Letter XLIII Concerning Martial Literature: Introducing a Didactic Poem by the “Arkansaw Tract Society,” and a Biography of Garibaldi for the Soldier
Washington, D.C., May 7th, 1862.
Southern religious literature, my boy, is admirably calculated to improve the morals of race-courses, and render dog-fights the instruments of wholesome spiritual culture.
On the person of a high-minded Southern Confederacy captured the other day by the Mackerel pickets, I found a moral work which had been issued by the Arkansaw Tract Society for the diffusion of religious thoughts in the camp, and was much improved by reading it. The pure-minded Arkansaw chap who got it up, my boy, remarked in pallid print, that every man “should extract a wholesome moral from everything whatsomedever,” and then went on to say that there was an excellent moral in the beautiful Arkansaw nursery tale of
THE BEWITCHED TARRIER.
Sam Johnson was a cullud man,
Who lived down in Judee;
He owned a rat tan tarrier
That stood ’bout one foot three;
And the way that critter chawed up rats
Was gorjus for to see.
One day this dorg was slumberin’
Behind the kitchen stove,
When suddenly a wicked flea—
An ugly little cove—
Commenced upon his faithful back
With many jumps to rove.
Then up arose that tarrier,
With frenzy in his eye,
And waitin’ only long enough
To make a touchin’ cry,
Commenced to twist his head around,
Most wonderfully spry.
But all in vain; his shape was sich,
So awful short and fat—
And though he doubled up hisself,
And strained hisself at that,
His mouth was half an inch away
From where the varmint sat.
The dorg sat up an awful yowl
And twisted like an eel,
Emitting cries of misery
At ev’ry nip he’d feel,
And tumblin’ down and jumpin’ up,
And turnin’ like a wheel.
But still that most owdacious flea
Kept up a constant chaw
Just where he couldn’t be scratched out
By any reach of paw.
But always half an inch beyond
His wictim’s snappin’ jaw.
Sam Johnson heard the noise, and came
To save his animile;
But when he see the crittur spin—
A barkin’ all the while—
He dreaded hiderfobia,
And then began to rile.
“The pup is mad enough,” says he,
And luggin’ in his axe,
He gev the wretched tarrier
A pair of awful cracks,
That stretched him out upon the floor,
As dead as carpet-tacks.
moral.
Take warnin’ by this tarrier,
Now turned to sassidge meat;
And when misfortin’s flea shall come
Upon your back to eat,
Beware, or you may die because
You can’t make both ends meet.
The Arkansaw Tract Society put a note at the bottom of this moral lyric, my boy, stating that the “wicked flea here mentioned is the same varmint which is mentioned in Scripture as being so bold; ‘the wicked flea, when no man pursueth but the righteous, is as bold as a lion.’”
Speaking of literature, my boy, I am happy to say that the members of the Mackerel Brigade have been inspired to emulate great examples by the biographies of great soldiers which have been sent to the camp for their reading by the thoughtful women of America. For instance, here we have the
LIFE OF GENERAL GARIBALDI.
BY THE NOBLEST RUM ’UN OF THE MALL.
CHAPTER I.
HIS BIRTH.
At that period of the world’s history when the Past immediately preceded the Present, and the Future was yet to come, there existed in a small town of which the houses formed a part, a rich but respectable couple. Owing to a combination of circumstances, their first son was a boy of the male gender, who inherited the name of his parents from the moment of his birth, and who is the subject of our story. When he was about five hours old, his male parent said to him:
“My boy, do you know me?”
In an instant the eyes of the child flashed Jersey lightning, he ceased sucking his little fistesses, his hair would have stood on end if there had been any on his head, and he exclaimed in tones of thunder-r-r:
“Viva Liberte et Maccaroni!”
Mr. Garibaldi instantly clasped the little cherubim to his stomach, while Mrs. Garibaldi waved the tri-colored flag above them both, and requested the chambermaid to bring her a little more of that same burning-fluid, with plenty of sugar in it.
