University of Virginia Library

[From the N. Y. Herald.]
Washington, Nov. 26, 1868.

Let to-day be chronicled as a great day for Ireland,
and let it live as the greatest of Thanksgiving Days
in American history! This afternoon took place the
interesting ceremonial of presenting Private Miles
O'Reilly, Forty-seventh Regiment New York Volunteers,
to his Excellency the President of the United
States, by whom, in turn, the young Milesian warrior
and bard of the Tenth army corps was presented to
several members of the Cabinet and foreign diplomatic
corps, who were paying a Thanksgiving Day
call to the President when the cards of General
T. F. Meagher and Father Murphy were handed in
by Colonel Hay—these gentlemen having kindly
consented to act as the chaperons, or social godfathers
and godmothers of Private O'Reilly, who was accompanied
by Major Kavanagh and Captain Breslin, of

the old Sixty-ninth New York, and by Mr. Luke
Clark, of the Fifth Ward of your City, as his own
“special friends.” The details of this interview will
hereafter form an instructive episode in the grand
drama of our national history. It was in a manner
the apotheosis of democratic principles—an acknowledgment
of our indebtedness to the men who carry
muskets in our armies. It had its political significance,
also, and may prove another link between our
soldiers in the field and the present lengthy occupant
of the White House, who is understood to be not
averse to the prospect of a lengthier lease of that
“desirable country residence,” which has none of the
modern improvements.

PICTURE OF PRIVATE O'REILLY.

Private O'Reilly is a brawny, large-boned, rather
good-looking young Milesian, with curly reddish
hair, grey eyes, one of which has a blemish upon it,
high cheek bones, a cocked nose, square lower jaws,
and the usual strong type of Irish forehead—the
perceptive bumps, immediately above the eyes, being
extremely prominent. A more good-humored or
radiantly expressive face it is impossible to conceive.
The whole countenance beams with a candor and

unreserve equal to that of a mealy potato which has
burst its skin or jacket by too rapid boiling. He
stands about six feet three inches, is broad-chested,
barrel-bodied, firm on his pins, and with sinewy,
knotted fists of a hardness and heaviness seldom
equalled. On the whole, he reminds one very much
of Ensign O'Doherty's ideal picture of the Milesian
hero:—

WHAT HE AND HIS COUSINS THINK ABOUT ENGLAND.

Private O Reilly says that he was born at a place
they call Ouldcastle; that he picked up what little
of the humanities and rudiments he possesses under
one Father Thomas Maguire, of Cavan—“him that
was O'Connell's frind, rest their sowls;” and he is
emphatic in declaring that he and seventeen of his
O'Reilly cousins, sixty-four Murphy cousins, thirty-seven
Kelly cousins, twenty-three Lanigan cousins,

together with a small army of Raffertys, Caffertys,
Fogartys, Flanigans, Ryans, O'Rourkes, Dooligans,
Oulahans, Quinns, Flynns, Kellys, Murphys,
O'Connors, O'Connells, O'Driscolls, O'Mearas,
O'Tooles, McCartys, McConkeys, and McConnells—
all his own blood relations, many of them now in
the service, and all decent boys—would be both
proud and happy to enlist or re-enlist for twenty
years or the war, if his Reverence's Excellency the
President would only oblige them “the laste mite in
life” by declaring war against England. He is of
opinion that no excuse is ever needed for going to
war; but adds that if any were, it might be found
in the recent Canadian-rebel conspiracy to release
the prisoners in camp on Johnson's Island.

“If we let this pass,” he says, “divil resayve the
so illigant an excuse the dirty spalpeens may ever
give us again! They gripped us whin we wor wake,
an' med us give up them two rapparees, Shlidell and
Mason. We've now got five iron-clads to their one,
boys dear; and Mr. Lincoln,” he adds, “won't be
the jockey he bought him for, if he don't give John
Bull his bellyful of `neuthrality' before he gets
through his term.” Mr. Luke Clark, of the Fifth
ward, is understood to be very strong in the same
view.

ARRIVAL AT THE WHITE HOUSE—SCENES AT THE DOOR.

On the arrival of the party at the White House
there was a great scene of handshaking at the door
between Private O'Reilly and Edward McManus, the
chatty old greyhaired gentleman from Italy—where
O'Reilly knew him—who has kept watch at the gate
through five administrations; and who is now
assisted by Mr. Thomas Burns, also from Italy, who
has outlived the storms of two reigns. It was “God
bless you, Miles,” and “God bless you kindly,
Edward,” for as many as ten minutes, the handshaking
being fast and furious all the time.

GENERAL MEAGHER'S SPEECH.

