same way, occasionally. The action being the same in both cases, can it be that physiological inspection would develope an affinity between the natural causes thereof? I have often thought of this, my boy,—I've often thought of this. My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardly fail to attract considerable attention in our village, and there were two opinions about me. One was that I had been jilted; the other, that I was about to become a vagabond and an actor. My father inclined to the former, and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointment in the natural way. My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, my boy, when I formed the acquaintance of the editor of the Lily of the Valley, who permitted me to mope in his office now and then, and soothed my literary inflammation by permitting me to write "puffs" for the village milliner. Oh! the fierce and tremendous ecstasy of that moment when I first saw my own words in print, with not more than six typographical errors in each line:—"Quebn Victoria, it is said, is comind to this coontry for the xpress purpose of obtoining one of these beautiful spring bunnets at Madame Smith's." I noticed as I went home on the day of publication, that all whom I passed paused to look after me. I was already famous. The discovery, on reaching our house, that one of my temples was somewhat fingered with printers' ink, did not shake me in this belief, my boy; I was too far gone for that. The editor of the Lily treated me considerately, and even asked me at times to accompany him to the place where he daily sipped inspiration, gaining thereby a fresh flow of ideas and the qualified immortality of certain additional chalk-marks on the back of a door. I refer to a spirituous establishment. Finding that the editorial treasury did not redeem its verbal promissory notes, my boy, the proprietor of this establishment suddenly put forth a new sign, conspicuously reading:— TIMOTHY TROT, LICENSED LIQUOR DEALER, AND Associate Editor of the "Lily of the Valley. The editor went to him, and says he: "What do you mean by this impertinence, Timothy?" The liquor chap stuck his hands into his pockets, my boy, and says he: "If I furnish inspiration for nothing, I may as well have some literary credit. The village swallows what you furnish," says the chap, reasoningly, "and you swallow what I furnish, and so I'm the head editor after all." But he took down the sign, my boy, when the editor dissolved the partnership by paying his score. What are called Spirited Editorials in the New York papers, my boy, very often involve two swallows as well as a spread-eagle. While looking over some old magazines in the Lily office one day, I found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing even as a Distinctively American Poem sui generis, had not yet been produced. This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee blood, my boy, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only distinctively American, but of such a character that only America could have produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the aboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the Lily of the Valley contained my distinctive American poem of THE AMERICAN TRAVELER. To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain. "I am a traveler," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four." He took a tavern bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there—quite tired of Maine— He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken. Then, via Nine Holes and Goose Green, He traveled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down, To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town. At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came, And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest game. Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent. From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gained, he left the State And took a southward way. North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight. Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too, Good provender he found. The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem, That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream. But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wond'ring tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill. At Tear Shirt too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near. But spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore, That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine, straightway, A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook. In his note, introductory of this poem, my boy, the editor of the Lily affirmed (which is strictly true) that I had named none but veritable localities; and ventured the belief that the composition would remind his readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpion contemporary in the next village observed, that there was rather more smith than gold about the poem. Genius, my boy, is never appreciated until its possessor is dead; and even the useless praise it then obtains is chiefly due to the pleasure that is experienced in burying the poor wretch. Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded in concealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; but now he must know all. He did know all, my boy; and the result was, that he gave me ten dollars, and sent me to New York to look out for myself. "It's the only thing that will save him," says he to my mother, "and I must either send him off, or expect to see him sink by degrees to editorship, and commence to wear disgraceful clothes." I went to New York; I became private secretary and speech-scribe to an unscrupulous and, therefore, rising politician; and now—I am in Washington. Thus, my boy, have I answered your desire for an outline of my personal history; and henceforth let me devote my attention to other and more important inhabitants of our distracted country. I had a certain postmastership in my eye when I first came hither; but war's alarms indicate that I may do better as an amateur hero. Yours inconoclastically, Orpheus C. Kerr. LETTER IV. DESCRIBING THE SOUTH IN TWELVE LINES, DEFINING THE CITIZEN'S FIRST DUTY, AND RECITING A PARODY. Washington, D.C., April —, 1861. The chivalrous South, my boy, has taken Fort Sumter, and only wants to be "let alone." Some things of a Southern sort I like, my boy; Southdown mutton is fit for the gods, and Southside particular is liquid sunshine for the heart; but the whole country was growing tired of new South wails before this, and my present comprehensive estimate of all there is of Dixie may be summed up in twelve straight lines, under the general heading of |
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