Thus was Garibaldi ushered into the world; and the burning fluid is for sale by all respectable druggists and grocers throughout the country, with S. O. P. on the wrapper.
CHAPTER II.
HIS EDUCATION.
On arriving at years of indiscretion, our hero began to display a tendency to “seven-up,” Old Sledge, and other card-inal virtues, calculated to fit him for playing his cards right in future years. Just about this time, too, his parents resolved to send him to school, and it is as the young scholar we must now regard him.
Behold him, then, at his tasks, in a red shirt amputated at the neck, and two yellow patches (the badge of Sardinia) flaming from the background of his seat of learning. He readily mastered the Greek verbs and roots, comprehended liquorice root, studied geography, etymology, sycorax, and mahogany; could decline to conjugate the verb toby, and quickly knew enough about algebra to prove that X plus Y, not being equal to Z, is minus any dinner at noon, and plus one of the tightest applications of birch that ever produced the illusion of a red-hot stove in immediate contact with the human body.
CHAPTER III.
GARIBALDI GOES TO SEA.
Just before the breaking-out of the rebellion at Rome, the trade in garlic and domestic fleas took a sudden start, and the Po was crowded with vessels of all nations—especially the halluci-nations. One day, young Garibaldi was in the act of stabbing a barrel of molasses to the heart with a quill, on Pier 4, P. R. (Po River), when he was descried by the captain of a fishing-smack, detailed by Government to watch the motions of the English fleet.
“Boy, ahoy!” says the Captain.
The future liberator of Italy dropped his murderous quill, wiped his nose with a pine shaving, and answered, in trumpet-tones:
“You’re another!”
So delighted was the captain with this noble reply, that he flogged the whole starboard watch at the gunwales, ordered a preventer backstay on the kedge-anchor, leaped ashore to where Garibaldi was standing, and offered to make him familiar with the seas, and a second Cæsar. Garibaldi replied that he had already been half-seas over, but would not object to another cruise. He said he had traveled half-seas over, “on his face,” and would now travel the other half on a vessel. He went. The vessel proved to be a vessel of wrath, and Garibaldi became so familiar with the cat-o-nine-tails, that he soon mused upon a plan for deserting the ship.
CHAPTER IV.
HE FIGHTS FOR ROME.
All seas are liable to commotions, hence it is not strange that the Holy See encountered a storm about the time that it occurred. For some weeks, certain pure spirits had been fomenting the small beer of civil war, and in spite of vaticanation, it broke out at last, and was a rash proceeding. Garibaldi was sent for by the Goddess of Liberty to lead the insurrectionary forces, while the liberty of the goddess was endangered by the leadership of the commander of the French troops aiding the Pope. Our hero had but a handful of patriots on hand and on foot to fight with him; but he determined to struggle to the last and perish in the attempt, even though he should lose his life by it. The Frenchman had an immense array of tried soldiers on the qui vive and on horseback; but Garibaldi was not dismayed, and kept his courage up to the “sticking” point by hoping for aid. Alas! the only aid they received was lemonade and cannonade—but not a brigade. They fought with the French, and were whipped like blazes. Hinc illa slacryma!
CHAPTER V.
GARIBALDI IN AMERICA.
After wandering about Italy as an exile for some months, the bold patriot came to America and opened a cigar shop. The writer remembers entering his shop one day to purchase a genuine meerschaum, and discovering, afterwards, that it was made of plaster of Paris, and smelt—when heated—like ancient sour-krout flavored with lamp-oil. Garibaldi also sold the finest Habana cigars ever made on Staten Island, one brand of which was so strong in its integrity that it once defeated dishonesty, thus:
One night, while Garibaldi was praying for his beloved Italy, at the house of a friend, a burglar broke into his store, with the intention of robbing it. The scoundrel broke open the till, took out all the city money (he refused to take anything but current funds), and then broke open a box of the cigars strong in their integrity, intending to have a quiet smoke before he left. Alas! for him.
