CHAPTER I.

It is a dingy old sign. It has hung there in sun and rain till its

letters are faint and its face is furrowed. It has looked down on a

generation that has passed away, and seen those who placed it there go

out of that doorway never to return; still it clings to that dingy old

warehouse, and still Russell, Rollins & Co. is signed in that dingy old

counting-room at the head of the stairway. It is known the world over.

It is heard of on the cotton-fields of Texas, in the cane-brakes of

Cuba, and amid the rice-swamps of Carolina. The Chinaman speaks of it as

he sips his tea and handles his chop-sticks in the streets of Canton,

and the half-naked negro rattles its gold as he gathers palm-oil and the

copal-gum on the western coast of Africa. Its plain initials, painted in

black on a white ground, float from tall masts over many seas, and its

simple 'promise to pay,' scrawled in a bad hand on a narrow strip of

paper, unlocks the vaults of the best bankers in Europe. And yet, it is

a dingy old sign! Men look up to it as they pass by, and wonder that a

cracked, weather-beaten board that would not sell for a dollar, should

be counted 'good for a million.'

It is a dingy old warehouse, with narrow, dark, cobwebbed windows, and

wide, rusty iron shutters, which, as the bleak November wind sweeps up

old Long Wharf, swing slowly on their hinges with a sharp, grating

creak. I heard them in my boyhood. Perched on a tall stool at that old

desk, I used to listen, in the long winter-nights, to those strange,

wild cries, till I fancied they were voices of the uneasy dead, come

back to take the vacant seats beside me, and to pace again, with ghostly

tread, the floor of that dark old counting-room. They were ever a

mystery and a terror to me; but they never creaked so harshly, or cried

so wildly, as on a bleak November night, not many years ago, when I

turned my steps, for the last time, up the trembling old stairway.

It was just after nightfall. A single gas-burner threw a dim, uncertain

light over the old desk, and lit up the figure of a tall, gray-headed

man, who was bending over it. He had round, stooping shoulders, and

long, spindling limbs. One of his large feet, encased in a thick,

square-toed shoe, rested on the round of the desk, the other, which was

planted squarely on the floor, upheld his spare, gaunt frame. His face

was thin and long, and two deep, black lines under his eyes contrasted

strangely with the pallid whiteness of his features. His clothes were of

the fashion of some years ago, and had, no doubt, served long as his

'Sunday best,' before being degraded to daily duty. They were of plain

black, and though not shabby, were worn and threadbare, and of decidedly

economical appearance. Every thing about him, indeed, wore an economical

look. His scant coat-tails, narrow pants, and short waistcoat, showed

that the cost of each inch of material had been counted, while his thin

hair, brushed carefully over his bald head, had not a lock to spare; and

even his large, sharp bones were covered with only just enough flesh to

hold them comfortably together. He had stood there till his eye was dim

and his step feeble, and though he had, for twenty years--when handing

in his semi-annual trial-balances to the head of the house--declared

that each one was his last, every body said he would continue to stand

there till his own trial-balance was struck, and his earthly accounts

were closed forever.

As I entered, he turned his mild blue eye upon me, and taking my hand

warmly in his, exclaimed:

'My dear boy'--I was nearly forty--'I am glad to see you.'

'I am glad to see _you_, David.'

'Why, bless me, Mr. Kirke, is that you?' exclaimed a much younger man,

springing from his seat near the other, and grasping me by both hands.

'What has brought you to Boston?'

'Business, Frank. I've just arrived, and go back to-morrow. Come! my

wife is in the carriage at the door, and wants you to spend the evening

with us.'

'I can't--I'm very sorry,' and he added, in a lower tone, '_she_ has

just heard of her father's death, and goes home to-morrow. I have

engaged to pass the evening with her.'

'Her father dead! how was it?'

'He was thrown from his horse, and died the same day. She knew nothing

of it till yesterday. I can not neglect her now. I will spend to-morrow

with mother.'

He always called her _mother_, though he was not her son. He had done it

when a child, and now that he was a man, hers was the dearest name he

knew. He loved her as his mother, and she loved him as her son. But any

woman might have loved him. His straight, closely-knit, sinewy frame,

dark, deep-set eyes, and broad, open forehead, overhung with thick,

brown hair, were only the outshadowing of a beautiful mind, of an open,

upright, manly nature, whose firm and steady integrity nothing could

shake.

'I'm sorry to hear it,' I replied; 'but go down and see her, while I

speak to Mr. Hallet.'

Rapping at the door of an inner office, separated from the outer one by

a ground-glass partition, I was admitted by a tall, dark man, who, with

a stiff and slightly embarrassed manner, said to me:

'I am glad to see you, Mr. Kirke. Pray, be seated.'

As he pointed to a chair, a shorter and younger gentleman, who was

writing at another desk, rose, and slapping me familiarly on the back,

exclaimed:

'My dear fellow, how are you?'

'Very well, Cragin, how are you?'

'Good as new--never better in my life--how goes the world with you?'

The last speaker was not more than thirty-three, but a bald spot on the

top of his head, and a slight falling-in of his mouth, caused by

premature decay of the teeth, made him seem several years older. He had

marked but not regular features, and a restless, dark eye, which opened

and shut with a peculiar wink that kept time with the motion of his lips

in speaking. His clothes were cut in a loose, jaunty style, and his

manner, though brusque and abrupt, betokened, like his face, a free,

frank, manly character. He was ten or twelve years the junior of the

other, and as unlike him as one man can be unlike another.

The older gentleman, as I have said, was tall and dark. He had a high,

bold forehead, and wore heavy gray whiskers, trimmed with the utmost

nicety, and meeting under a sharp, narrow chin. His face was large and

full, and his nose pointed and prominent, but his mouth was small, and

gathered in at the corners like a rat's; and, as if to add to the

rat-resemblance, its small, white teeth seemed borrowed from the jaws of

that animal. There was a stately precision in his manner, and a stealthy

softness in his tread, that would have impressed a stranger unfavorably;

but _I_ knew him. We had been boys together, and he loved me as he loved

his own son. How well he loved _him_, the reader will learn, if he

follows the course of my story.

These two gentlemen--Mr. Hallet and Mr. Cragin--were the senior partners

in the great house of Russell, Rollins & Co.

Replying satisfactorily to the inquiry of Mr. Cragin, I turned to the

older partner, and said:

'Well, Mr. Hallet, how does Frank get on?'

'Oh! very well--knows a little too much, like most young men of his age,

but he does very well.'

''Very well,' Mr. Ballet! d--d if he don't--he's the smartest boy

living--made a clean forty thousand for us not two months ago--forced it

on Hallet against his better judgment!' And Mr. Cragin laughed till he

showed all that was left of two rows of tobacco-stained teeth.

'How was it Cragin?' I asked, greatly pleased.

A short rap came at the office-door, and Frank entered, his hat in his

hand.

'Mother insists on my taking supper with her--will you go now, sir?' he

said, addressing me.

Before I could reply, Mr. Hallet, rather sharply, asked:

'Have you finished your letters for the steamer?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What have you said to Maclean, Maris & Co., about the gum-copal?'

'I will show you, sir.'

And going into the other room, Frank returned in a moment with an open

letter, still wet from the copying-press. Mr. Hallet took it and read it

over slowly and carefully, then handing it back, he said, in the

slightly pompous tone which was natural to him:

'That will do--you can go.'

I was rising to bid them 'good-evening,' when the senior said to me:

'Mr. Kirke, I dislike to trespass on your time, but I would like to

confer with you for a moment, on a private matter.'

'Certainly, sir.' And I added: 'Frank, tell your mother I will meet you

at the hotel in half an hour.'

'But I must be in Cambridge by eight o'clock,' replied the young man,

looking a little chop-fallen.

'Well, don't wait for me--I will see you to-morrow.'

Bidding me 'good-night,' he left; and Mr. Cragin, seeing that his

partner would be alone with me, left shortly afterward. As soon as

Cragin was gone, Mr. Hallet, opening the door, called:

'David!'

The book-keeper entered, and took a seat beside me.

'Mr. Kirke,' said Mr. Hallet, when the other was seated, 'I want to talk

with you and David about Frank. He has entangled himself with that

Southern girl, and, I hear, means to marry her. I strongly object to it.

I've not a particle of influence with him, and _you_ must prevent it.'

'Why should we prevent it?' I asked, rather sharply. 'What is there

against the young woman?'

'Nothing against her character, but she'd not be a fit wife for Frank.

These Southern women are educated with wrong ideas--they make poor wives

for poor men. He must marry a rich girl, or one brought up with

New-England habits. This one would bring him nothing, and spend all he

made.'

'But she is an only child, and her father is rich.'

'Pshaw! that is bosh! Preston always lived high, and I'll guarantee his

estate is bankrupt. I'm sorry for it, for he owes us.'

'Is that so! Largely?' 'No, not largely; how much is he overdrawn,

David?'

'Eighty-two hundred and odd.'

'I'm surprised at that,' I said. 'The old house did not allow such

things.'