General Meagher, in presenting Private O'Reilly
to the President, made some remarks to the effect
that he was happy to have the honor of introducing
to one who was regarded as the Father of the Army
this enfant perdu, or lost boy of the Irish race. His
friend, Colonel John Hay, the President's Secretary,
who had served as a volunteer in the Department of
the South, was acquainted with O'Reilly's character
in his regiment, and knew that it was good, though
chequered with certain amiable indiscretions, having

their origin in the fount of Castaly, or some other
fountain—of which he had forgotten the particulars.
(Laughter.) He wished to assure Mr. Lincoln that
the bone and sinew of the army—his own countrymen
in it not least—had eyes to see, and hearts to
feel, and memories to treasure up the many acts
of hearty, homely, honest kindliness, by which the
Chief Magistrate of the nation had evinced his interest
in their welfare. In the golden hours of sunrise,
under the silver watches of the stars, through
many a damp, dark night on picket duty, or in the
red flame and heady fury of the battle, the thought
that lay next the heart of the Irish soldier—only
dividing its glow with that of the revered relic
from the altar, which piety and affection had annexed,
as an amulet against harm, around his neck—was the
thought that he was thus earning a title, which hereafter
no foul tongue or niggard heart would dare dispute,
to the full equality and fraternity of an American
citizen. (“Hear, hear,” from the President.)
Ugly and venomous as was the toad of civil strife, it
yet carried in its head for the Irish race in America
this precious, this inestimable jewel. By adoption of
the banner, and by the communion of bloody grave-trenches
on every field, from Bull Run to where the
Chickamauga rolls down its waters of death, the
race that were heretofore only exiles, receiving generous
hospitality in the land, are now proud peers
of the proudest and brave brothers of the best.
(Deep emotion, Secretary Seward tapping the table
with his fingers, and Mr. Chase gravely bowing his
head in approval.) On behalf of Private O'Reilly,
he desired to thank Mr. Lincoln for the clemency
which had failed to see crime in an innocent song.
Although the verses of Private O'Reilly had become
conspicuous, they were far from being the only or
the best efforts of the lyric muse to which the fast
frolic and effervescing life of camps had given birth.
Whenever Clio shall aspire to write the history of this
war, that sagest sister of the sacred Nine will be
obliged to draw largely on the rough, but always
heartfelt, often droll, still oftener tenderly pathetic
verses, with which Euterpe will be found to have inspired
the rough writers and fighters of the rank and
file. (“Hear, hear,” from the President, the Baron
Gerolte and General Cullum.) Seeing that Lord
Lyons was present, General Meagher would not now
refer to the Fenian Brotherhood, of which the Chevalier
John O'Mahony was the Head Centre. He
thanked the President, Mr. Seward, Mr. Chase, Mr.
Stanton, General Halleck, the Baron Stoeckl, the Baron
Gerolte, the Count Mercier, Colonels Townsend and
Kelton, Assistant Secretary of the Navy Fox, and
the others who were present, for their interest in
this interview, of which accident had made them
witnesses. Had he had the slightest inkling how
his Excellency had been engaged, he should most
certainly have postponed the visit—a wish for which
had been conveyed to him through Secretary Stanton.
He would now briefly introduce to the President
Private Miles O'Reilly, the bard of Morris Island,
whose self and family—snug farmers and very decent
people—he had well known many years ago in the
Green Isle, which was their common birthplace.

MR. LINCOLN'S SPEECH—HIS STORY ABOUT “THE WIDOW
ZOLLICOFFER'S DARKEY.”

Mr. Lincoln replied that he was happy to see
Private O'Reilly, but did not care to make a set
speech. In his position it was not wise to talk foolishly,
and he would, therefore, but rarely talk at all.
As to the “war for the succession,” about which
the Herald and Mr. Wendell Phillips appeared
crazy, he would say some few words. Men oftenest
betray and defeat themselves by over-anxiety to

