Now, is the time, my boy, for the idiotic Confederacy to save himself, by returning penitently to that beneficent Government which would have realized the millenium at half-past two o'clock on the Fourth of July, 1776, but for the unseemly villainy of the
accursed Black Republicans, many of whom are shortly to be hung.
That is to say, such is the opinion of the Venerable Gammon, whose benignant presence is believed to have proved the salvation of our distracted country in the Revolutionary War, though I can find nothing, except his protecting patriarchal deportment toward all the present universe, to justify the idea that he ever benefited anything. It soothes the human soul, my boy, to hear this Venerable man discoursing on the most trite subjects in tones, and with an air calculated to bless all created things as with a paternal benediction. Surrounded by a number of his idolatrous national children, and standing in front of Willard's the other evening, he pointed fatly to a bright star overhead, and says he:
"That star is like our country. That star," says the Venerable Gammon, with a meaningless smile of angelic purity, "is like any other star on our flag; though clouds may hide it in its ascending node, it is still knowed to be ascending."
Then everybody felt cheered with the peaceful conviction that Columbia was saved at last; and it's my private belief, my boy—my private belief, that the attached populace looked upon this good old man as the one who had made the star.
Yet, strange as it may seem, this venerable Benefactor made a little mistake on Tuesday. A sportive young chap came to him with a newspaper in his hand, and says he: "Let me see if you can tell, my Pater Patria, what paper this article is in"—and proceeded to read the following high-minded editorial:
"TREASON OF THE BLACK REPUBLICANS.
"True to their foul instincts, the Greely, Cheever, and Wendell Phillips herd of treasonable fanatics are now accusing their 'Honest Old Abe' of ruining the country. It was their votes that elected the rail-splitter, and now they turn tail upon him and howl maledictions because he will not carry out their fiendish intents by erecting a revolutionary guillotine in every Northern town and city. That blasphemous mountebank, Beecher, may as well cease his treasonable impiety at once; for he and his Sharps'-rifle crew are responsible for the present bankruptcy of the whole country, and the people will yet hold them to strict account for every drop of blood that has been and will be shed in this unnatural strife."
When sportive chap ceased reading, the Venerable Gammon waved his obese hand with the fond, familiar air of a pleased benignity, and says he: