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Dear Gineral:—I got back from my tower in Europe yesterday,
and found Uncle Joshua and Aunt Keziah, and Cousin
Nabby, and Cousin Sargent Joel, all well; and I hope these
few lines will find you enjoying the same blessing. I'm glad
of one thing, and that is, that you ain't troubled so much
about organs as you was when I went away. There wasn't
any organ then, only the Union, and that was a disputed one,
so I had to send my last dispatch to my old friends, Mr. Gales
and Seaton, and get them to forward it to you the best way
they could. But I understand now that organs is getting to
be as plenty as blackberries, and that seems to be lucky
about this time; for, if what Uncle Joshua tells me is all
true, it will need a good many of 'em to play tunes to suit all
parties. If you could manage to have an organ for each
member of the Cabinet, it would be a great help; for then
each one could play his own tune and no jarring, and harmony
is what we need all round. Mr. Marcy needs an organ all to
himself, to fire off his forty-four pounders at Austria and the
rest of Europe, to keep matters straight over there. And Mr.
Guthrie, I'm sure, needs an organ all to himself to manage his
New York correspondence. And there's Gineral Cushing, he
aught to have a nice organ all to himself, that would play
military tunes, so that everybody, as soon as they heard it,
would feel as if they wanted to march. And Gineral Davis


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aught to have a military organ, too; but some say he and
Gineral Cushing might get along very well with one organ
between 'em, and that Gineral Davis could play his variations
on Mr. Guthrie's organ.

And then the different “sections” of the party needs different
organs, too. I never believed that the same tune would
satisfy the “Hards” and the “Softs” of New York; and
from what Uncle Joshua tells me, it's jest so. He says the
organ has been pouring out delightful strains of harmony all
summer; but the more it poured 'em out, the greater was the
discord between the Hards and the Softs, till finally it worked
them to a pitch of phrenzy, and he says they are now fighting
and pullin' caps like mad. That shows clearly to my mind
that the different “sections” ought to all have their own
organs, and I don't think there'll be any peace till they have.

But about my tower in Europe I've a good deal to say,
more than I can get into this dispatch, and some of it, I
think, would work well into your message to Congress next
month, if I can get time to bring it, or send it on to you in
time. Ye see, as I had your commission of Minister-Gineral
to go on my own hook wherever I pleased, and look after
matters jest as I thought best, it gin me a capital chance to
work to advantage. And Mr. Marcy's rules, too, about dress
worked first-rate; for when I thought it best to go it a little
on the sly, I could jest put on my drab surtout and broad-brim
hat, and sagaciate round among the whole biling of 'em,
and they wouldn't mistrust who I was. So when I found
which way the cat was going to jump, and thought it was
best to head 'em and bring 'em to a pint, I had nothing to do
but to pull my commission out of my pocket, and show it to
'em, and that did the business. The fact is, Europe's afraid
of us. I think we are fast getting the upper hand. There
ain't another nation in all creation, without 'tis Russia, that


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[Description: 688EAF. Page 415. A man stands in a suit with a large sombrero on his head. At his feet is a parcel marked "Envoy Jackson."]
hardly dares to say her soul's her own, for fear we shall be
down upon her, and take her soul away from her. And even
Russia feels a little ticklish, for fear that, when she gets into
her highfalutin with Turkey, and the rest of Europe goes to
take sides, we shall turn tu and lick the whole scrape, and
annex 'em to our modern Rome. I see somebody has put out
a book that proves, as clear as preachin', that the United
States is a modern Rome; so when Gineral Cushing said in
his speech we must march, march, march, and do as old Rome
did, he was talking by the book.

About this war business in Europe, if there's anything to
be larnt in diplomatic circles, and I've sifted the whole of 'em,


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there's to be a tight scratch all round before it is over. The
truth is, Russia is in real arnest after Turkey as ever a bear
was to get into a corn-field. She clambered over into the
field, like a great bear as she is, jest for the purpose of
eating her way through from one end to t'other. But she
intended to do it all in a peaceable, friendly way, marching
cooly and slowly along, step by step, till she got down
to the lower end of the field, and then she would swallow
Constantinople just as quick as a cat could lick her ear,
and poor Turkey never would know what become of her.
The Czar intended to do all this in a very friendly, quiet
way, nibbling along at his leisure, and not have any fuss
at all about it. But the foolish Sultan got frightened,
and worked himself into a tantrum, and declared war, and
told Mr. Bear to clear out of his corn-field in fifteen days, or
he'd set the dogs arter him. Well, that made the Czar mad;
and now he says clear the track, for he's agoing down to
Constantinople, whether or no, let who will stand in the way,
and there shan't be a Turk's head left anywhere, clear from
Dan to Beersheba—that is, if the other nations will jest form
a ring and see fair play, and not interfere. But the Czar is a
good deal afraid that England and France will be for having a
finger in the pie; so he has agreed with Austria and Prussia,
who are on his side, to keep quiet and declare themselves
neutral, and not stir an inch as long as England and France
will keep quiet. But if they begin to meddle, then all hands
to fall to, and have a regular scratch, and pulling caps all