secure their object, just as the widow Zollicoffer's
nigger did, away down in Bourbon county, when
he had been eating her cranberry jam. (Laughter.)
The widow, while making her jam, was called away
to a neighbor who was about increasing the population.
(Loud laughter.) “Sam, you rascal,” she said,
“you'll be eating my jam when I'm away.” Sam
protested he'd die first; but the whites of his eyes
rolled hungrily towards the bubbling crimson.
“See here, Sam,” said the widow, taking up a piece
of chalk, “I'll chalk your lips, and then on my
return I'll know if you've eaten any.” So saying,
she passed her forefinger heavily over the thick lips
of her darkey, holding the chalk in the palm of her
hand, and not letting it touch him. Well, when she
came back, Sam's lips were chalked a quarter of an
inch thick, and she needed against him no other
evidence. (Laughter.) Now, it is much the same
about the Presidency. (Renewed mirth.) A good
friend of mine declares that he wouldn't take it
at any price; but his lips were thickly chalked when
he came back from Ohio. (Great merriment, in
which Mr. Chase joined heartily.) So were General
Fremont's, out in Missouri, when he issued his “emancipation
order;” and General Butler's were not only
chalked, but had the jam on and had it thick. Secretary
Seward once chalked very badly, but had given
it up as of no use since his quarrel with Mr. Weed,
machine proprietor of his own State. (Loud laughter.)
Mingled chalk and jam might be seen on the
lips of General Banks; while the same compound
formed quite a paste around the orifice through
which his good friend Governor Seymour supplied
the wants of nature. (Roars of laughter.) He had
never seen any chalk on the lips of Secretary Stanton
or General Henry W. Halleck: but, with these
exceptions, there was scarcely a man connected with
the army who did not chalk his lips. (Continued
mirth, the foreign diplomatic corps joining heartily.)
He believed many of the generals would compromise
for a brigadier's commission in the regular
army; but these were matters too grave to be joked
about. He would now introduce to all present Private
Miles O'Reilly, of the Tenth army corps—an army
corps which had done well under General Gillmore,
having been magnificently disciplined by General
Hunter—perhaps the very strictest field officer in
the service. Mr. Lincoln conclude by bidding
the bard of Morris Island welcome to the White
House, at the same time extending his hand for a
friendly shake.

HOW PRIVATE O'REILLY SHAKES HANDS.

All this time Private Miles O'Reilly, Forty-seventh
regiment New York Volunteers, had been standing
in the first position of a soldier—heels in, toes out,
body rigid and perpendicular as a ramrod, and the
little fingers of his open hands resting behind the
side seams of his sky-blue inexpressibles. He had a
twenty-five cent bouquet in the breast of his blue
coat, and in his eyes that stolid expression or
total want of expression which is imparted by the
order—“eyes front.” No sooner, however, did the
President extend his hand than the sinews relaxed,
and his countenance brightened up as if some crazy
millionaire had suddenly offered to give him its face
in gold for a twenty dollar greenback. Instantly he
made the sound of spitting into the palm of his right
hand, then raised the arm to its full height, and
brought down his open palm against the Presidential
palm with a report that rang through the council
chamber as if one of the “torpedo devils” of Chief
Engineer Stimers had been exploded by the concussion.
He no doubt intended to say something
extremely eloquent; but laboring, like Charles Lamb,
under a bad stammer, his words came slowly and

with pain, though of their earnestness the very
difficulty with which they were uttered gave proof.

MR. LUKE CLARK AS A DOCTOR.

Mr. Luke Clark suggested that it was timorous the
boy was; that his heart was too full, and the words
bubbled up so quick to his tongue that they choked
and killed each other—like an audience crowding
out through the narrow doors of a theatre in which
the cry of “fire” has been raised. If his Reverence's
Excellency the President would only order up a jug
of water, with no more whiskey in it than President
Pierce took at the opening of the Crystal Palace—
“just enough to kill the animalculæ”—Mr. Clark was
of opinion that Miles would rapidly recover.

The order was given. Private Miles retired for a
few moments into Mr. Nicolay's room, just outside
the council chamber, from whence he soon returned,
wiping his mouth with the cuff of his coat, gasping
a little for breath, and with his whole face so much
brighter and livelier that it was like a transfiguration.

“Your Riverence's Excellency,” he said, scraping
his left foot backwards, bowing forward his body, and
giving one of his red forelocks a jerk between the

finger and thumb of his right hand: “Your Riverence's
Excellency, though I'm wipin' my lips, it's
nayther chalk nor cranberries I had on them last.”
(Loud laughter.)

LORD LYONS ASKS FOR A SONG—THE CABINET “POKING
FUN.”

“Suppose, Mr. Seward, you ask your young friend
to give us a song,” said Lord Lyons, who had been
looking rather superciliously at all parts of the ceremonial.
“They say the fellow can sing; and I suppose
it is because he can sing, he is here.”

Mr. Seward referred the matter by a bow to the
President, who glanced sharply at Lord Lyons. For
one moment a cloud passed over Mr. Lincoln's kindly
face, but disappeared as he turned and let his eyes
rest on the beaming countenance of Private Miles.

“What say you, Private O'Reilly? Will you
sing?”

