LETTER XXVIII.

CONCERNING THE CONTINUED INACTIVITY OF THE POTOMAC ARMY, AND SHOWING HOW IT WAS POETICALLY CONSTRUED BY A THOUGHTFUL RADICAL.

WASHINGTON, D.C., January 30th, 1862.

Notwithstanding the hideous howlings of the Black Republicans, my boy, and the death of six Confederate pickets from old age, the Army of the Potomac will not commence the forward movement until the mud subsides sufficiently to show where some of the camps are. The Mackerel Brigade dug out a regiment yesterday, near Alexandria; but there's no use of continuing the business without a dredging-machine.

I was talking to Captain Bob Shorty, on Tuesday, respecting the inactivity of the army, and says he:

"It's all very well to talk about making an advance, my beauty; but I've known one of the smartest men in the country to fail in it."

"What mean you, fellow?" says I.

"Why," says he, "you know Simpson, your uncle?"

"I believe you, my boy!" says I.

"Well!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "that air Simpson is one of the smartest old cusses in the country--yet there ain't no 'On to Richmond' about _him_. I asked him once, myself, to make an advance. I asked him to make an advance on my repeater, and he said he couldn't."

This argument, my boy, exposes thoroughly the base disloyalty and fiendish designs of the newspaper brigadiers who are constantly urging McClellan to advance--advance! Let them all be sent to Fort Lafayette, and the moral effect on this cursed rebellion will be such that it will utterly collapse in two hours and forty-three minutes.

The serious New Haven chap, of whom I spoke to you some time ago, takes a "radical" view of our long halt, and gives his ideas in

THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.

Soldier, soldier, wan and gray, Standing there so very still, On the outpost looking South, What is there to-night to kill?

Through the mist that rises thick From the noisome marsh around, I can see thee like a shade Cast from something underground.

And I know that thou art old, For thy features, sharp, and thin, Cut their lines upon the shroud Damply folding thee within.

Fit art thou to watch and guard O'er the brake and o'er the bog; By the glitter of thine eyes Thou canst pierce a thicker fog.

Tell me, soldier, grim and old, If thy tongue is free to say, What thou seest looking South, In that still and staring way?

Yonderward the fires may glow Of a score of rebel camps; But thou canst not see their lights, Through the chilling dews and damps.

Silent still, and motionless? Get thee to the tents behind, Where the flag for which we fight Plays a foot-ball to the wind.

Get thee to the bankments high, Where a thousand cannon sleep, While the call that bids them wake Bids a score of millions weep.

Thou shalt find an army there, Working out the statesman's plots, While a poison banes the land, And a noble nation rots.

Thou shalt find a soldier-host Tied and rooted to its place, Like a woman cowed and dumb, Staring Treason in the face.

Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move! And if thou wouldst pass the line, Give the password of the night-- Halt! and give the countersign.

God of Heaven! what is this Sounding through the frosty air, In a cadence stern and slow, From the figure looming there!

"Sentry, thou hast spoken well"-- Through the mist the answer came-- "I am wrinkled, grim, and old, May'st thou live to be the same!

"Thou art here to keep a watch Over prowlers coming nigh; I can show thee, looking South, What is hidden from thine eye.

"Here, the loyal armies sleep; There, the foe awaits them all; Who can tell before the time Which shall triumph, which shall fall?

"O, but war's a royal game, Here a move and there a pause; Little recks the dazzled world What may be the winner's cause.

"In the roar of sweating guns, In the crash of sabres crossed, Wisdom dwindles to a fife, Justice in the smoke is lost.

"But there is a mightier blow Than the rain of lead and steel, Falling from a heavier hand Than the one the vanquished feel.

"Let the armies of the North Rest them thus for many a night; Not with them the issue lies, 'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right.

"Through the fog that wraps us round I can see, as with a glass, Far beyond the rebel hosts Fires that cluster, pause, and pass.

"From the wayside and the wood, From the cabin and the swamp, Crawl the harbingers of blood, Black as night, with torch and lamp.

"Now they blend in one dense throng; Hark! they whisper, as in ire-- Catch the word before it dies-- Hear the horrid murmur--'Fire!'

"Mothers, with your babes at rest, Maidens in your dreaming-land-- Brothers, children--wake ye all! The Avenger is at hand.

"Born by thousands in a flash, Angry flames bescourge the air, And the howlings of the blacks Fan them to a fiercer glare.

"Crash the windows, burst the doors, Let the helpless call for aid; From the hell within they rush On the negro's reeking blade.

"Through the flaming doorway arch, Half-dressed women frantic dart; Demon! spare that kneeling girl-- God! the knife is in her heart.

"By his hair so thin and gray Forth they drag the aged sire; First, a stab to stop his pray'r-- Hurl him back into the fire.

"What! a child, a mother's pride, Crying shrilly with affright! Dash the axe upon her skull, Show no mercy--she is white.

"Louder, louder roars the flame, Blotting out the Southern home, Fainter grow the dying shrieks, Fiercer cries of vengeance come.

"Turn, ye armies, where ye stand, Glaring in each others' eyes; While ye halt, a cause is won; While ye wait, a despot dies.

"Greater victory has been gained Than the longest sword secures, And the Wrong has been washed out With a purer blood than yours."

Soldier, by my mother's pray'r! Thou dost act a demon's part; Tell me, ere I strike thee dead, Whence thou comest, who thou art.

Back! I will not let thee pass-- Why, that dress is Putnam's own! Soldier, soldier, where art thou? Vanished--like a shadow gone!

The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy,--I refer to Saint Domingo.

Yours, musingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.