When Garibaldi opened the store in the morning, he found the burglar laying on his back, with a cigar in his mouth, and too weak to move! In the attempt to smoke the cigar, he had drawn his back bone clear through until it caught on his breast bone, and the back of his head was just breaking through the roof of his mouth, when the patriot found him. He was taken to the police-office, and discharged by the first alderman that came along. Such is life!
When the Emperor of France commenced his war with Austria, Garibaldi suddenly appeared at one of the elbows of the Mincio, and having passed around the Great Quadrilateral, headed a select body of Alpine shepherds, and charged the Austrians more than they could pay. All the world knows how that war ended. The emperors of France and Austria signed a treaty by which each was compelled to go back to his own country, tell his subjects that it was “all right,” and set all the wise men of the nation to discover what he had been fighting about. Sardinia was not asked to give an opinion. About this time Garibaldi was left out in the cold.
CHAPTER VI.
OUR HERO IN SICILY.
As we look abroad upon the vast nations of the earth, and remember that if they were all destroyed, not one of them would be left, the mind involuntarily conceives an idea, and becomes conscious of the pregnant fact, that “what is to be will be, as what has been, was.” So when we look upon families, the thought forces itself upon us that if there were no births there would be no children: without fathers there could be no mothers; and if the entire household should be swept away by disease, they would cease to live. So it is also, when we look upon an individual. Our intellect tells us that if he dies in infancy he will not live to be a man; and if he never does anything, he will surely do nothing.
This metaphysical line of thought is particularly natural in the case of Garibaldi. Look at him as he now stands, with one foot on Sicily and the other in a boot. Had he not been educated, he would have been uneducated; had he not gone to sea he would never have been a sailor; had he not fought for Rome, he would have laid down arms in her cause; were he not now fighting for Italian independence, he would be otherwise engaged!
Thus the aspect presented by Garibaldi throughout his career, leads our thoughts into all the deep meanderings of the German mind, and teaches us to perceive that “whatever is, is right,” as whatever is not, is wrong.
Enraged at the impotent conclusion of the French-and-Austrian war, Garibaldi determined to prosecute hostilities on his own individual curve. In consequence of the high price of ferriage on the Mincio, he moved down toward Palermo, and there called to his standard all Italians favorable to the immediate emancipation of Sicily and the removal of all duties on Maccaroni. Immediately the wildest enthusiasm raged among the friends of freedom. Six patriots attacked the fortress of Messalina, and were immediately placed in prison, with chains around their necks, and Tupper’s poems in their pockets.
By degrees, Garibaldi made ready to capture Palermo; he laid in a stock of cannon and woolen stockings, he harangued his warriors, and told them the day was theirs if they won it; he invited all the reporters to a banquet. Then he went and took Palermo.
How did he take it?
I know not; there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in ordinary philosophy: all I know is, that he took Palermo.
Having brought my history down to this point, I deem it proper to pause in my task until the future shall have revealed what takes place hereafter; and the past shall have ceased to interfere so outrageously with the present, that its limits can only be distinguished through the bottom of a tumbler. Liberty is the normal condition of the Italian, and while Garibaldi leads, the cry will be: “Liberty or death, with a preference for the former.” Already the day-star of freedom gilds the horizon of beautiful Naples, and if it should not happen to be proved a comet by some evil-minded astronomer, Italy may yet be as free as New York itself, and pay a war-tax of not more than some millions a year.
This finely-written life of the great Italian patriot had such an effect upon the Mackerels, my boy, that they all wished to live like Garibaldi—hence, they are in no hurry to die for their country.
Lives of great men all remind us, my boy, that we may make our lives sublime; but I never read one yet, that gave instructions for making our deaths sublime—to ourselves.
Yours, for continued respiration,
Orpheus C. Kerr.