“I will that, your Riverence's Excellency,” was
the response, with just one flash of a scowl towards
Lord Lyons. “It's my prayer for your Excellency
that you may never die until the skin of a gooseberry
makes a nightcap for you; and may you have the
vigor of Lord Palmershin—that's your boss, Lord

Lyons—till the day you're a hundhred an' fifty!” (Uproarious
laughter, in which all joined except Father
Murphy—Lord Lyons laughing the loudest.) “Now,
what shall I sing?” continued Private Miles. “If his
Riverence, Father Pathrick Murphy, worn't to the
fore, it's a song in honor of my counthryman, the
same Lord Palmershin, that I'd give you. 'Tisn't
that I ever loved him or any other anti-Irish Irishman,
who takes blood money for the life of his counthry.
(Sensation.) But it's because I'm sick of the
humbug that is in them English journals that say
the ould man ought to be ashamed of himself.
(Laughter.) Faix, at his age, I can't see any shame
about it. (Loud laughter.)

“Au contraire,” suggested Count Mercier, with a
smile and shrug: “à son age, devrait au moins en
être fier.”

(Roars of laughter, amidst which Father Murphy
retired in company with Mr. Nicolay, Colonel Hay's
colleague, on the plea that the room was growing
too hot for him.)

“How old do you say he is, my Lord?” said Secretary
Seward, removing the cigar from his mouth.

“Old enough to be your father,” was the reply;
“he will be eighty next June.” (Renewed laughter.)

THE DECANTERS AND THINGS ORDERED IN—COUNCIL
TABLE CLEARED FOR A JOLLIFICATION—“GRANT'S
PARTICULAR.”

General Halleck here arose to suggest that now,
while Father Murphy was absent, was the proper
time, if ever, for the improper song.

“Col. Hay, please touch the bell,” said Mr. Lincoln,
“and let Burgdorf, my messenger, send us up
the decanters and things. I have some French wines,
sent me from Paris by Secretary of Legation Pennington,
whose tongue is so completely occupied in
the business of tasting vintages that he has never
had time to teach it French, though a resident in
Paris many years. If you prefer whiskey, I have
some that can be relied upon—a present from Mr.
Leslie Combs. I call it `Grant's Particular,' and
Halleck is about issuing an order that all his generals
shall drink it.”

“With the news we have to-day from Chattanooga,”
said Gen. Halleck, gaily, “I think the country
will endorse the order to which Mr. Lincoln has referred.
For my own part I'll take some of that
whiskey—just enough to drown a mosquito, Kelton
—and, with the President's permission, our first toast

will be, the health of Ulysses Grant, the river-horse
of the Mississippi!”

Secretary Stanton seconded the toast in a neat and
spirited address, Mr. Lincoln frequently applauding.
The health was received with all the honors, every
one present standing up while the liquor went down,
and the company giving three cheers for General
Grant, and then three more, and then three after
that to top off with.

Some drank it in wine, others whiskey. The council
table was hastily cleared of books, papers, and
maps. All took seats except Private O'Reilly, who
continued to have spasms of rigidity and the “first
position of a soldier” whenever his eyes happened to
rest for a moment on General Halleck's buttons in
bunches of three, or General Cullum's twin-button
brigadier arrangement.

“Excuse me, gentlemen; this is my only beverage,”
said the President, filling out a glass of
water. “Help yourselves. Seward, the diplomatic
body is under your care. Baron Gerolte's glass
is empty. General Meagher, will you be kind
enough to see what the friends of Private O'Reilly
will take? Now, Miles, clear your throat with a
glass of wine—not too much for him, Colonel

Hay—and let us hear your song in honor of Lord
Palmerston.”

Private O'Reilly tossed off a demitasse, and then
gave, with irresistible drollery and a really fine baritone
voice, the following words, to the well known
air, once so popular in the mouth of John Brougham
—“Ould Ireland You're My Darling.”

LORD PALMERSTON AND MRS. O'KANE.

HOW THE SONG WAS RECEIVED.

To describe the roars of laughter with which this
lyric was received, would be impossible, his Reverence's
Excellency the President alone preserving
an immovable countenance. Seward was in convulsions.
Chase lost much of that dignified deportment,
showing elevation of character as well as of
position, for which he has been remarked. Stanton
was purple, and pressed his left hand on his side to
check the pain of excessive merriment. The diplomatic
body, in various stages of exhaustion, begged
Mr. Lincoln to stop the song, or it would be the
death of them. Halleck shook a strong rosewood
arm-chair, in which he sat, nearly to bits, the tears
rolling down his swarthy cheeks, and his black eyes
glittering with an intensity of humorous relief. Secretary
Welles, when it was over, first carefully picked
up several of his waistcoat buttons from the floor,
and then put on his spectacles to examine with due
deliberation what manner of man Private Miles
might be; after which he declared that the song
was “one of the most interesting he had heard for
many years!”

MR. LINCOLN OPENS THE BALL—HE THINKS MRS.
O'KANE A VERY SERIOUS MATTER.