'Neither do we; 'twas Cragin's work. He thought 'twould annoy Frank if

the drafts went back, and'--he hesitated a moment--'he insisted upon

it.'

'I am opposed to interfering in such matters. I always taught Frank to

think for himself,' I remarked.

'You taught him to think too much for himself. He is self-willed and

headstrong to a fault.'

'Perhaps his father might have trained him better, if--he had tried,' I

replied, with a slight sneer.

'Pardon me, Mr. Kirke, I meant no reflection on your management of him.

I only feel that this is a most important step, and he ought to be

advised. He should marry rich, for he has nothing, and can not rely upon

me.'

'He does not rely upon you; but he is a partner now, and his income

ought to enable him to support a wife.'

'His income is uncertain; he may not remain long in the concern,'

replied Mr. Hallet coolly.

David started; his face reddened to the roots of his hair, and he asked

in a sententious way, showing even in his expenditure of breath the

close economy that was the rule of his life: 'Who told you that, Mr.

Hallet?'

'No one,' replied that gentleman, seemingly surprised at the abrupt

question; 'I am deliberating on it myself. He is sowing dissension

between Cragin and me. The lowest boy in the office; even you, David,

pay more heed to him than to _me_.'

'That may be your own fault,' I said, a little sarcastically; 'if you

should treat him as Cragin and David do, you might have nothing to

complain of.'

'I treat him well, sir; but I make him _know his place_.' The last words

were emphasized in a hard, wicked tone.

Certain old recollections had been rushing across my memory during the

latter part of this conversation, and this last remark brought me to my

feet, as I said: 'You treat him like a dog, sir! I have seen it. If he

were not your son, he should not stay with you another day! But I warn

you, John Hallet--do not go too far. Cast that boy off--harm him to the

extent of a hair--and, so help me God, I will strip you of the lying

cloak in which you hide your false, hypocritical soul, and show men

_what you are!_'

In my excitement, I had crossed the room, and stood then directly before

him. His face flushed and his eye quailed before my steady gaze, but he

said nothing.

David remarked, in a mild tone: 'Edmund, that an't the right spirit; it

an't.'

'You don't know the whole, David; if you did, even _you_ would say he is

the basest man living.'

Hallet pressed his teeth together; his eyes flashed fire, and he seemed

about to spring upon me; but mastering his passion, he rose after a

moment and extended his hand, saying: 'Come, Mr. Kirke, this is not the

talk of old friends! Let us shake hands and forget it.'

'Never, sir! I took your hand for the last time when I left this

counting-room, twenty years ago. I never touch it again! I shall tell

that boy _to-night_ that you are his father.'

'You will not do so imprudent a thing. I will do any thing for him--any

thing you require. I promise you--on my honor,' and the stately head of

the great house of Russell, Rollins & Co., sank into a chair and bent

down his face like a criminal in the dock.

'I can not trust you,' I said, as I paced the room,

'You can, Edmund; he means it. He is sorry for the wrong he's done,'

said the old book-keeper, in that mild, winning tone which had made me

so love him in my boyhood.

'Well, let him _prove_ that he means it; let him tell you all; let him

tell you how much he has had to repent of!'

'I _have_ told him all. I told him years ago.'

'Did you tell him how you cast off that poor girl? how for years on her

knees she vainly plead for a paltry pittance to keep her child from

starving and herself from sin? Did you tell him how you forced her on

the street? how you drove her from you with curses, when she prayed you

to save her from the pit of infamy into which you had plunged her? Did

you tell him,' and I hissed the words in his ear, while he writhed on

his seat in such agony as only the guilty can feel; 'how, at last, after

all those wretched years, she died of starvation and disease, with all

that mountain of sin on her soul, and all of it heaped on her by YOU!'

'Oh! no! I did not--could not tell him that! I did not know I had done

_that!_' groaned the stately gentleman.

'You lie, John Hallet! You know you lie! and may God deal with you as

you dealt with her,' and I took up my hat and laid my hand on the door.

'Stop, stop, Edmund; don't go with those words. You would not have God

do to _you_ as you have done to others!' said David, in the same mild

tone as before.

'True, David. I ought not to wish him harm; but I loathe and detest the

hypocritical villain. Frank shall leave him to-night, and forever!' and

again I laid my hand on the door.

Mr. Hallet looked up; his face was pale as marble, and his hands

clenched tightly the arms of his chair, 'Don't go, Mr. Kirke,' he cried;

'stay one moment. Can't this be arranged?'

'Yes, sir. Sign a dissolution article at once--_here_--NOW, and give

Frank your check for twenty thousand dollars.'

'No, no! You don't mean that! It is too much--you can not ask _that_!'

gasped the great merchant.

'Too much for the son of a man worth a million? Too much to pay for

starving his mother, and turning him adrift at six years old? It is not

enough! He must have _thirty_ thousand!'

'You are mad, Mr. Kirke!' And he rose, and looked at me with a pleading

face. 'I can not pay that amount down. It is impossible.'

'David, how much has he in bank on private account?'

Mr. Hallet cast a beseeching glance at his book-keeper; but without

moving a muscle, the old man quietly replied: 'Fifty-three thousand.'

'I knew you lied, Hallet. It is natural to you.'

'But I can't let Frank go without Mr. Cragin's consent.'

'I will arrange with Cragin. Sign the check and draw the paper at once,

or I go.'

'But give me time to think--see me to-morrow.'

'I shall never exchange a word with you after to-night. You can have ten

minutes--not a second more,' and I took out my watch to count the time.

He seated himself at his desk, and rested his head on his hand for a

moment; then turning to me, he said: 'You promise that this interview,

and all that has passed, shall never be mentioned by you?'

'I do--never to your injury.'

'David, please write the check,' said the senior partner, as he

proceeded himself to draw up the agreement. In a few minutes he handed

it to me. It was short, and merely recited that the co-partnership which

had theretofore existed between John Hallet, Augustus Cragin, and Henry

F. Mandell, under the name and style of Russell, Rollins & Co., was on

that day dissolved by mutual consent; said Mandell withdrawing, and

assigning the control of all the assets of said firm to said Hallet and

Cragin, and releasing to said Hallet any portion of its capital and

profits to which he might be entitled.

I read the document, and quietly handed it back. 'That will not do, Mr.

Hallet. Thirty thousand dollars settles with _you_, his father. I have

not, and _shall_ not make any settlement with the firm. David must pay

Frank what is his due--no more, no less.'

'But,' began Mr. Hallet.

'I have nothing more to say on the subject, sir.'

He drew a deep sigh. The parting with an only son, and with thirty

thousand dollars, at one and the same time, affected him deeply. He

might have borne the loss of the son; but the loss of so much money rent

his small, black soul into fragments. However, he rewrote the paper, and

passed it to me. It was all right; and when he had signed and David had

witnessed it, I placed it in my pocket-book. Then, with a trembling

hand, he handed me the check. It was drawn to my order; and I remarked,

as I took it: 'This is not what I require, sir. I want your check,

indorsed by David.'

'This is most unaccountable, Mr. Kirke. Do you question my check for

thirty thousand dollars?' he asked, his face flushing with anger.

'Oh! no, sir, not at all; but you might stop its payment. With David's

indorsement, you would not _dare_ to do it.'

'I will indorse it,' said David; and he quietly proceeded to write

another.

That cold, hard, soulless man had a wife and children; but that old

book-keeper was the only being in all this wide world that he loved!

Placing the check with the other paper, I shook David by the hand, and

bidding him 'good-night', passed down the old stairway.

As Frank is the hero of my history, I will, in another chapter, go back

some seventeen years, and tell the reader how he came to be under my

control, and how he rose to be a partner in the great house of Russell,

Rollins & Co.

CORN IS KING.

Up among the Granite mountains,

By the Bay State strand,

Hark! the paean cry is sounding

Through all Yankee land.

'Wave the stars and stripes high o'er us,

Let every freeman sing,

In a loud and joyful chorus:

Brave young Corn is King!

Join, join, for God and freedom! Sing, Northmen, sing:

Old King Cotton's dead and buried: brave young Corn is King.'

Southward rolls the cry of gladness,

On past Washington;

Where the bond-slave stoops no longer,

But stands up, a Man!

O'er battle-fields of 'Ole Virginny,'

Floats the black man's song:

'Brudders, God is takin' vengeance

For de darky's wrong!

Shout, shout, for God and Freedom! Sing, darkies, sing!

Ole Massa Cotton's dead foreber: Young Massa Corn am King!'

Through the Mississippi valley,

Down the river's tide,

Hosts of patriots rush to rally

On their Country's side;

And across the green savannahs

Of the Southern clime,

Armies, under Union banners,

To this song keep time:

'March, march, for God and Freedom! Sing, soldiers, sing!

Pallid Cotton's dead and buried: Yellow Corn is King!'

Let the tidings swell o'er ocean

To another shore,

Till proud England pales and trembles

Where she scoffed before!

Ne'er again shall serpent-friendship

Rise to hiss and sting!

