our arms is not confined to America. The authentic exponent of the navy of naval England,-"Russell's Army and Navy Gazette," in an article which seems to have the editor's earmarks, speaks of him as "the doughty Admiral whose feats of arms place him at the head of his profession, and certainly constitute him the first naval officer of the day as far as actual reputation, won by skill, courage, and hard fighting goes.' When his biography comes to be written, the public, who now see only high courage and indomitable vigor, rewarded by great and brilliant victories, will recognize the completeness and harmony of a character that has so far appeared to them only in profile. The stainless honor, the straightforward frankness, the vivacity of manner and conversation, the gentleness, the flow of good humor, the cheerful ever-buoyant spirit of the true man: these will be added to the complete education, the thorough seamanship, the careful preparation, the devotion to duty, and lastly, the restless energy, the disdain of obstacles, the impatience of delay or hesitation, the disregard of danger, that stand forth in such prominence in the portrait, deeply engraven on the loyal American heart, of the GREAT ADMIRAL. May he long be preserved, to emulate his own example; to set forth to the youth the model of a true man, an accomplished gentleman, and a brave sailor; and in the fulness of his years and honors to enjoy, in ease and dignity, the gratitude of his countrymen. Young gentlemen: he lived the words of little Nelson: "Fear, Grandmother? I never saw fear!" ΑΝΑ OF THE WAR. PICKINGS AND PICKETINGS. I. "The THE correspondent of a rebel newspaper once wrote: war is a huge frolic to the Yankees. Soldiers and officers are enjoying themselves. They want nothing. There is no sorrow in their camps or longing for home, and a bloody field is looked on joyously as opening the door of promotion.' However this may be, it is very certain that there has long been a wide difference between Rebel and Union camps as regards cheerfulness. The Indian-like gloom, or at least that sullen gravity, which was always peculiar to every Southerner, below the rank of an F. F., has not disappeared in a long and wearying war "where hunger was much more frequent than enough," as a rebel letter once said. It is well worth noting, that, despite all that has been said of "psalm-singing Yan kees" and "canting curs"-and I have before me an article on this very text, from a Southern newspaper-there has always been in our camps much more of that healthy cheerfulness which Confederate writers, oddly enough, claim as one of their own characteristics, than is to be found anywhere among the enemy. What the Union soldier is, " as a general thing," and in his own opinion, has been amusingly set forth in The Crutch, a newspaper published by the patients at the United States General Hospital, Annapolis : "The model American soldier is patient and enduring; likes camp-life; is goodnatured and jolly, and makes fun for his comrades; is always ready for any duty; does all the cooking for his tent-mates and himself; washes a shirt occasionally for tent-mate; has his knapsack always ready to start at a moment's notice; spends all day Sunday cleaning his gun; can eat raw pork on a march; don't drink much water on a march; don't consider it healthy; sleeps with his boots and cap on; carries his pockets full of ammunition; has his tent up and supper cooked just ten minutes after a halt; knows where to find plenty of rail fences; always has plenty of straw to sleep on; don't have a high opinion of officers; wouldn't do any thing for the Colonel if 'twas to save his life; thinks the Major ought to have something to do to prevent him from getting lazy; thinks his Captain a first-rate fellow, and helps to put up his tent; won't stand any nonsense from the Lieutenant; don't like battles better than anybody else, but is ready to do his duty; tries to take care of his health; has re-enlisted, and intends to see the thing through; sends home all his pay; intends to buy land and settle down when the war is over; considers it foolish to get drunk; never spends money at the sutler's; helps the new recruit strap on his knapsack; advises him not to eat much grease; wants him to take care of his health; never gets angry except when talking about rebels; swears a little then; can't help it; is willing to sacrifice his life to put down the rebellion; believes Abe Lincoln an honest man; will vote for him or any other man that will put down this rebellion; thinks army contractors and officers with big salaries have kept the war going too long; is willing to do his duty any way, and hopes, when the war is over, to see Jeff Davis and the Copperheads go to destruction together." "To take it coolly' is an old lesson of soldier life, which was in all probability the test of savoir faire and social supremacy among the camps of the primeval Aryans or antediluvian Celts, as well as with the 'Feds' and Johnny Rebs' of the present day. And they have certainly attained to great excellence in the art. 'I have seen soldiers chase hares,' says the writer of an army letter, and pick blackberries, when a shower of the leaden messengers of death was falling thick and fast around them, and do many other cool and foolish things. But the following, which actually took place at Mine Run, surpasses any thing I remember to have ever seen or heard: One of those biting cold mornings, while the armies of Meade and Lee were staring at each other across the little rivulet known as Mine Run, when moments appeared to be hours and hours days, so near at hand seemed the deadly strife, a solitary sheep leisurely walked along the run on the rebel side. A rebel vidette fired and killed the sheep, and, dropping his gun, advanced to remove the prize. In an instant he was covered by a gun in the hands of a Union vidette, who said: "Divide is the word, or you are a dead Johnny." This proposition was assented to, and there, between the two skirmish lines, Mr. Rebel skinned the sheep, took one half and moved back with it to his post, when his challenger, in turn, dropping his gun, crossed the run, got the other half of the sheep, and resumed the duties of his post, amidst the cheers of his comrades, who expected to help him eat it.'" The old story which attributed to General Putnam extraordinary coolness-in the opinion at least of the British officerbecause he sat at his ease on a barrel of gunpowder with a VOL. III.-2 smoking fuze-but which proved after all to contain mere onions or onion seed, has undoubtedly been re-enacted in more than one form since his day. Since it is so very easy to "make believe," and pass off an empty revolver for a loaded one, as was done by an excellent and pious friend of mine, Captain C -, in the Southwest. Having been ordered to drive in certain pickets, the captain, with a small band, proceeded to "drive"-which he did with such success as to frighten into flight a larger body of men than his own. Unfortunately, his horse was just a little too good," and, excited by the headlong chase, bore him into the centre of the "Johnnies." "I hadn't a shot left in my revolver, but I made the best of things, and riding up to a gentlemanly-looking officer who was somewhat separated from the others, put my pistol in his face, and told him to surrender. He held a carbine in one hand, and his only answer was to begin to search in his pocket for something. He did this twice-when I cried in a great rage: 'Surrender at once, or you're a dead man!' So he surrendered, but when I brought him into camp he remarked: 'It was lucky for you I couldn't find a percussion-cap just when I wanted one.' I replied: 'It was luckier for you that my pistol was not loaded at all.' Our Colonel recognized in him an old friend from New Orleans-so they paroled him." Apropos of minus powder and General Putnam, I find the following: "THPIT ON IT.'-A good story is told of a lisping officer in the army having been victimized by a brother officer (noted for his cool deliberation and strong nerves), and his getting square with him in the following manner. The cool joker, the Captain, was always quizzing the lisping officer, a lieutenant, for his nervous ness. 66.6 'Why,' said he, one day, in the presence of his company, 'nervousness is all nonsense; I tell you, Lieutenant, no brave man will be nervous.' 46 6 ''Well,' inquired his lisping friend, how would you do, thpose a shell with an inch futhe thould drop itthelf into a walled angle, in which you had taken thelter from a company of tharptootherth, and where it wath thertain, if you put your nose, you'd get peppered.' "How?' said the Captain, winking at the circle; 'why take it cool and spit on the fuze.' "The party broke up, and all retired except the patrol. The next morning, a number of soldiers were assembled on the parade and talking in clusters, when along came the lisping lieutenant. Lazily opening his eyes, he remarked: "I want to try an experiment thith morning, and thee how exceedingly cool you can be.' 64 Saying this, he walked deliberately into the Captain's quarters, where a fire was burning on the hearth, and, placing in the hottest centre a powder canister, instantly retreated. There was but one mode of egress from the quarters, and that was upon the parade-ground, the road being built up for defence. The occupant took one look at the canister, comprehended the situation, and in a moment dashed at the door, but it was fastened on the outside. 'Charley, let me out, for your love of me,' shouted the Captain. "Thpit on the canithter!' shouted he, in return. "Not a moment was to be lost. He had first caught up a blanket to cover his egress; but now, dropping it, he raised the window and out he bounded, sans culottes, sans every thing but a very short under-garment; and thus, with hair almost on end, he dashed upon a full parade-ground. The shouts which hailed him called out the whole barracks to see what was the matter, and the dignified Captain pulled a sergeant in front of him to hide himself. 'Why didn't you thpit on it?' inquired the Lieutenant. "Because there were no sharpshooters in front to stop a retreat,' answered the Captain. "All I got to thay, then, ith,' said the Lieutenant, 'that you might thafely have done it, for I'll thware there wasn't a thingle grain of powder in it.' The Captain has never spoken of nervousness since." The coolness acquired in the field, and amid the ups and downs of army life, seldom deserts the veteran, even in the sad trials of the hospital. Those who visit the sick and wounded, occasionally see a flash of fun among all the sad scenes for any wag who has been to the wars seldom loses his humor, although he may have lost all else, save that and honor. Witness the sketch from life of "A little heavy," for which I am indebted to a well-known writer: "C, good soul, after taking all the little comforts he could afford to give to the wounded soldiers, went into the hospital for the fortieth time the other day, with his mite, consisting of several papers of fine-cut chewing-tobacco, Solace for the wounded, as he called it. He came to one bed, where a poor fellow lay cheerfully humming a tune, and studying out faces on the papered wall. Got a fever?' asked C "No,' answered the soldier. "Got a cold?' "Yes, cold-lead-like the d-l!' 444 Where?' "Well, to tell you the truth, it's pretty well scattered. First, there's a bullet in my right arm-they han't dug that out yet. Then there's one near my thigh-it's sticking in yet: one in my leg-hit the bone--that fellow hurts! One through my left hand-that fell out. And I tell you what, friend, with all this lead in me, I feel, gin'rally speaking, a little heavy all over !' "C- lightened his woes with a double quantity of Solace." C was a good fellow, and the soldier deserved his "Solace." Many of them among us are poor indeed. "Boys!" exclaimed a wounded volunteer to two comrades, as they paused the other day before a tobacconist's and examined with the eyes of connoisseurs the brier or bruyère-wood pipes in his window, "Boys! I'd give fifty dollars, if I had it, for four shillins to buy one of them pipes with!" Time was when the hardships of a sailor's life were considered a first-class subject for sympathy. Since those days, we have learned that men may suffer inconceivably more than Jack Tar is ever expected to do, and yet be jolly. Take in illustration a description of "how the soldier sleeps," which to-day is applicable to hundreds of thousands of men: "You would, I think, wonder to see men lie down in the dusty road, under the full noon sun of Tennessee and Alabama, and fall asleep in a minute. I have passed hundreds of such sleepers. A dry spot is a good mattress, the flap of a blanket quite a downy pillow. You would wonder, I think, to see a whole army corps, as I have, without a shred of a tent to bless themselves with, lying anywhere and everywhere in all-night rain, and not a growl or a grumble. I was curious to see whether the pluck and good nature were washed out of them, and so I made my way out of the snug dry quarters I am ashamed to say I occupied, at five in the morning, to see what water had done with them. Nothing! Each soaked blanket hatched out as jolly a fellow as you would wish to see-muddy, dripping, half floundered, forth they came, wringing themselves out as they went, with the look of a troop of 'wet down' roosters in a full rain-storm, plumage at half-mast, but hearts trumps every time. If they swore and some did-it was with a laugh; the sleepy fires were stirred up; then came the coffe, and they were as good as new. Blood is thicker than water." Many of my readers have found, with the writer, that three fence rails constitute an "elegant bed" of a rainy night and that the little incident of a T-rail across and under the small of the back, is not necessarily a cause of grief. Ill-bred horses pawing around a patriot's head, are not to be regarded as either annoying or alarming-not nearly so horrible, in fact, as mosquitos are to those civilians who wonder why soldiers in a chase do not "keep on," after a trifling run of seventy or eighty hours, with nothing to eat, "and less to sleep," as I once heard an old cavalry-ite say. Well-if the war had done nothing else, it would be a blessing for having taught so many young men what they can do. "Hard-tack," or army biscuit, has risen, in ordinary American parlance, to the dignity of an institution-that is to say, it is talked about, and has been joked over, to a degree which would fill many a volume like this, were all the Hard-Tack-iana collected. Perhaps the best unspoken pun-one devised by no human brain, but strangely moulded by nature or chance, once presented itself to me under this popular name for military bread. On breaking open a specimen of the article, I found a large iron tack, which had been baked in, by accident, and was, I need not say, several degrees harder even than the tack in which it was imbedded. A good song, on the hardships of soldier life, setting them forth very much in the spirit in which they are accepted, is the following, which first appeared in the "War Songs for Freemen," edited by that warm friend of the Union, F. J. Child, professor at Cambridge, Mass.: "Would you be a soldier, laddy? Do you like salt-horse and beans? Jolly hard-tack, tack, tack, tack, Do you know what hard-tack means? That's the jolly stuff we soldiers have to crack. |