His Excellency the President, who had been sitting,
curled up in an arm-chair, with his legs loosely
crossed one over the other, now began to rise, slowing
untwisting the kinks of his back, and towering
up like one of the genii, or afrites, released from the
jar, or jug, in which they had been bottled up for
centuries under the seal of Solomon.

“Aisy!” exclaimed Mr. Luke Clark, with unaffected
dismay. “It's dashin' your brains out agin
the ceilin' you'll be, or tanglin' your shouldhers in
the top notches of the shandyleer!”

At length, Mr. Lincoln reached his full height, and
said, that he had not quite caught the drift of the
song; but from what little of it he did catch, it was
just as well that he had caught no more.

“Hear, hear,” from Father Murphy, who had reentered
the room during the singing of the last four
lines.

Being on friendly terms with Great Britain, Mr.
Lincoln continued, he trusted that the song would
go no further.

“Hear, hear,” from Lord Lyons, who was trying

[ILLUSTRATION]

O'REILLY IN THE PRESENCE CHAMBER--Page 174.

[Description: 564EAF. Illustration Page. Image of Abraham Lincoln with ghostly body floats above a chair on which a large cigar sits smoking. A soldier sits in a facing chair smoking a pipe. Above the Lincoln figure are the words, "Hullo Miles" and above the solder are the words, "How are ye Abe."]

hard to smother some refluent waves of laughter.

“There are themes,” continued Mr. Lincoln—
“and Mrs. O'Kane is one of them—much too serious
to be joked about.” With this admonition, made as
gentle as he could, he would now ask Private O'Reilly's
opinion as to how the next Presidency was going?

PRIVATE O'REILLY ON THE SUCCESSION.

Private O'Reilly's stammer immediately became
very bad again, insomuch that Colonel Hay, remembering
the successful treatment previously recommended,
had to administer, but only as a medicine,
another small dose of some amber-hued beverage.

“I think,” said Private Miles, when he had recovered
his breath, and again wiped his lips with his
coat cuff: “I think that the politicianers is all wrong
about it, your Riverence's Excellency; and there's
not the humblest gossoon in the army to-day, that
couldn't tell them more than they know on that subject,
wid all their caucussings and convintions.”

“Well, explain,” said Mr. Chase, rather anxiously,
but still preserving all his aplomb of manner and
gracious courtesy of smile.

“They could tell them,” said Private Miles, “that
there's but one man who wears a Black Coat in the
United States this blessed and holy day, that can be
elected to that office. Mind, I'm not sayin'—for
I'm no flattherer, and I'm no seventh son—that he
will be. All I do say is, that there's only one
Black Coat in the Union, that can be a successful
candydate for that office.”

HOW THE SOLDIERS WILL VOTE.

“You think blue, with brass buttons, the healthiest
color for Presidential aspirants to appear in,”
queried Mr. Seward, casting a sly glance as he spoke
from under his shaggy gray eyebrows in the direction
of Secretary Chase.

“Faix, sir, you might sing that same, if you knew
any tune that would fit it,” was Private O'Reilly's
answer. “Every Presidential candidate should appear
in blue an' goold, the way Ticknor and Fields
publishes their pocket editions of the poicks. There's
half a million of us that can vote, though Governor
Saymour won't let any of us New York boys vote
by proxy; and it's for no black coat in the Union,
except one, that the army vote will be given. Everything
depinds now on how the war goes. It may be

Grant, and it will be Grant, if his gallant victhories
continue; or it may be Dix, who is very sthrong wid
all classes; or it may be Banks, who will have the
New England States solid; or it may be Rosy, whose
devotions have touched the thrue Church; or, last
of all, if the war goes well as a whole, Gineral Halleck
will be an almighty hard man to defeat before a
dimmycratic convintion. The very fact that he has
held back, and hasn't been curryin' favor anywhere,
will be the strongest card in his hand. Of Gineral
McClellan I say nothin', for the proper time hasn't
come yet—except that those who think he's played
out, may find themselves mistaken some fine mornin'.
There'll be milithary candydates as plenty
as thorns on a brier bush, or black feathers on a
crow. Aginst the canvass of votes in your big
cities, will be the votes of our canvass towns. The
boys who for the last two years and more have been
carryin' their butchery, bakery, and grocery in a
haversack over one hip, and their tavern in a canteen
over the other, will all vote just as they have
been taught to fight—facin' the same way, and touchin'
the elbow. I hear people sayin' that this gineral
is shtrong wid the Germans, and that some other
gineral is shtrong with the Irish; but I tell you that
there's nayther Irish nor Germans amongst the min
who have been atin', marchin', shleepin' an' fightin'
side by side since the summer that was two years
ago. If it would be agreeable to this noble company,
who are the very hoigth of quality, there was
a song that was wrote to illusthrate this subjeck,
which he'd as soon sing as not. It was wrote by
Gineral Isaac I. Stevens—God rest his sowl!—who
was killed near Centhreville—more's the pity—his
son dhroppin' badly wounded from his horse just as
a rifle ball whistled through the father's forehead.”