Cotton leagues no more with _Traitors_:

Honest Corn is King!

_Jubilate_! God and Freedom! Sing, Americans, sing

Tyrant Cotton's dead forever! Honest Corn is King!

LITERARY NOTICES.

AMONG THE PINES. BY EDMUND KIRKE. New-York: J. R. Gilmore,

532 Broadway. 1862.

Perhaps it is not altogether in rule to say much of a work which has

appeared in our pages. But we may at least call attention to what others

have said. And good authority--plenty of it, such authority as should

make a reputation for any book--has declared _The Pines_ to be in truth

a work of the highest merit and of a new order. It is a perfectly

truthful record of scenes and characters drawn from personal experience

in the South; combining the accuracy of Olmstead's works with the

thrilling interest of _Uncle Tom_. It should be fairly stated--as the

author desires it should be--that every thing did not occur precisely in

the order in which it is here narrated. But all is _true_--every page

speaks for itself in this particular. No stronger piece of local

coloring ever issued from the American press. We seem, in reading it, to

live in the South--to know the people who come before us. All of them

are, indeed, life-portraits. In one or two instances, the very names of

the originals remain unchanged.

In it the author deals fairly and honorably with the South. The renegade

Yankee, and not the native planter, is made to bear the heaviest blow.

The principal character, Colonel J----, is one of nature's noblemen,

struggling through aristocratic education and circumstance with an evil

whose evil he cannot comprehend. Very valuable indeed are the sketches

of life among the 'mean whites.' No descriptions of them to be compared

with these in _The Pines_ have ever yet appeared. They rise clear as

cameo-reliefs on a dark ground, and we feel that they too are like the

slave-holder, victims like the slave, of a system, and not with him,

deliberate wretches. Their squalor, ignorance, pride, and

dependence--their whole social _status_, inferior to that of the blacks

whom they despise, appear as set forth, we do not say by a master-hand,

but _by themselves_.

This work, tolerant and just, yet striking, has appeared at the right

time. While interesting as a novel, it is full of solid, simple

facts--it is based on them and built up with them. Without attempting to

set forth a principle, it shows beyond dispute that slavery does not pay

in the South as well as free labor would, and that the blacks would

produce more as free laborers than as slaves. It shows that Emancipation

for the sake of the White Man is a great truth, and that the white man

would be benefited by raising the sense of independence in the black,

and by elevating him in every way in which he is capable of improvement.

It may be said with great truth of _The Pines_, that it would be

difficult to find a book in which such striking facts and vivid pictures

are set forth with such perfect simplicity of language. There is no

effort at fine writing in it, and no consciousness of its absence. The

author never seems to have realized that a story could be told for

effect, and the natural result has been the most unintentional yet the

strongest effect. The practical eye of one familiar with planks and

turpentine, building and farming, business and furniture, economy and

comfort, betrays itself continually. He sees how things could be

bettered not as a mere philanthropist would try to see them, but as one

who knows how capital ought to be employed, and he appreciates the fact

that the sufferings of the people of every class in the South are really

based on the _wastefulness_ of the present system. That this spirit

should be combined with a keen observation of local humor, and in

several instances with narratives imbued with deep pathos, is not,

however, remarkable. The man who can most vividly set forth facts and

transfer nature to paper, seldom misses variety.

We rejoice that this work has met with such favorable reception from the

public, and are happy to state that the author will continue his

contributions to these columns. He has already, by a single effort,

established a wide-spread reputation, and we know that he has that in

him which will induce efforts of equal merit and a future which will be

honorably recorded in histories of the literature of the present day.

THOMAS HOOD'S WORKS. Volume IV. Aldine Edition. Edited by

EPES SARGENT. New-York: G. P. Putnam. Boston: A. K.

Loring. 1862.

No better paper, no better type, can be desired than what is lavished

upon these beautiful editions of Putnam's works. It is a pleasure to

touch their silky, Baskerville-feeling leaves, and think that one

possesses in the series one more work _de luxe_, which 'any one' might

be glad to own. The present consists of The Whims and Oddities, with

the--originally--two volumes of National Tales: the former piquant and

variously eccentric; the latter written in a quaint, old-fashioned

style, which the editor compares justly to that of BOCCACCIO,

yet which was really, till within some fifty years, so very common a

form of narration, having so much in common with Spanish and French

_nouvelettes_, that it is hardly worth while to suppose that

HOOD followed the great. Italian at all. The whole work is one

mass of entertainment, none the worse for having acquired somewhat of a

game-y flavor of age, and for gradually falling a little behind the

latest styles of humor. 'Mass! 'tis a merry book, and will make them

merry who read it!'

THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. Edited by EPES SARGENT.

Vol. V. New-York: G. P. Putnam. 1862.

The present volume of Hood's writings is composed of dramatic sketches,

odes, political satires, and miscellaneous pieces not generally

contained in former collections of his works. Among these is the long

and beautiful 'Lamia' in dramatic form; the 'Epping Hunt;' the poems of

sentiment; the inimitable Odes and Addresses to Great People, and some

scores of minor poems, mostly humorous, including, however, all of those

on which his reputation as a true poet of the highest rank is based.

Among these is the 'Lay of the Laborer,' a standing and bitter reproach

to England--the England of millions of pounds of capital--the England of

piety--the England of morality--the England of 'all the rights of man,'

where there are more paupers and more miseries than in any other land on

earth, and where there is accordingly the most social tyranny of any

country.

'Ay, only give me work,

And then you need not fear

That I shall snare his worship's hare,

Or kill his grace's deer.'

'Where savage laws begrudge

The pauper babe its breath,

And doom a wife to a widow's life

Before her partner's death.'

When England shall have turned aside the reproach of this poem, it will

be time for her to abuse America as 'uncivilized.'

AGNES OF SORRENTO, By Mrs. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1862.

If there be, at the present day, an ungrateful task for an intelligent

reader or a conscientious reviewer, it is to be obliged to deal with a

work whose whole compass is merely that of a second-rate romance

inspired by rococo sentimentalism. We regret to speak thus of a book by

so eminent a writer as Mrs. Stowe; but when any one at this time

undertakes to build up a novel out of such material as cloisters, monks,

and nuns, Beato Angelico and frankincense, cavaliers and Savonarola,

with the occasional 'purple patch' of a rhyming Latin hymn--in short,

when we see the long-exhausted melo-dramatic style, which was years ago

thoroughly quizzed in 'Firmilian,' revived in the year 1862 in a work of

fiction, we can not refrain from expressing sorrow that a public can

still be found to welcome such a bouquet of faded and tattered

artificial flowers. There is something, indeed, almost painfully amusing

in the liberal use of perfectly exhausted and thoroughly hackneyed

elements of popular romance which appear in every page of _Agnes of

Sorrento_. A writer has said of the heroine, that 'she is one of those

ethereal females, only encountered in romance, who dwell on the brink of

exaltation, and never eat bread and butter without seeming to fly in the

face of Divine Providence.' But this feebly expresses the worn-out

ornamental piety of the work. It would require but very little

alteration to become one of the most intensely amusing books of the age.

SEVENTH ANNUAL REPORT OF THE INSURANCE COMMISSIONERS OF THE

COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS.

An interesting collection of documents, which will be read or examined

with great pleasure by all who devote their attention to the rapidly

maturing science of insurance, a science which perhaps combines in its

range of material as much of the curious and useful as any other known;

the whole tending to one great lesson: that every thing should be

insured and that _no insurance should be taxed by Government_.

TWENTY-FOURTH ANNUAL REPORT OF THE BOARD OF EDUCATION.

Boston: William White. 1862.

Apart from the vastly important testimony which these works bear to the

efforts annually made in our good State in the cause of education--the

great source, let us trust, of the politics to be--we seldom fail to

find in them many useful hints as to the practical business of teaching,

of which any writer on the subject would be glad to avail himself. Many

such, at least, we detect in the volume before us, and sincerely trust

that all will in due time bear their good fruit.

CONCORD FIGHT. By S. R. BARTLETT. Second edition.

Concord: Albert Tracy. Boston: Crosby, Nichols & Co. 1862.

A poem of thirty-two pages, devoted to setting forth the incidents of

Concord and Lexington fights, in the Revolutionary days, and therefore

very appropriate to our own time. The 'plan' is excellent; the incidents

well devised, while many little lyrical touches here and there are truly

admirable. For instance, 'The White Cockade.'

'Firm hearts and true, strong bands to do,

For liberty;

The fierce old strain rings once again:

'Come death or victory!'

'The lips that woke the dawning note

Are passed away;

But the _echoes_ of the 'White Cockade'

Ring round our hills to-day.'

Long may they ring, and long may the descendants of the men of '76 prove

that they still hear in spirit 'the dawning notes.'

