At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass, and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, my boy, I saddled my gothic steed Pegasus, and took a trot for the benefit of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an Irishman's shoulder during the night, my architectural beast was in great spirits, my boy, and as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of that celebrated Arabian steed which had such a contempt for the speed of all other horses that he never would run with them—in fact, my boy, he never would run at all.
Having struck a match on that rib of Pegasus which was most convenient to my hand, I lit a cigar, and dropped the match, still burning, into the right ear of my fiery charger. Something of this kind is always necessary to make the sagacious animal start; but when once I get his mettle up he never stops, unless he happens to hear some crows cawing in the air just above his venerable head. I am frequently glad that Pegasus has lost his eyesight, my boy; for could he see the expression on the faces of some of these same crows, when they get near enough to squint along his backbone, it would wound his sensibilities fearfully.
On this occasion he carried me, at a speed of 2.40 hours a mile, to a point just this side of Alexandria, where the sound of heavy cannonading and cursing made me pause. At first, my boy, I remembered an engagement I had in Washington, and was about to hasten back; but while I was pressing the lighted end of my cigar to the side of Pegasus, to make him turn, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, came walking toward me from a piece of woods on my right, and informed me that ten of his men had just been attacked by fourteen thousand rebels, with twenty columbiads. "The odds," says he, "is rather heavy; but our cause is the noblest the world ever knew, and if my brave boys do not vanquish the unnatural foe, an indignant and decimated people will at once call upon the Cabinet to resign."
I told him that I thought I had read something like that in the Tribune; but he didn't seem to hear me.
By this time the cannonading had commenced to subside, and as I trotted alongside of Colonel Wobinson toward the field of battle, I asked him what he had done with his horse. He replied, that while on his way to the field, his sagacious beast had observed a hay-stack, and was so entranced with the vision that he refused to go a step further; so he had to leave him there.
Upon reaching the scene of strife, my boy, we discovered that the ten Western Cavalry men had routed the rebels, killing four regiments, which were all carried away by their comrades, and capturing six columbiads, which were also carried away. On our side nobody was killed nor wounded. In fact, two of our men, who went into the fight sick with the measles, were entirely cured, and captured four good surgeons. I must state, however, my boy, that although nobody was killed or wounded on our side, there was one man missing. It seems that when he found the balls flying pretty thickly about his ears, he formed himself into a hollow-square, my boy, and retreated in good order into the neighboring bushes. He formed himself into a hollow-square by bending gently forward until his hands touched the ground, and made his retrograde movement on all-fours. Colonel Wobinson remarked that this style of forming a hollow-square was an intensely-immense thing on Hardee.
I believe him, my boy!
The women of America, my boy, are a credit to the America eagle, and a great expense to their husbands and fathers, but they don't exactly understand the most pressing wants of the soldier. For instance, a young girl, about seventy-five years of age, has been sending ten thousand pious tracts to the Mackerel Brigade, and the consequence is, that the air around the camp has been full of spit-balls for a week. These tracts, my boy, are very good for dying sinners and other Southerners, but I'd rather have Bulwer's novels for general reading. Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, got one of them the other day, headed, "Who is your Father?" The noble youth read the question over once or twice, and then dashed the publication to the ground, and took some tobacco to check his emotions. (That brave youth's father, my boy, is a disgrace to his species; he has been sinking deeper and deeper in shame for some months past, until at last his name has got on the Mozart Hall ticket.) I saw that Villiam didn't understand what the tract really meant, and so I explained to him that it was intended to signify that God was his Father. The gifted young soldier looked at me dreamily for a moment, and then says he:
"God is my Father!" says he. "Well, now I am hanged if that ain't funny; for, whenever mother spoke of dad, she always called him 'the old devil!'"
Villiam never went to Sabbath-school, my boy, and his knowledge of theology wouldn't start a country-church.