82                                  HISTORY OF THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH REGIMENT O.V.V.I.

credit to a lunatic asylum. It is a work of wonderful weight, being the heaviest thing of the kind extant. It is said, as an evidence of his systematic mode of doing things, that when writing the great chapter in Armageddon on the "Goat with Seven Horns," he was in the habit of drinking seven horns a day himself, on the sagacious supposition that "like would produce like!" The following sermon is, however, his great effort. It was commenced on the memorable Sunday of the fall of Fort Donelson, and its delivery was unluckily cut short by the announcement of that calamitous event. But we must no longer delay the sermon.

           The services were opened on this occasion with a prayer by a Texan Ranger:

           "Oh Lord! Thou knowest that this thing of praying is altogether out of my line, and as hard for me to do as for Wigfall to keep sober, or Jeff Davis be made pay his debts, or Floyd to keep from stealing. But, Thou knowest we are some on tangle-foot whisky, good at horse-racing, and tip-top at poker, and can hold four aces about as often as 'John Morgan' or 'any other man.' Help us this day, for we are in a peck of trouble, and it will be the last time I'll ever trouble you. Amen."


           TEXT – "Curse ye, Meroz, curse ye bitterly. – Beloved brethren and sisters, you are assembled to-day to discharge the most important duties of your lives. The Yankees in 'chariots of fire' are cavorting and charging like the 'beast with seven heads and ten horns' spoken of by St. John. (Brother McNairy, make that bloodhound of yours keep still, or I'll expel him from the church, even as Judas was cast out of the synagogue.) The uncircumcised sons of the Philistines are riding over the holy soil of the South in chariots of fire, even as the chariots of Elijah and Aminadab, and my soul waxeth 'wonderfully and fearfully mad.' Oh, brethren, let us do as King David, the sweet psalmist of Israel, did, when he arose and went after his sling. (Stop, my brother; don't be in a hurry to leave; I didn't mean a gin-sling, but the sling of the 'spirits of just men made perfect,' which will send a rock into the temples of Abraham Lincoln.) Brethren, let us see if we can't perforate into the meaning of my text – ah! 'Curse ye Meroz.' My text suggests two points, the cowardice of a cuss, and the cuss of cowardice.

           "Firstly, there is always cowardice in a low, ornry cuss, and the cuss is always full of cowardice as our publishing house is of piety, which you know, my brethren, is an exclusively religious concern, and publishes among other excellent books my great work on prophecy, called Armageddon. Price one dollar and fifty cents – ah!

           "Secondly, the cuss of cowardice. Who, my brethren and sisters, is a cuss of cowardice? A cuss of cowardice is one who bellows like a 'bull of Bashan' in time of safety, and then runs like a 'fatted calf' in time of danger. There is Isham G. Harris, who issued a proclamation, a few days ago, talking about 'defending the sanctity of our homes, and wives and daughters, and dying in the last ditch.' Yes, he cavorted mightily, and should, as he 'smelt the battle afar off;' but to-day he remaineth like a disconsolate whang-doodle, in the dark mountains of Hepsidam, roaring for her first born, and will not be comforted, because they are not.' Instead of staying to fight that son of Belial, Andy

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