EDITOR'S TABLE

The English journals and statesmen, in their excessive anxiety to

regulate every thing for the world in general and for America in

particular, quite lose sight of the fact, that before interfering in a

neighbor's affairs, it is best to know what the state of affairs may

really be. Of late, we have seen these makers of public opinion making

mischief through gross ignorance, to a degree well-nigh unparalleled in

history. On the strength of flying rumors, unfinished events imperfectly

reported, and through Secession slanders, their great leaders, both

representative and editorial, have ventured to spread before the masses

statements which must unavoidably tend to greatly exasperate and

alienate the people of our respective nations. They are blindly running

up scores of hatred, which at some day may call for fearful settlement.

Their influence is very great on the rank-loving multitude in their own

country--a multitude which, after all, is, in the majority, more

miserable and nearly as ignorant as that of any realm in Europe, or even

the East, for there are fewer paupers in Turkey or Syria than in wealthy

England. Yet, quite unheeding this, they continue to express sympathy

for the South, declare with Brougham that the bubble of Democracy has at

length burst, and chuckle over every Northern defeat. All of which shall

be duly remembered.

The grossest error into which these men have fallen, is that of

continually regarding our war not as a struggle between two great

principles, or as an unavoidable necessity, but simply as a strife

between two factions. Nearly every London editorial which we have seen

for weeks proves this. 'What will the North gain if it conquers the

South? What will the South make? What are WE to benefit by a

victory of either?' It is perfectly natural, however, for a monarchy,

virtually without 'politics,' devoid of great progressive ideas, and

smothered by 'loyalty' and faith in an aristocracy, to see, as men did

in the middle ages, nothing but a dispute of rival forces in every

battle. It is 'Brown _vs_. Brown' to them, and nothing more. With the

exception of Bright and his friends, no one in England seems to

comprehend that our North has in itself the vital, progressive energy

which _must_ give it victory--the same spirit which enables English

civilization to gain on the Hindoo or the New-Zealander--the spirit of

science and intelligence, which conquers ignorance.

The fact that English statesmen can talk so calmly of the possibilities

of Southern victory, and weigh with such equanimity the claims of the

combatants, simply proves their ignorance of the real condition of the

United States. And they _are_ indeed very ignorant of us. Perhaps

ignorance and thoughtlessness were never more decidedly manifested than

in Brougham's late rhodomontade on the failure of Democracy in this

country. For, in fact, there is not difference enough between the

representative _power_ of England and that of America to make a

question. Between Commons and our House of Representatives--the most

influential legislative bodies--there is no such great difference.

English writers have asserted that our government is actually the

strongest monarchy of the two, because our President possesses far

greater power of patronage and personal influence than the Queen. The

real difference is not between the forms of government, but between the

innate flunkeyism of the Briton and the independence of the American.

If we had the British government in every detail, and if John Bull were

to adopt our system, the countries would stand where they were, and each

gradually 'reform' itself, according to its ideas of reform, back into

the old routine. The Englishman, needing 'my Lord' and 'Her Gracious

Majesty,' and as unable to live without his golden calves of 'superiors'

as bees are to exist without a queen, would soon create them; while the

American blood, sprung from the republican Puritan, and developed into

strength on a continent, would very soon, after a nine days' féte to his

new fétish, kick it over, and instituting caucuses and primary

ward-meetings, or 'town-meetings,' (a ceremony which no European in

existence, save the Russian, is capable of properly managing,) would

soon have all back again in the old road.

Democracy among the 'Yankees' as well as all North-Americans who are

free from a servile respect for simple rank and money, is something very

different from that mere form which Brougham, and with him nearly all

Europe, believe it to be. We are not Frenchmen, or Englishmen, or

Orientals, to quietly sit down under any kind of government which chance

may impose, and exclaim: 'It is fate.' Democracy with us is not the mere

form which they imagine. It is, like the English government, like the

German, like the Pachalik of the Oriental, something as much a part of

us as our national physiognomy. A very great proportion of the

Englishmen who come here, remain flunkeys to the end--an American, other

than a soul-diseased disciple of Richmond sociology, or some weak

brother or sister dazed by court ball-tickets--quite as generally remain

a despiser of men who acknowledge other men as their betters by mere

birth. A love of freedom is in our blood, in our life, in our habits. We

are fond, it is true, of temporarily lionizing great people, but we soon

reduce them to our own level. America has shaken down more eminencies

into notorieties than any other country in the world--it is a severe and

terrible ordeal for great foreigners. Our eagerness to behold them is

simply a keen curiosity and a natural love of amusement which is soon

appeased. An American would crowd foremost to see Queen Victoria for the

first time in his life--the second opportunity would be neglected. But

the London shop-keeper who has seen that lady perhaps hundreds of times,

still rushes out in wild haste, with eyes wide open, to behold her when

she drives past. 'They can never get enough of it.' As one of their own

writers has observed, a London tradesman may have been swindled a

hundred times by real or sham noblemen, and yet no sooner does some

flaunting cheat with the _air noble_ enter his shop, than the cockney

bows low and implores patronage with a cringing zeal only equaled by his

'uppishness' to humbler customers.

The truth simply is, that English thinkers wrongly judge our people to

be like their own, and as capable of promptly submitting to acknowledged

superiors. In the same blindness and ignorance, they see only two

parties, equal in all respects in this war, and realize nothing of the

innate vitality and irresistibly accretive power of free-labor, science,

and progress, when brought into opposition with a conservatism which

scorns every thing pertaining to the rights of the majority. Misled by

their associations, they believe that the 'Aristocratic' party must

triumph in the end, forgetting that even in their own country capital is

gradually destroying the old land-marks which divided the privileged

classes from the masses. We who virtually occupy a higher stand-point in

history, though, perhaps, we are newer dwellers in our domain and not as

yet as comfortable in it as they in theirs, can, however, afford to

laugh at their opinions and threats. A nation, whose utmost effort could

not raise above thirty thousand men for a war in which the point of

honor between themselves and the French was at stake, is not the one to

lay down laws to the American North, which could--probably without

drafting--bring its million into the field. It is worth remembering

that, had they sent us their Warrior, as they threatened after the Mason

and Slidell difficulty, she would have met with the Monitor!

* * * * *

Three hundred thousand men are wanted--and that right early!

Let there be meetings, speeches, subscriptions--let every thing that is

vigorous and impulsive and patriotic thrill the people forthwith: Let

there be no lagging in the good cause. Never since the war begun was

there a time when a fierce rally was more needed. We have it in our

power to crush this rebellion to atoms, if the people will but once

arouse in their might. Even this draft for three hundred thousand, when

we come to portion it off among those remaining in our counties, becomes

quite trifling.

'More than shooting goes to making war.' All who are in the North can

fight to good purpose, if they will, every man and woman of them, _do

their best_ to raise soldiers, equip them and take care of their

families.

Men! rise up and go forth. You will acquire a patent of nobility by

serving in this war, which will be worth more to you and yours in coming

days than any title on earth. You go to great risks--but not to any

thing which can outweigh the good you can do for this truly holy cause.

Have you lived lives 'of no great account'--_now_ is the time to rise to

a position--to be some body, and make your mark. Have you been a mere

cipher in the great sum of life--a neglected trifle--now is the time to

raise yourself to a real value. It can never be said of a man who served

in this war that he was of no great account.

Has your life been stained--by misfortune or your own faults? Now is the

time to wipe out the old score and begin afresh. What cautious, timid

Peace rejects as bad, bold, hearty War grasps at with eagerness and

makes good and great.

Are you poor, and dragging out a dull, base life, more sluggishly than

your abilities deserve? Go to the war--in God's name, go to the war! Who

knows what changes in life you may live through--what new opportunities

may open before you! In that wide Southland lie a million homes, and

there will be those left behind who--if you fight bravely--will give the

matter no rest till you are richly rewarded. There is not a soldier in

this war at this instant who is not acquiring what may be a fortune.

_Somebody_ must occupy the lands left vacant in the South!

Are you a lover? Make her proud of you.

Do not fear the risks. That is a poor, wretched life which has never run

the chances of death.

'Fast in battle the bullets fly,

But many a soldier the bullets pass by.'

Arise all! Up, Guards, and at 'em! Let there be a general up-stirring

and a hearty good-will in this matter. The enemy have brought every

white man among them into the field--they are kept alive solely by the

blacks. One tremendous effort, such as we are capable of making, would

sweep them from the face of the earth. Another struggle and we reach the

shore.

* * * * *

Many years ago, the South began to alienate itself from the Union, by

blindly abusing every thing pertaining to the North as 'Abolition.' They

wanted a grievance; they would have one, and so yelled 'Wolf! wolf!'

till the wolf came in roaring earnest. In like manner, the Democratic

dabblers in mischief are now yelling 'Radical,' abusing emancipation,

and doing all in their power to hoist themselves into notoriety. They

are determined to force separate parties into existence, and they will

end by accomplishing their purpose, by being in a losing reactionary

minority, which will bear the brand in later days of having been the

most unprincipled, narrow-minded, and desperately selfish faction which

this country has ever known.