Private O'Reilly's voice grew rather husky towards
the close of this address, and his eyes were suffused
with an unusual moisture. Clearing his throat at
length by an effort which was half a cough, half sob,
he sang the following words amidst deep silence on
the part of his audience, to the air of “Jamie's on the
Stormy Sea:”

The deep and dead silence which followed this
song was fully as flattering to Private O'Reilly's
vocal powers as had been the tumultuous laughter
which hailed his Lord Palmerston ditty. This
“Song of the Soldiers” he gave with the greatest
energy and enthusiasm, his chest swelling, his feet
taking firmer stand on the floor, and his gray eyes
kindling up with flashes of electric vivacity. None
could doubt who heard and saw him, that in songs
of this kind, and in the spirit which animates them,

and amongst the men who feel them and are their
subject, the future government of the United States
is centred.

WHAT SAY THE PEOPLE?

“That's a gallant song,” said the President, first
breaking silence, and sighing as he spoke. “If I
had heard it, and had known Ike Stevens wrote it,
he should have had two stars on each shoulder before
he died. But haven't you anything livelier, Miles?
Mind, I don't mean liveliness of your Lord Palmerston
type. Tell us, if you can, what the people say
of us; what they say of Chase; what of Seward?
You needn't be afraid, Miles: we ain't a thin-skinned
family, and we know before asking that you have an
awkward knack of telling the truth.”

Private O'Reilly said he had no song to give them
on this subject just now; but would be happy if they
would hear a song from his friend Mr. Luke Clark,
who had an excellent voice.

Mr. Clark said the song he was about to sing was
one which he had picked up at a “free and easy,”
in a place they called the Ivy Green, which is a sort
of chapel of ease to the Pewter Mug, and which is
kept, he said, by Jim McGowan and Johnny Lord—

“two as square men as ever drew ale from tap, or
whirled the mixer round in a temperance cocktail.”
Luke had been introduced there by his friend, Alderman
Billy Walsh, of whose brother, the “King of
the Dead Rabbits,” Mr. Lincoln must have heard.
The song he was about to give them had been sung
there frequently by Senator Chris. Woodruff, a lucky
boy, and had never failed to bring down the house.
He hoped it would give offence to nobody.

MR. LUKE CLARK'S SONG.

With these brief prefatory remarks, Mr. Clark
now cleared his throat, and sang, with a voice of
stentorian power, the following ditty, to the well-known
and lively air of “Nora Creina:—

A CABINET PHOTOGRAPH.

TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF “FREE SONG”—UNIVERSAL EXECRATION
OF MR. CLARK.

The sudden dropping into the room of one of
Gillmore's Greek fire three-hundred-pounders could
not have produced greater consternation than the
singing of this ditty—Private O'Reilly making
several ineffectual motions to stop his blundering
friend, who—sublimely unconscious of any impropriety—kept
on singing with a force which recalled
the historical roaring of the thousand bulls of Bashan.
Every one felt as if a wet blanket or douche
bath had been suddenly applied down his spine—
Mr. Chase alone preserving all his stately urbanity,
and beating time with his fingers on the elbow of his
arm chair to the unfortunate melody. On the conclusion
of the song, dead silence followed—some
slight chucklings of Lord Lyons and the Count Mercier

alone excepted. At this silence Mr. Luke Clark
appeared deeply hurt, having apparently expected
the same applause he had so often received for the
same performance in less elevated latitudes. It was
only when he saw General Meagher, with the greater
part of his handkerchief stuffed down his throat,
and Private O'Reilly, his face white with rage, shaking
his fist at him in a highly belligerent manner,
that Mr. Clark began to suspect it might be possible
that he had been committing a faux pas—“puttin'
his fut into it”—in his own vernacular.

“I have to apologize for my misfortunate frind,”
said Private Miles, stammering very badly. “It's
little I thought the kind of song the divil would put
it into his head to sing whin I axed him.”

“Oh, all right,” said the President, reassuringly.
“We asked you to tell us what the people said of us,
and your friend Clark has only been doing it with a
vengeance.”

AUTHORS AND CIRCULATORS OF THE SONG DENOUNCED.

