I was very busy during the first six months of 1863. I wrote a work entitled “The Art of Conversation, or Hints for Self-Education,” which was at once accepted and published by Carleton, of New York. It had, I am assured, a very large sale indeed. I also wrote and illustrated, with the aid of my brother, a very eccentric pamphlet, “The Book of Copperheads.” When Abraham Lincoln died two books
were found in his desk. One was the “Letters of Petroleum V. Nasby,” by Dr. R. Locke, and my “Book of Copperheads,” which latter was sent to me to see and return. It was much thumbed, showing that it had been thoroughly read by Father Abraham.
I also translated Heine’s “Book of Songs.” Most of these had already been published in the “Pictures of Travel.” I restored them to their original metres. I also translated the “Memoirs of a Good-for-Nothing” from the German, and finished up, partially illustrated, and published two juvenile works. One of these was “Mother Pitcher,” a collection of original nursery rhymes for children, which I had written many years before expressly for my youngest sister, Emily, now Mrs. John Harrison of Philadelphia. In this work occurs my original poem of “Ping-Wing the Pieman’s Son.” Of this Poem Punch said, many years after, that it was “the best thing of the kind which had ever crossed the Atlantic.” Ping-Wing appeared in 1891 as a full-page cartoon by Tenniel in Punch, and as burning up the Treaty. I may venture to say that Ping-Wing—once improvised to amuse dear little Emily—has become almost as well known in American nurseries as “Little Boy Blue,” at any rate his is a popular type, and when Mrs. Vanderbilt gave her famous masked ball in New York, there was in the Children’s Quadrille a little Ping-Wing. Ping travelled far and wide, for in after years I put him into Pidgin-English, and gave him a place in the “Pidgin-English Ballads,” which have always been read in Canton, I daresay by many a heathen Chinese learning that childlike tongue. I also translated the German “Mother Goose.”
And now terrible times came on, followed, for me, by a sad event. The rebels, led by General Lee, had penetrated into Pennsylvania, and Philadelphia was threatened. This period was called the “Emergency.” I could easily have got a command as officer. I had already obtained for my brother an appointment as major with secretary’s duty on Fremont’s staff, which he promptly declined. But it was no
time to stand on dignity, and I was rather proud, as was my brother, to go as “full private” in an artillery company known as “Chapman Biddle’s,” though he did not take command of it on this occasion. [252] Our captain was a dealer in cutlery named Landis.
After some days’ delay we were marched forth. Even during those few days, while going about town in my private’s uniform, I realised in a droll new way what it was to be a common man. Maid-servants greeted me like a friend, other soldiers and the humbler class talked familiarly to me. I had, however, no excuse to think myself any better than my comrades, for among the hundred were nearly twenty lawyers or law-students, and all were gentlemen as regards position in society. Among them was R. W. Gilder, now the editor of the Century, who was quite a youth then, and in whose appearance there was something which deeply interested me. I certainly have a strange Gypsy faculty for divining character, and I divined a genius in him. He was very brave and uncomplaining in suffering, but also very sensitive and emotional. Once it happened, at a time when we were all nearly starved to death and worn out with want of sleep and fatigue, that I by some chance got a loaf of bread and some molasses. I cut it into twelve slices and sweetened them, intending to give one to every man of our gun. But I could only find eleven, and, remembering Gilder, went about a long mile to find him; and when I gave it to him he was so touched that the tears came into his fine dark eyes. Trivial as the incident was, it moved me. Another was Theodore Fassitt, a next-door neighbour of mine, whose mother had specially commended him to me, and who told me that once
or twice he had stolen ears of maize from the horses to keep himself alive. Also Edward Penington, and James Biddle, a gentleman of sixty; but I really cannot give the roll-call. However, they all showed themselves to be gallant gentlemen and true ere they returned home. The first night we slept in a railroad station, packed like sardines, and I lay directly across a rail. Then we were in camp near Harrisburg for a week—dans la pluie et la misère.
We knew that the rebels were within six miles of us, at Shooter’s Hill—in fact, two of our guns went there. Penington was with them, and had a small skirmish, wherein two of the foemen were slain, the corporal being, however, called off before he could secure their scalps. That afternoon, as I was on guard, I saw far down below a few men who appeared to be scouting very cautiously, and hiding as they did so. They seemed mere specks, but I was sure they were rebels. I called on Lieutenant Perkins, who had a glass, but neither he nor others present thought they were of the enemy. Long after, this incident had a droll sequel.
Hearing that the rebels were threatening Carlisle, we were sent thither on a forced march of sixteen miles. They had been before us, and partially burned the barracks. We rested in the town. There was a large open space, for all the world like a stage. Ladies and others brought us refreshments; the scene became theatrical indeed. The soldiers, wearied with a long march, were resting or gossipping, when all at once—whizz-bang—a shell came flying over our heads and burst. There were cries—the ladies fled like frightened wild-fowl! The operatic effect was complete!
About ten thousand rebel regulars, hearing that we had occupied Carlisle, had returned, and if they had known that there were only two or three thousand raw recruits, they might have captured us all. From this fate we were saved by a good strong tremendous lie, well and bravely told. There was a somewhat ungainly, innocent, rustic-looking youth in our company, from whose eyes simple truth peeped