Gentle reader, accept the following from a friend in the quaint spirit

in which it is written, and understand not by bad company aught that is

evil--for if we read the word of the enigma, the 'bad' among her

'friends of the future' is indeed goodness-that saving salt which is

often found among many who are too hastily banned as lost in the world.

So, we pray you, judge it kindly:

FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE.

'There is no real amusement except in bad company.'--_Italian Proverb_.

Reprehensible but real sentiment of your humble servant, O dearly

beloved reader! Your lips reprove me, but your heart forgives and

sympathizes! And that heart rebels with mine against that adverse Past

which has given to us so little of 'real amusement' from 'bad company,'

and demands, like mine, reparation from the Future for the sufferings we

have endured from unexceptionable and perfectly good company!

The representative men and women of that small and select bad company,

(who have made the desert of our lives to blossom with roses, violets,

strawberries and cream,) how distinctly they stand out on the horizon of

memory! I see them--I count them, as easily as those few stately pines

on yonder hill-top--one, two, three, four, five, six, _seven_. No more?

What! not a delightful eight? Who has translated the murmur of the

summer wind among the pines as 'No more?' '_No more?_' Alas! to-day they

give that answer to me, as I seek for one other in that bad and beloved

company! 'But he cometh'--_adveniat_--he cometh in the future. O eighth!

your morning will yet dawn.

Welcome, O Friend of the Future I whatever thy sex. Welcome! whether in

cashmere and graceful crinolineaments, or in gray-suit and

_grecio_!--only be 'more of the same sort.' Heaven is _not_ so cruel! to

give us five hundred dear twin-friends, on whom one has to tie five

hundred different colored bows (I assure you, Monsieur, the

ribbon-florists have this season produced _five hundred colors_) in

order to distinguish one from another! Heaven would not do this cruel

wrong without offering some apology--some mitigation.

Ah! you sigh. Your heart, then, _does_ forgive me--I knew it would. Give

me your hand, (such a soft, white hand!) I confess the proverb did

_sound_ a little naughty, but it's not _really_ so. At all events, it is

the _truth_--and, you know, we

'Can not tell a lie!' G. W.

Ah! this hand, though soft and white, is no longer plump and

unconscious; it has _suffered_! You, too, have been bored--ah! I _must_

kiss it.

'I, too, am human.'

I also have been bored! Come, now, you mistrust me no longer-and I--I

love you! I _love_ you, and, therefore, I want to amuse you; perhaps, by

Heaven's blessing, I may prove 'bad company' myself!

For I can not but believe that somewhere in the purple Future, or latent

amid the green leaves of the possible Fairy-dom, (in which some rich

enchanter of an uncle is to lea-re us all an heritage,) there bide,

waitingly, certain dear friends--delightful, daring, witty, and wicked

creatures--like yourself, O reader I--with whom I am destined to be,

spiritually, 'very much married indeed;' or if the expression sound too

polygamatical, let me simply say _lié._ [For Heaven's sake, accept that

as French, warm with an accent, and not as English, cold without one.]

_Lié_ means 'bound'--anchored, so to speak, to an intimate in an

amicable manner. And it is in their friendship--in their kind and tender

words and courteous deeds, and winsome ways, that I most truly _live_.

Where these dearmost ones may bide, I know not. Seven--yes--seven I have

met, whom I cherish like diamonds of delight in the cotton of memory. It

is worth noting, my dear, in this connection, that _sev-en_ is one of

the conjugations in Turkish of the root _sev_, or 'loving,' and 'them

old Turks,' you know--but I am digressing. Are there not still to come

seven--yea, seventy times seven, (I have mislaid my Koran, in which the

number is more accurately stated,) of my Friends of the Future!

But I know what they are like. Oh! the charming, delightful wretches,

how I enjoy looking at them--in fact, 'I admire to see' them--as they

sweep along through the golden halls of my Schloss Dream-berg. Such nice

clothes as they wear--the ducks! Such good things as they

say--such--such--

It is too warm to-day to attempt superlatives. It were better to

drink--say, iced lemonade, in which--for you, dear reader--by some

mistake a _little_ sherry has been cobblered. _Sherrare est humanum_.

The Rabbis, we are told, forbade the children of Israel to puff the fire

on the Sabbath with bellows, though they might keep it going by blowing

through a straw. Wherefore, to this day, certain of the devout 'keep it

a-going' by means of a straw--only by some strange mistake in

interpretation, or by some vowel-points getting mislaid, they, instead

of blowing _from_ them in the straw, suck _toward_ them. And their

'society' is a large one.

But we were talking of 'good company,' as they say in 'good

society'--not of 'good society,' as they say in 'good company.' And,

therefore, although _not_ 'a retired clergyman,' and devoutly hoping

that my 'sands of life' are not by a very long while 'run out,' (for I

want to see my future friends,) I would yet (without these advantages)

offer you 'some slight relief,' and would seek to assuage your

sufferings resulting from too much good company; and since we have so

few friends in the past who have amused us, turn we our 'regards' to the

possible

FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE.

First among whom is

BAGNOLE

Face such as would-be Byron youths all crave,

Impenetrable, gloomy as the grave;

Voice, a 'French-gray,' the promise of the face,

You'd swear he thought to _laugh_, a deep disgrace.

Behold the mask of a bacchantine soul,

Drinking deep draughts from life's enchanting bowl.

Whether the bowl be from Cellini's hand.

If rude, still crowning it with Fancy's flowers,

Laughing at Time, and flirting with her Hours.

He is not pious, and to church won't go;

He says he _can't_--'tis so extremely slow.'

Bagnolè! with the 'goats' you're set apart'

And yet, how _can_ we wish a 'change of heart'

In one like thee--great-minded, brave, and true!

Ah! _what_ a world, if all were such as you!

But I forget--he's tender to the weak:

To the sad Magdalene he'll kindly speak

Words of _pure gold_--not that base metal thing

Which falls like lead and gives no friendly ring;

Opening the wound, to see if it is deep,

Arousing thought, to see if' tis asleep!

'Tendir and treue,' us Douglas was of old,

How far _they_ see, who call thee 'tame and cold'!

Tame! as a tiger: cold! as hot as flame!

_Where_ does he board, and what, oh! _what's_ his name?

L'INCONNUE.

Dark Passion-flower, with keen mimosa-leaves,

Into my life your fate her shuttle weaves.

How long those wistful eyes have haunted mine--

Brown eyes of earth--they have no light divine.

Brown eyes! ye fill my soul with burning love--

No Pantheon soul--lighted from above!

O sister mine! you'll come to me at last--

_That_ shall atone for all our weary past.

So pure thou art, with soul so joyous, _free_.

The world could not forgive--and hated thee!

To be 'unlike the world,' is thy dark sin.

You or 'the world'? the 'you' my heart shall win.

Within that shrine, so delicately fair,

Burns a bright spirit which 'a world' can dare;

She mocks 'the world,' but she would _die_ for _me_.

Her heart is fathomed by eternity;

And yet she's always 'in the fashion' dressed,

And 'wants a cashmere,' (she to me confessed.)

Oh! you can see her, almost any day,

Hat of pale violet, dress of silver-gray.

She goes to parties and the 'Music-Hall;'

She eats her dinner, and she gives a ball.

You nod and smile: '_We know her now--we see_!'

Perhaps! Alas! she's _quite_ _un_known to me!

MARIE.

How can I tell you if her face be fair,

While the gay sunshine of her smile is there?

How can I tell you of a brilliant mind,

When every word she speaks is angel-kind?

Need I describe her voice, so melting sweet?

Or the small mouth, which is its passage meet!

I only know, while for her voice I wait,

I see fair pearls behind that rosy gate.

But when she speaks, her diamond-wit's so bright,

All other beauties vanish from our sight.

No need for _her_ to fear 'the world's rebuff!

Too much of Marie's always just enough I

She is 'bad company,' yet e'en 'the good'

Can find no flaw in her fair maidenhood.

The saints don't doubt that she is in _their_ fold--

It makes me laugh to think how they are 'sold.'

_Nice_, _naughty_ folks are _sure_, she's of _their_ creed,

Yet she's no hypocrite, in word or deed.

What _is_ she, then--this gem without a flaw?

She is--she is--a maid-en made of 'straw'!

* * * * *

Reader, have you in your house a _vivarium_ or _aquarium_, or any other

variety of animal curiosity-shop, under care of the younger members? If

so, the subjoined sketch may awaken in your mind more than one vivid

souvenir, We know, at all events, that some of its 'features' were

founded on facts; that is, if a 'feature' can be 'founded.' However, we

take the phrase from--but no, we are sufficiently abused by the

Democratic editors, as it is.

EDITOR OF THE CONTINENTAL: Among the lesser joys of maternity,

that of having your children interested in a vivarium is one of the

least--in fact, it is an elephantine sorrow.

James, my eldest son, is a genius; before he was twelve years old, he

invented a rat-trap, which not only caught rats, but cut off their tails

and--let them go. At thirteen, he spoke Italian so fluently that he

caused a hand-organ grinder to throw a brick at him. At fourteen, he

came home one day with six large panes of glass, some tin and putty, and

made a vivarium, a thing full of mud, water, leeches, dirty weeds, and

other improvements.

