II. A disposition to set fire to combined Europe, bringing off the women and children in small boats.
Hah, hah! does combined Europe tremble? Does C. E. offer a certain sum to be let off?
"Shall I ever forget, my boy, the recent terrible remark of that grim old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, just after that late tremendous capture of Fort Piano, on Duck Lake, by the Mackerel Chalybeate squadron,—shall I ever forget it?
"Chip my turret!" says that venerable salt, in his iron-plated manner,—"Chip my turret if I couldn't take my flag-ship, the 'Aitch,' and crush Europe like a perishing insect,—unrivet my plates if I couldn't!"
But why should I dwell upon the dreadful suggestions of a theme like this? Europe—crowded Europe—millions of people—bright summer morning—everybody in the streets—Bang! whiz!—Great combinations of the Lieutenant General—Victoria and Louis N., do you surrender?—We do!
Solemnly do I say to you, my boy, let us mix plenty of this sort of thing in our devout gratitude to Providence for His mercies to us as a people, and henceforth we may confidently count upon the support of Providence—Rhode Island.
Fairly and benignantly shone the blessed sun over valley and hill on the morning of that recent memorable day when I scaled the architectural heights of my Gothic Pegasus, and turned his front-elevation toward the Mackerel camp before the much-banged City of Paris. Brightly gleamed the fluted roof of my ancient pile of a steed as he went blithely forward on three legs, keeping one in reserve in case of accident: joyous was the alacrity with which he waltzed an imitative earthquake and tossed his child's-coffin of a head. The exhilaration of the motion, the proud sense of being borne again, might ultimately have plunged me into a delicious dream of being divided into two parts, my boy, had I not suddenly discovered, on the road-side, some twenty yards ahead of me, the figure of a being seated upon a camp-stool. Hastily dismounting from my architectural animal, and tying him to an oak in such a manner that he presented somewhat the perspective of a modest country church with a tree before the door, I stole carefully upon the being in my front, and found it to be the Conservative Kentucky chap, engaged in the muscular game of "Bluff" with himself.
His venerable hat, my boy, sat far down over his ears, like some shabby bird of night just stooping to carry off two oysters; a curious antiquity in the shape of a black stock loomed gloomily under his chin, as a memorial sepulchre in which some departed collar was supposed to be sacredly entombed; his face was toward Kentucky, and in his hands he was vivaciously shuffling a number of cards.
"Hum, hem!" soliloquized the Conservative Kentucky chap, complacently—"ten of spades—king of diamonds—king of hearts—ace of clubs—ace of hearts—ace of"—
Here the Conservative Kentucky chap uttered an absolutely startling cough and, at the same instant, passed three of the aces up his left sleeve!