In October, General Fremont's forming army rendezvoused at the capital of Missouri. From afar, Jefferson City is picturesque; but distance lends enchantment. Close inspection shows it uninviting and rough. The Capitol, upon a frowning hill, is a little suggestive of the sober old State House which overlooks Boston Common. Brick and frame houses enough for a population of three thousand straggle over an area of a mile square, as if they had been tossed up like a peck of apples, and left to come down and locate themselves. Many are half hidden by the locust, ailantus, and arbor-vitæ trees, and the white blossoms of the catalpas.
The war correspondents "smelled the battle from afar off." More than twenty collected two or three weeks before the army started. Some of them were very grave and decorous at home, but here they were like boys let out of school.
They styled themselves the Bohemian Brigade, and exhibited that touch of the vagabond which Irving charitably attributes to all poetic temperaments. They were quartered in a wretched little tavern eminently First Class in its prices. It was very southern in style. A broad balcony in front, over a cool brick pavement; no two rooms upon the same level; no way of getting up stairs except by going out of doors; long, low wings, shooting off in all directions; a gallery in the rear, deeper than the house itself; heavy furniture, from the last generation, with a single modern link in the shape of a piano in the ladies' parlor; leisurely negro waiters, including little boys and girls, standing behind guests at dinner, and waving long wands over the table to disconcert the omnipresent flies; and corn bread, hot biscuits, ham, and excellent coffee. The host and hostess were slaveholders, who said "thar" and "whar," but held that Secessionists were traitors, and that traitors ought to be hung.
An Amused African.
The landlord, who was aged, rheumatic, and half blind, labored under the delusion that he kept the house; but an intelligent and middle-aged slave, yclept John, was the real brain of the establishment.
"John," asked one of the correspondents, "does your master really think he is alive?"
"'Live, sir? I reckon so."
"Why, he has been dead these twenty years. He hobbles around, pretending he exists, just to save funeral expenses."
John's extravagant enjoyment of this sorry jest beggared description. He threw himself on the floor, rolled over and over, and roared with laughter for fifteen minutes. He did not recover his usual gravity for weeks. Again and again, while waiting upon guests, he would see his master coming, and suddenly explode with merriment, to the infinite amazement of the habitués of the house, who suspected that the negro was losing his wits.
Diversions of the Correspondents.