When James had finished his glass case, he placed it in the front

drawing-room window, so that the public might behold that exquisite

process of nature, tadpoles turning into spring water-chickens, as they

call frogs on hotel bill of fares. Unfortunately, the gold fish he put

in with them killed the tadpoles while they still wiggled, and a

pickerel that he had bought of a fellow-school-boy for half-price, its

tail being ragged, ate up the gold-fish.

If at any time vegetables bought for the table were missing, we all knew

where they went to; in fact, that vivarium, from the time green peas

came until cabbages were ripe, resembled a _soupe à la Jardinière_, and

in summer-time a second course of boiled fish might easily have been

found there.

One evening, when I had a little company, and while Fanny Schell was

singing an aria, he caused her to conclude with an unusually high

scream, by announcing at the top of his voice, while he pointed to the

vivarium:

'Ma, the leeches have all crawled out!'

Imagine the feelings my little company had the rest of the evening.

I shall never forget the fright James gave me one hot night in July; it

was Saturday, I remember well, for that was one of my son's holidays,

and he returned home toward night unusually covered with mud, from a

long walk in the country, evidently having been taking practical lessons

in ditching. He was so very quiet after he returned, that I might have

known he was in mischief. However, when his bed-time came, he kissed me

good-night, and said:

'O ma! I have such a surprise for you in the morning.'

Unfortunately, I had the surprise that night. Business called my husband

away from the city that morning, and I was alone. Waking up from a sound

sleep about midnight, I distinctly heard somebody working on an anvil,

like a blacksmith, 'ching-a-ling! ching-a-ling!' It evidently came from

the drawing-room, and my fears at once told me it was a thief trying to

break into the house. Next I heard some one whistle, like a man calling

a dog, 'wheh! wheh! wheh!' Finally a dog barking, 'woo, woo, wooh!'

Thoroughly alarmed, I sprang to the front-window, and called: 'Police!

thieves!' until I managed to arouse the neighbors. I had the key of the

front-door in my chamber; this I threw down to a police-officer, and in

company with two others he boldly entered the house, lit the gas, and

found--that vivarium full of bull-frogs!

My son banished the frogs and introduced cat-fish, (or, as they call

them in Boston, 'horn-pouts.') One night, my great Angora cat, a cat

born in the Rue de Seine, educated in the best French _École des

chattes_, and brought to this country by my husband, fell a victim to

_la gourmandise_, by falling into the vivarium while fishing for

cat--horn-pout--fish. James found her there in the morning, drowned,

and partially eaten up by those she had hoped to eat. She went into the

_boudoir_ to Pout, and 'had done it.'

That finished the vivarium. I sincerely hope these trials to mothers

will never again become the rage, and that something dry will next tempt

our children's mania for home amusements. CORNELIA.

* * * * *

'The Kansas John Brown Song,' which lately appeared in these columns,

and which we credited to the Kansas _Herald_--following the lead of the

newspaper where we found it--was written by the Rev. William W. Patton,

of Chicago, for the _Tribune_ of that city.

* * * * *

Though so often trampled down by the heel of patriotism, the old serpent

of treason and disunion still keeps lifting his head and hissing

venomously. In New-York, Fernando Wood--that incarnation of Northern

secession--the man who dared to issue a proclamation recommending the

inhabitants of the city of which he was mayor to go off with the South,

is plotting and planning (unpunished, of course) with spirits of kindred

baseness, to build up the old order and reestablish the rule of

corruption. At Washington, all the timid, time-serving, and place-hoping

members of Congress have been holding 'Conservative' meetings, at which

the most insolent or timid propositions have been put forth; some of the

traitors manifesting clear as day their undisguised sympathy for the

rebels, others speaking only to preserve their tattered characters as

Unionists. The upshot of all was given in a resolution that Congress has

no power to deprive a person of his property, unless that person has

been duly convicted by a trial by jury.

We are not through the war as yet. Possibly, ere the end come, the

country may have something to say as to the propriety of our

representatives holding meetings to protect and favor rebels in their

'rights.'

WHAT'S in a name? There was a great puzzle once in _one_ name,

as appeareth from the following:

DEAR SIR: In a certain village not unknown to you,

dwelleth one Alwright.

It is a good thing to have a good name. His, you observe, is

'petter as goot.'

Not long ago, A. went to an auction and bought things.

'What name, sir?' inquired the man with the hammer.

'Alwright.'

'What NAME, I say?' was the irritated reply.

'ALWRIGHT, I say.'

'All wrong, you mean. 'Spect you'll make it all right in the

morning, hey?'

'AL-WRIGHT!' cried the purchaser.

'Yes, all right!' cried the crowd, taking the joke. 'All right-go

ahead, old knock 'em down.'

The auctioneer began to be profane.

'A-L, Al,' began Alwright.

'Hold your tongue! Go----' continued the auctioneer.

'A-L Al, W-R-I-G-H-T wright,' continued the

buyer.

'O--h, thunder!' exclaimed Hammer, on whom the laughter of the mob

began to operate. 'That's it, is it! Beg pardon. James, put this

gentleman's name down. All right, sir. Go ahead. Gentlemen, allow

me to call your attention to this fine lot of leather. Did I hear

twenty-five?--five--five--five--an' an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f, an' a

ha'f--gone!'

Yours truly,

CONSTANT READER.

There is often some fun at auctions. One of the queerest ever reported

to us was held in a French-Spanish be-Germanized village on the

frontier, where business was transacted in something of a polyglott

manner, as follows:

'Gentlemen-Messieurs-Senores y meine Herrne, I've got here for

sale--a vender--a vendre zum verkaufen eine Schöne Büchse a

first-rate rifle un fusil sans pareil, muy hermosa! Do I hear fifty

pesos, cinquante Thaler ge-bid pour this here bully gun? Caballeros

mira como es aplatado--all silvered up, in tip-top style--c'est de

l'argent fin messieurs--s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott

verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fünfzig,

fünfzig, fifty do I hear, and a half an' a half an' a half e un

demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb'

un medio y tin medio--wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six

escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun,

good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another

with--madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos--first-rate to

kill a Greaser--womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten.

Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir--cinquante deux--Merci, Monsieur! Wer

sagt drei und fünfzig--ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch

am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a

half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres

quartos--quelqu'un a dit fifty-three--fifty-_four_--going, going,

gone, sir--at fifty-four--America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'

It would take some time, we should think, to be able to reel it off in

such a quadruple thread.

* * * * *

Two 'after-Norse' poems are ours this month-the first from an esteemed

Philadelphia correspondent--the second from another of the same State,

but more inland. The following, we may observe, is written in the

measure which most prevails in Icelandic poems:

THE VIKINGS.

Through the brown waters

Dash the swift prows;

At the helm Valor stands,

Death at the bows:

Vainly the foeman shrinks,

Palsied in fright,

Vain are his struggles, yet

Vainer his flight.

Triple defenses--

Fire, water, and steel,

Guard the gate of the West

From the Northerner's keel.

Though defiant at midnight,

Ere morning the wrath

Of the terrible sea-kings

Has leveled a path.

Rampart and heavy gun

From o'er the bay,

Whose broad waters stretch

'Twixt the ships and their prey:

But shattered the rampart lies,

Silent the gun,

As the circle of living fire

Madly rolls on.

Wide yawn the timbers,

Wild waters rush in,

As the ship settles fast

Mid the fierce battle-din:

Yet her guns hurl defiance,

As, stern to the last,

The sea sucks her in

With her flag on the mast.

Sons of the Northman,

Whose banner of old

Spread the shadow of terror

From each grisly fold,

Of his broad heritage

Worthy are ye:

Win it and wear it well,

Kings of the sea.

The next 'Norse' is longer. We find in it a brave ring of true poetry:

1861.

'Oh! dark and true and tender is the North.'

Loud leaps the strong wind forth,

Fierce from the caves of the mighty North,

Ages untold,

O'er town and wold,

That rest 'neath a softer sky,

Swept that blast in anger by,

And in his wrathful eddies bore

The fiery song of Odin and Thor.

Then little avail,

'Gainst the Vi-king's arm,

The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail,

Or the priestman's charm.

And o'er the bright South-land

A shadow of dread was the North wind's course,

Whene'er his surging currents fanned

The raven banner of the Norse.

Years pass, and time new rays has brought,

Yet still the Northman's heart is warm;

But light on his soul a change has wrought,

And he loves the calm as he loved the storm.

Another god than the fearful Thor

In heaven's blue he saw,

And he gave to Peace his might in war--

His anger to the law.

And the strong hand holds the sickle now,

The anvil rings at morn;

And waving sunbeams tinge with gold

The hues of the ripening corn.

And the land he loves in peace has grown

To be mighty in wealth and name;

But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown,

And evil men to its councils came.

And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep,

While treason walked in her halls of state,

And good men grieve, but hopeless weep,

And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate.