General Meagher said that Irishmen were proverbial
for blunders of all sorts, and this meeting
would perhaps have been incomplete, but for the
recent ludicrous incident. Nothing that the malice

of enemies could put in verse, or that the ignorance
of such men as Mr. Clark could be used to propagate,
would injure that well earned and substantial
fame which Mr. Chase's administration of the finances
of the country had acquired. To the other
injured members of the Cabinet he made similar
soothing complimentary allusions.

Mr. Chase begged General Meagher to give himself
no uneasiness about an incident which they would
long remember as one of the most amusing of their
official lives. He would only add that he had heard
that song before, and that his friend Mr. George
Wilkes reported it to have been written by Mr.
Samuel L. M. Barlow, and put into circulation by a
secret society for the diffusion of copperhead information,
of which Mr. Hiram Cranston and C. Godfrey
Gunther were the presiding officers. He felt
that he need say no more.

In order to smoothe over the trifling interruption of
good feeling which had taken place, Mr. Seward
would suggest that Private O'Reilly should leave off
his gestures and black looks against his friend, Mr.
Clark, and give them another lyric—if he had one,
another army song.

Private Miles declared himself so mortified by the

blunders of that omadhawn—nodding in the direction
of Mr. Clark—that he had scarce any heart left
to sing anything. The best he could do, however,
he would; so he'd give them a song that was composed
by his soggarth, Father Murphy, who had
been chaplain, and a good one, God bless him! to the
poor boys of the Irish Brigade, in the days of its
hardest fights under General Meagher, who ought to
have two stars on each shoulder, or there could be
no such thing as justice to Ireland. He picked out
this song, as it was about the army and the Presidency,
two matters most likely to be of interest to
the hearer to whom he owed gratitude for his pardon,
and was most anxious to please. He then sang,
with rising spirit, as his mind recovered slowly
from the effects of Luke Clark's wet blanket, the
following lyric, to the air of “The Minstrel
Boy.”—

THE BLUE CAP AND BUTTON.

HOW ARE THINGS IN NEW YORK?

Mr. Seward was anxious to know how things were
going in New York. He had been gratified to see

that in the November contest the Tammany and
Mozart majority of over thirty thousand last year,
had been so badly pulled down that one of their
judicial candidates—Fernando Wood's brother-in-law—had
been defeated; and that Judge McCunn,
who was another, only claimed some fifty majority,
while the impression was universal that his rival,
Bosworth, had been defrauded out of a large legitimate
majority by cheating in the Sixth ward.

Private O'Reilly answered that the Milesian settlement
in question was “doin' as well as could be
expected,” as the gossips said when a lady was so
ill that she could never be better until after she'd
been worse. The few natives that were in the upper
and western reserves of the island were kindly
and humanely treated, “purvided only that they
voted the reg'lar dimmycratic ticket and never
axed for any places of official thrust.” The same
generous treatment had heretofore been extended to
the Germans; but since they had set up a candidate
of their own, in the person of Mr. C. Godfrey
Gunther, they would hereafter be strictly confined,
by order of the Common Council, to making
bologna sausages, pretzel bunns, lager bier and rag
picking. The managers of the Tammany-Mozart

machines had brought things down to such a fine
point that all nominations were now settled by a
sociable game of “spoilt five” or “beggar-me-neighbor”—and
faix! it was beggarin' the citizens, they
was, at a two-forty rate, wid their tails over the
dasher! “They tossed coppers for judgeships, dhrew
sthraws for the State Legislature, and declared political
death aginst anybody that wouldn't `go straight'
for their swindles. In ordher to give his misfortunate
frind Luke Clark—as good a fellow at bottom, Misther
Chase, as ever shuk toe at a wake or exercised his
shillelagh and the privilege of a citizen at a primary
election—he would now ask this honorable company
to hear from Mr. Clark a song composed by Thomas
Whelan, Esq., better known as `Irish Tom,' who
kept a whiskey coffee-house just opposite Collector
Barney's Asylum for incurable imbeciles—it was, of
course, the Custom House he meant.” (Laughter
and applause.)

MR. LUKE CLARK'S SECOND SONG.

Mr. Luke Clark thanked the company in general,
and Misther Chase in particular, for the ginerosity and
kindliness with which he was thrated. It would be
well for Misther Sam Barlow to keep out of the way

of his shillelagh when he got back to New York. It
was down on the knees of his heart, he was axin'
their pardon for his error; and now he'd like to tell
them who Tom Whelan was before he gev them his
song. Tom was a mimber of the Ancient and
Honorable Society of St. Tammany. He had been
a brave, with scalps at his girdle, whin the present
Grand Sachems, Wiskinkies and Sagamores were no
more than little papooses, swung in baskets over the
backs of their mother-squaws. Tom had dhrunk as
often from the Big Spring as ayther War Horse
Pardy or Colonel Dan Delavan, that used to be City
Inspecther. He had smoked the calumet in the best
days of the party, and had hunted in their “Happy
Huntin' Grounds.” This song was a lament for the
Tammany Society, addressed to Tom's great friend,
Frank Boole, who is a good fellow at bottom, and a
sound war dimmycrat, and who is supposed to be no
more in love wid the “Raffle Managers” than Tom
himself. Mr. Clark then cleared his throat and
commenced roaring to the air of “The Widdy
McGinness's Raffle:”—

THE LAMENT OF ST. TAMMANY.

