say that the great Democratic party is
stanchly loyal at heart, however strangely its head may seem to err at
times; and never will it take a side with the enemies of the country,
even whilst those enemies make offers to it not only aside but affront.

Upon going down to Paris on Friday, I found the well-disciplined and
spectacled Mackerel Brigade greatly excited and demoralized by the
insidious report that their famous new General, the Grim Old Fighting
Cox, had actually washed himself. This injurious rumor, my boy,
suggested such humiliating national recollections of those days of
consummate strategy, when a certain egotistical commander indulged in
the vanities of soap and hair-oil, that the Brigade were naturally
terrified. Finally, however, the absurd story received a decisive
quietus, when the Grim Old Fighting Cox was seen riding slowly on his
unostentatious steed, the "Pride of the Canal," dressed in the
unassuming republican habiliments of a stern and inflexible
coal-heaver. It is needless to say that he had not washed himself. This
war is at length beginning in earnest.

It is beautiful to see how the Grim Old Fighting Cox is improving the
morals of the venerable Mackerels, and winning their affection,
confidence, and respect. Coming, unexpectedly, upon a Mackerel, who had
just laid aside his umbrella, and removed his spectacles, in order that
he might weep the more freely, he fired a pistol over his head, and
says he:

"What is the matter, my dear sir?"

"Oh!" says the poor Mackerel, sobbing, "I am in sore need of the pay
which is due me for two years' faithful strategy to the Union, and know
not where to get it."

The Grim Old Fighting Cox was much affected, and says he, softly: "You
must humbly kneel, and beseech Providence for it."

The afflicted chap toyed with his spectacles, and says he: "But suppose
Providence should refuse?"

"Then come to ME!" thundered the Grim Old Fighting Cox, with the air of
a stern national parent.

I could relate hundreds of such significant anecdotes as this, my boy;
though when the Grim Old Fighting Cox tells them himself to all the
reporters of the reliable morning journals, he invariably desires that
they shall go no further; but other great events demand my immediate
attention.

It was very shortly after the victorious but disastrous blowing up of
the Mackerel iron-plated squadron, the "Secretary Welles," on Duck
Lake, by the infatuated Confederacies of Pier N