'The nation must pass away.

For the Northman's blood is cold,

And little he recks of honor or name,

If his hand may clutch the gold.

'Work treason--work your will--

Divide our Fatherland;

Hearts are craven, souls are base--

'Tis fit for the traitor's hand.

'Fear no more the Northman's rage,

The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn;

No ancient mem'ry can stir him now,

To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.'

The words half-sung in silence fall,

Hushed in dread by a mightier call,

That stays the hand--that throbs the heart;

Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note--

The traitor's foot is on your flag,

His bayonet at our throat.

And hark! the North-wind's sullen moan

Rises high to a sterner tone,

That sinks away, then bursts anew

In joy, as 'mid its surges grew

The shout, the stroke, the cannon's peal,

The tread of countless number.

For the flash of a traitor's steel

Has broken the nation's slumber;

And sighing breeze and southern gale,

Seized by the fierce wind's grasp, are torn

From gentle haunt by hill or dale,

And in the whirling vortex borne.

There murm'ring on his hollow breast,

And wond'ring at his wild unrest,

Their shrieking echoes sounding far,

Loud swelled the Northman's shout to war;

For with death's dark shadows flitting by,

And the day as dark as night,

A nation's hands are raised on high

To hold their ancient right.

And the ages are rolled from the record of time;

For the years of peace with its soft'ning beam,

That soothed in love the Northman's heart,

Are now but the mists of a warrior's dream.

And the tinsel of life is burned in the glow

That flames in his heart as in years long ago,

When Norman sea-kings swept the wave,

Who loved the night, the storm, and bloody grave.

And through all the blue of heaven's vault,

Rolls the Vala's mystic charm,

Swelled with strains of the mighty past--

Victory strikes with the Northman's arm.

F.

Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron

Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands

of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the

battle-call:

'Northmen, come out!

Forth into battle with storm and shout,

He who lives with victory's blest;

He who dies gains peaceful rest.

Living or dying, let us be

Still vowed to God and liberty!

Northmen, come out!'

* * * * *

The following poem is certainly _not_ behind the times:

PAYING THE SHOT.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin,

Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot;

Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,'

Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.'

We 'owe them _one_!' and now's the time to settle,

And finish up the business to a dot;

A half a million _men_, upon their _metal_,

Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers;

Master or slave no more shall treason plot.

We've settled _that_ account with steel and triggers,

And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil,

Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot;

We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil,

That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.'

There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books;

_That_ must be paid, each tittle and each jot;

A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks,

But _strikes his balance_ fair, and 'pays the shot.'

There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs,

We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;'

In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar,

Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.'

So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers!

Wipe out this treason _now_, nor leave one blot;

When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;'

Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'

* * * * *

War stories and war songs are in vogue--for instance:

MY JOHNNY IS GONE FOR A SOLDIER.

The accomplished, fascinating, talented, and beautiful Miss H----, as

Jinkings calls her in his last Saratoga letter, has engaged her

affections to Mr. John G----, and they are to be married some time. In

the mean time, she has done all in her power to induce her lover to go

and fight the battles of his country; so far unsuccessfully, since Mr.

John G---- deems it his duty to stay at home and keep things steady,

especially billiards, which, as we all know, is an erratic game,

requiring great watching.

The other evening, Miss H----, while assisting at a sociable at Madame

V----'s, was asked to sing. Seated at the piano, to the horror of

expectant hearers of classic music, she began, with loudest voice, to

sing:

'I'll trace these gardins o'er and o'er,

A med-i-tating on atche swate flowir,

A thinking on each bewcheous hour;

Oh! Johnny is gone for a sol-di-er.'

She then put her handkerchief to her eyes, pretended to sob bitterly,

arose from the piano-stool, and sought an arm-chair.

Solicited by her confidential friend, Miss Belrose, to confide her

affliction, she only answered:

'Oh! my Johnny G----'s gone for a soldier--to play billiards with him!

And--and I know that that fast Lieutenant Gamble will keep him there for

hours and hours.'

* * * * *

Young gentlemen, this is the time for bullets and not for balls; for

cannons and not caroms; for rifle-pits to hole yourselves in, and not

for 'pockets' wherein to hole your adversary. _Apropos_ of which, listen

to

THE WRONG KIND OF A BAND.

Colonel X---- raised a regiment in the Ri-too-lal Rural districts of

New-Jersey, including a by no means bad brass band.

Arrived in Washington with his force, he was unfortunate enough to meet

with a wag, who at once told him he was afraid that he, the Colonel,

would meet or rather come to grief shortly.

'How so?' asked Colonel X---- excitedly.

'H'm!' answered the wag, 'don't you see that those rural musicians of

yours will be regarded as country-band of war?'

The Colonel saw it!

* * * * *

Do our readers remember a beautiful poem on Gottschalk's playing--_Los

ojos Criollos_--which appeared some time since in the _Home Journal_?

They will not regret to see a lyric in our pages by the writer of the

first referred to:

THE OLD SURGEON'S STORY.

BY ELEANOR C. DONELLY.

'Twas in a Southern hospital, a week ago or more,

(God save us! how the days drag on, these weary times of war!)

They brought me, in the sultry noon, a youth whom they had found

Deserted by his regiment upon the battle-ground,

And bleeding his young life away through many a gaping wound.

'Dark-haired and slender as a girl, a handsome lad was he,

Despite the pallor of his wounds, each one an agony.

A ball had carried off his arm, and zig-zag passage frayed

Into his chest--so wild a rent that, when it was displayed,

I, veteran surgeon that I was, turned white as any maid.

''There is no hope?' he slowly said, noting my changing cheek;

I only shook my head: I dare not trust myself to speak;

But in that wordless negative, the boy had read his doom,

And turned about, as best he could, and lay in silent gloom,

Watching the summer sunlight make a glory of the room.

''My little hero!' said a voice, and then a woman's hand

Lay like a lily on his curls: 'God give you self-command!'

'Mother!'--how full that thrilling word of pity and alarm--

'You here? my sweetest mother here?' and with his one poor arm

He got about her neck and drew her down with kisses warm.

''All the long, sultry night, when out--'(He shuddered as he said)--

'On yonder field I lay among the festering heaps of dead;

With awful faces close to mine, and clots of bloody hair,

And dead eyes gleaming through the dusk with such a rigid stare;

Through all my pain, O mother mine! I only prayed one prayer.

''Through all my pain--(and ne'er I knew what suffering was before!)--

I only prayed to see your face, to hear your voice once more;

The cold moon shone into my eyes--my prayer seemed all in vain.'

'My poor deluded boy!' she sobbed; her mother-fount of pain

O'erflowing down her gentle cheeks in drops like thunder-rain.

''Accursed be he whose cruel hand has wrought my son such ill!'

The boy sprang upright at the word, and shrieked aloud, 'Be still!

You know not what you say. O God! how shall I tell the tale!

How shall I smite her as she stands!' and with a moaning wail

He prone among the pillows dropped, his visage ashen pale.

''It was a bloody field,' he said, at last, like one who dozed;

'I know not how the day began--I know not how it closed;

I only know we fought like fiends, begrimed with blood and dust,

And did our duty to a man, as every soldier must,

And gave the rebels ball for ball, and paid them thrust for thrust.

'But when our gallant General rode up and down the line,

The sunlight striking on his sword until it flashed like wine,

And cried aloud (God bless his lips!) with such a cheery laugh,

'Charge bayonets, boys! Pitch into them, and scatter them like chaff!'

One half our men were drunk with blood, and mad the other half.

''My veins ran fire. O Heaven! hide the horrors of that plain!

We charged upon the rebel ranks and cut them down like grain.

One bright-haired man ran on my steel--I pierced him through and through;

The blood upspirted from his wound and sprinkled me like dew.

'Twas strange, but as I looked I thought of Cain and him he slew.

''Some impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell,

I turned him o'er--I saw his face--the sight was worse than hell!

_There lay my brother_--Curse me not!--pierced by _my_ bayonet!'

O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget--

Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet.

'And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she,

Dropped down among us, in a swoon, from very sympathy.

'I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had died

In those old days of innocence!) was ever by my side,

At bed or board, at school or play, so fresh and merry-eyed!

''And now to see it white and set--to know the deed was mine!

A madness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine.

I did not heed the balls which fell around us thick as rain,

I did not know my arm was gone;

I felt nor wound nor pain,

I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again.

''O Louis!' (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside,)

'O Louis! brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide!

By the bright heaven where thou stand'st--by thy big-hearted faith--

By these the tears our mother sheds--by this my failing breath--

Forgive me for that murd'rous thrust which wounded thee to death.

''Forgive me! I would yield my life to give thee thine, my brother!

What's this? Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother.

The air blows sweet from yonder field!

Dear Lou, put up your sword.

Let's weave a little daisy-chain

upon this pleasant sward--'

And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.'

Such are the tragedies of civil war, the fearful probability of such

events. But who has not heard of families with sons in either army,

especially on the border, in Philadelphia, and Baltimore? We have heard

_seven_ such instances enumerated by one lady of the former city. Let us

turn from tragedy to comedy:

* * * * *

CAPPED THE CLIMAX.