Loud applause and laughter greeted this song, Mr.
Chase sending his regards to Irish Tom and hoping
that Father Murphy could give absolution to Mr.
Clark for his many sins, as easily as he (Mr. Chase)
gave him absolution for his greenback ditty.—
(Laughter.)

Mr. Lincoln.—If Father Murphy could include
Private O'Reilly in the same absolution, having
special reference to the Lord Palmerston and Mrs.

O'Kane song, it should not be forgotten. (Loud
Laughter.)

THE COUNT MERCIER'S SPEECH—A WAR CLOUD WITH
GREAT BRITAIN.

The Count Mercier now pulled out his watch, and
declared that the supreme, the ineffable, the inevitable
moment had arrived! Standing here in the
midst of the centuries—all the traditional splendors
of the past pressing in upon his mental vision, and
with all the possible glories of a French future for
Mexico crowding with supernal presences and diaphoretic
radiances in the foreground of his unutterable
thoughts; thus standing, but not insensible to
the material necessities on which French valor and
French glory have their most enduring base, it became
his duty to tell them that the supreme moment
of dinner had arrived; and, as Madame the Comtesse
had promised bully beef, fricaseed frogs and an oyster
stew, he could by no means refuse to assist at the
celebration domestique. Among the treasured memories
of his future life should be the inconspicuous
but not undelighted part which in this meeting he
had borne. He would transmit to the Memoire Diplomatique
his little joke about Lord Palmerston.

To his Imperial Majesty the Emperor, he would
transmit Private O'Reilly's views about the succession;
and it was his trust that the good fellowship of
this interview would obviate any difficulties between
the government which he had the honor to represent,
and that of which, by many inches, Mr. Lincoln
was the highest coronal. He would shake Private
O'Reilly's hand! France thus embraced Hibernia!
The Gauls and the Celts should be brothers; for they
had a common faith, a common enemy. (Here he
glanced towards Lord Lyons.) In this league of the
Latin peoples, would not America join? It would
be a point to rivet the eye of all history if Mr. Lincoln
would condescend to take hands all round with
Private O'Reilly and the speaker, as typical of the
trinal unity and reconsolidated solidarity of the Latin
race! If in this position they could dance the cancan
together, singing as they circled round mourir pour
la patrie, and aux armes, aux armes, mes braves, he
thought the gigantic illustration of a mighty international
thought would be complete. (Deep emotion,
Lord Lyons very red, and making furious notes of the
Count Mercier's words for transmission to his government.)
Count Mercier saw what Lord Lyons
was doing, and hurled against the implied threat of
English wrath that embalmed sublimity—that titanic
but unspeakable word which, on the authority of
Victor Hugo, in his book “Les Misérables,” Colonel
Cambronne, at the head of the last square of the old
Imperial Guard at Waterloo, hurled against the English
general who asked him to surrender.

MR. LINCOLN INTERFERES.

Mr. Lincoln begged the Count would not utter the
word in question. As to dancing, he never danced.
As to his being a candidate for re-election, that reminded
him of what old Jesse Dubois once said to
an itinerant preacher. Jesse, as State Auditor of
Illinois, had charge of the State House at Springfield.
The preacher asked the use of it for a lecture.
“On what subject?” asked Jesse. “On the Millerite
second coming of our Saviour,” answered the long-faced
man. “O, bosh,” retorted Uncle Jesse, testily;
“I guess if our Saviour had ever been to Springfield,
and had got away with his life, he'd be too everlasting
smart to think of coming here again.” This was
very much his case about the succession. As he saw
they were buttoning up to go away, he would not
seek to detain them—more especially as Louis Burgdorf

had been making secret signs to him through
the half open door, for the last half hour, that Mrs.
Lincoln and the children would have cold turkey for
their Thanksgiving dinner if he didn't cross over to
the other side of the building. Good day, gentlemen
[to the diplomatic corps and members of his
Cabinet]. General Meagher, you, Private O'Reilly
and Father Murphy will dine with me. O'Reilly's
suggestion about the double stars shall not be forgotten.”