Well, now, England and France don't mean to keep quiet.
They are watching Russia jest as narrow as ever a cat
watched a mouse, and before Russia gets half way down to
Constantinople, there'll be a terrible fuss. The French rooster
will crow, and the British lion will growl and shake his


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mane; and if the Russian bear don't get licked or scared, and
turn tail to and run, but holds on and eats up one end of
Turkey, then England and France will clap their heads
together and eat up t'other end, just to keep it from spiling.

Now, when all this rumpus gets to its highest pitch in
Europe, and all the nations get at it pell-mell, it'll be jest the
time for us to strike, and go to annexin', and carry out our
manifest destiny in a handsome manner. What's the use of
our nibbling about among small fry near home, and annexin'
little patches here and there, such as Cuba, and little slices
off of Mexico, when we might jest as well branch out and do
somethin' splendid—somethin' that old Rome couldn't hold a
candle to; somethin' that Gineral Cushing himself could say
was quite “up to the occasion?” Who wants to wait for our
manifest destiny till one-half the present generation has died
off? I say no; now's the time; we must strike when the
iron's hot. So, when the Czar and all his troops are away
down South, peppering Turkey, let us whip round into the
Baltic and annex St. Petersburg, and put a navy and an army
there that will command all Northern Europe. By that time
England and France will get to quarreling with each other to
see which will have Constantinople, and that will be the time
for us to be down upon them like a thousand of brick. Take
London, and then we shall have John Bull by the horns;
take Paris, and that'll give us all the jining countries. Then
sail up the Mediterranean, drive the English and French fleets
all afore us, force our way through the Darnin-needles, and
get possession of that “golden horn” they tell about. Then,
if I understand geography right, we shall have full sweep all
over creation.

What's to be done on t'other side, over the Pacific way,
ain't much Commodore Perry has fairly got his wedge into
the oyster-shell of Japan, and that's half the battle. Just


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send word to him to annex China on his way round, and on his
route home pick up the islands along on the Pacific, which
will be jest as easy as to pick up so many bird's eggs. And
after we get through our manifest destiny, I don't see what
there need to be to hinder our enjoying peace and quietness
at home, and having a good time of it. We shall certainly
then have enough for all hands, and no mistake; offices
enough for all them that wants offices, and spoils enough for
all them that's hungry for spoils. And then let every man of
us “set his face like a flint as well against right-handed
back-slidings as against left-handed defections, which may
prejudice or embarrass the onward progress of the Republic.”
Then there needn't be no more quarreling between the Hards
and the Softs about which gets the most, for there'll be
enough for the whole biling lot of 'em.

We aught to be going ahead with this business as fast as
possible, for Uncle Joshua says the party has got into a terrible
snarl, and nothing but a grand coop-da-tat can get 'em
out of it. He says Collector Bronson, of New York, has lost
his head, owing to a little misunderstanding between him and
Mr. Guthrie. They both tried to see which could stand up
the straightest on the Baltimore platform, and they both
agreed that the platform was the rule, and everything aught
to be squared up to it. Mr. Bronson was quite impartial,
and Mr. Guthrie was a good deal more so. When Mr. Bronson
took his seat at the head of the Custom-House table, and
all “sections” of the party come crowding and shuffling round
to get the best places at the table and alongside the best
dishes, he tried to give 'em all a fair chance; but somehow he
thought it was no more than right to help round first them
that had always stood fair and square on the platform; and
if some of them that used to spit on it had to wait a little, it
might do 'em good. But the spitters made a terrible fuss


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about it, and kept up such a din in Mr. Guthrie's ears that he
turned round and told Mr. Bronson, right up and down, that
he musn't show no partiality. If a spitter wasn't catched
spitting on the platform now, give him his regular meal. This
touched Mr. Bronson a little, and he said he was able to do the
honors of his own table, and he would attend to the duties of
his office if Mr. Guthrie would his. Mr. Guthrie said that
was rebellion, so he brought him to the block, and chopped his
head off.

Uncle Joshua says it is a very misfortunate business, and
has thrown the whole party into a high fever. The fever
rages the hardest in the “section” of the New York Hards,
and looks as though it might prove fatal. But Gineral Cushing,
who is very skillful in such matters, has put a blister
plaster to the Massachusetts Softs, in hopes of drawing out
the inflammation from the New York Hards. But Uncle
Joshua says he don't think the party is out of danger yet.
But as long as there's life there's hope; so let us all keep a
stiff upper lip and go ahead.

Your faithful friend and Minister-Gineral,