The ladies of Christopher's Church, Philadelphia, have worked like

true-hearted women for the wounded soldiers. Many a poor fellow has

blessed them for their contributions to alleviate his pain and make the

old hospital comfortable for him. In the congregation, one elderly

maiden lady, who had so far given nothing, was called on by one of her

energetic sisters in the church, and implored to do something for the

poor soldiers. She was told that any thing that would render their

sufferings less would be gratefully received.

She promised to send a donation. Nothing more was heard from her for a

couple of weeks, when one morning the ladies assembled in the

vestry-room of the church received a large basket from the elderly

maiden lady. On opening it, they found three dozen starched muslin,

night-cape, with frills all round them, bows and long strings.

'Did you ever?' asked Miss G----. 'I declare Miss---- has set her Caps

for the soldiers in earnest this time.

* * * * *

We select the following as the best proposed completion of the

unfinished poem by Fitz-James O'Brien, published in our July number:

_Detroit, Mich., June 22d, 1862._

EDITORS OF CONTINENTAL: As you do not give the conclusion

of that 'Watching the Stag,' I propose to finish it in this wise:

'Watching my face with half-closed eyes,'

As I lean my head on the dappled stag

That stiffens beneath a windward crag.

His flanks are black with the hardened sweat,

And a film has clouded his eye of jet;

While a round, red wound that oozes still,'

Tells of his fate and my marksman's skill.

Oh! the granite crags shall no longer feel

His fleet hoofs ringing like steel on steel,

And shepherd shall never again espy

His antlers painted against the sky!

The mountain tarn, so lone and cold,

The delicate shadow no more shall hold;

The fleetness has died in each rigid limb,

And never shall dun hound follow him!

Stanch Hela blinks as she half recalls

That savage chase through the mountain-walls,

And growls as she dreams how her white teeth sank

With a thirsty grip in his shuddering flank.

Dream on, good dog! through the night so chill,

Till sunrise surges over the hill,

Till the heather glows and the peaks are gay,

And then for our mountain-home hurra!

* * * * *

We are indebted to L. H. Brook, of Cambridge for a version of

* * * * *

MARGARET'S SONG.

FROM 'FAUST.'

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone;

Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore;

Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never

Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Wo ich ihn nicht hab', Where him I crave,

Ist mir das Grab; To me's the grave;

Die gauze Welt The world and all

Ist mir vergällt. Seems turned to gall.

Mein armer Kopf My wretched head

Ist mir verrückt, Seems going mad;

Mein armer Sinn My wretched mind

Ist mir zerstückt. Is torn and sad.

Nach ihm nur schau' ich For him I look

Zum Fenster hinaus, The casement out;

Nach ihm nur geh' ich Him only seek

Aus dem Haus. The town about.

Sein hoher Gang, His lofty step,

Sein' edle Gestalt. His noble form;

Seines Mundes Lächeln, The smile of his mouth,

Seiner Augen Gewalt. His eye's strong charm.

Und seiner Rede And in his voice

Zauberfluss, The magic bliss,

Sein Händedruck, His clasping hand,

Und ach! sein Kuss. And ah! his kiss.

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone;

Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore;

Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never

Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Mein Busen drängt My bosom swells

Sich nach ihm hin; Toward him when near

Ach! dürft' ich fassen Ah! might I fold

Und halten ihn! And hold him there!

Und küssen ihn And could I kiss him

So wie ich wollt', While I may,

An seinen Küssen Upon his kiss

Vergehen sollt'! I'd die away!

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

* * * * *

The Continental Monthly has passed its experimental ordeal, and stands

firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period when

any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the

publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine.

Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation,

for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has found favor in

quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where opposition only

was looked for. While holding firmly to its _own opinions_, it has

opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERS _of widely different views_, and

has made a feature of employing the literary labors of the _younger_

race of American writers. How much has been gained by thus giving,

practically, the fullest freedom to the expression of opinion, and by

the infusion of fresh blood into literature, has been felt from month to

month in its constantly increasing circulation.

The most eminent of our Statesmen have furnished THE CONTINENTAL many of

its political articles, and the result is, it has not given labored

essays fit only for a place in ponderous encyclopedias, but fresh,

vigorous, and practical contributions on men and things as they exist.

It will be our effort to go on in the path we have entered, and as a

guarantee of the future, we may point to the array of live and brilliant

talent which has brought so many encomiums on our Magazine. The able

political articles which have given it so much reputation will be

continued in each issue, together with the new Novel by Richard B.

Kimball, the eminent author of the 'Under-Currents of Wall-Street,' 'St,

Leger,' etc., entitled,

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading

men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the

Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money. This work

excels the previous brilliant productions of this author. In the present

number is also commenced a new Serial by the author of 'Among the

Pines,' entitled,

A MERCHANT'S STORY,

which will depict Southern _white_ society, and be a truthful history of

some eminent Northern merchants who are largely in 'the cotton trade and

sugar line.'

The UNION--The Union of ALL THE STATES--that indicates our politics. To

be content with no ground lower than the highest--that is the standard

of our literary character.

We hope all who are friendly to the spread of our political views, and

all who are favorable to the diffusion of a live, fresh, and energetic

literature, will lend us their aid to increase our circulation. There is

not one of our readers who may not influence one or two more, and there

is in every town in the loyal States some active person whose time might

be profitably employed in procuring subscribers to our work. To

encourage such to act for us we offer the following very liberal

TERMS TO CLUBS.

Two copies for one year, Five dollars.

Three copies for one year, Six dollars.

Six copies for one year, Eleven dollars.

Eleven copies for one year, Twenty dollars.

Twenty copies for one year, Thirty-six dollars.

PAID IN ADVANCE.

_Postage, Thirty-six Cents a year_, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three Dollars a year, IN ADVANCE.--_Postage paid by the Publisher_.

J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York, and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

CHARLES T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New-York, _GENERAL AGENT_.

[Illustration: THE FINEST FARMING LANDS _WHEAT CORN COTTON FRUITS &

VEGETABLES_]

EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of

Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in

ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

* * * * *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the

beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their

Railroad, 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for

enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for

themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call

THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666, and

a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the

Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of

Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of

climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great

staples, CORN and WHEAT.

CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the industrious farmer secure such immediate results from

his labor as on those deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much

ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the

Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200

miles, is well adapted to Winter.

WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is

grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets

are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate

vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the

Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (a distance of 115 miles on the Branch,

and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising

portion of the State.

THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 50 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep

and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is

believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for

Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to

which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure

profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and

Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147

miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are

produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any

other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 35,000,000 bushels,

while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the

crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes,

Pumpkins, Squashes Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco,

Sorgheim, Grapes, Peaches, Apples, &c. which go to swell the vast

aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons

of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.

STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for

the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules,

Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large

fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to

enter with the fairest prospects of like results. DAIRY FARMING also

presents its inducements to many.

CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

_The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing

in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption

on the Main Line), the company owns thousands of acres well adapted to

the perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young

children, can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in

the growth and perfection of this plant._

THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the

Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio. As its name imports, the

Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the

road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.

CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS, DEPOTS,

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one

every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient

distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity

may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union, and where

buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.

EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by

the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the

schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the

church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the

Great Western Empire.

* * * * *

PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT--ON LONG CREDIT.

80 acres at $10 per acre, with interest at 6 per ct. annually on the

following terms:

Cash payment $48 00

Payment in one year 48 00

" in two years 48 00

" in three years 48 00

" in four years 236 00

" in five years 224 00

" in six years 212 00

" in seven years 200 00

40 acres, at $10 00 per acre:

Cash payment $24 00

Payment in one year 24 00

" in two years 24 00

" in three years 24 00

" in four years 118 00

" in five years 112 00

" in six years 106 00

" in seven years 100 00

The

Continental

Monthly

Devoted to Literature and National Policy.

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER, 1862.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK AND BOSTON:

J. R. GILMORE, 532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK, AND 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON.

NEW-YORK: HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY.

PHILADELPHIA: T. B. CALLENDEE AND A. WINCH.

CONTENTS.--No. IX.

Henry Thomas Buckle, 253

The Molly O'Molly Papers, 257

Hopeful Tackett--His Mark, 262

John Bull to Jonathan, 265

Jonathan to John Bull, 265

American Student Life, 266

Go In and Win, 274

John Neal, 275

The Soldier and the Civilian, 281

Author Borrowing, 285

Intervention, 289

Maccaroni and Canvas, 290

Anthony Trollope on America, 302

Up and Act, 314

Reminiscences of Andrew Jackson, 318

Shakspeare's Caricature of Richard III., 320

The Negro in the Revolution, 324

A Merchant's Story, By the author of "Among the Pines," 328

Shoulder-Straps, 342

The Children in the Wood, 354

National Unity, 357

Was he Successful? 360

Literary Notices, 366

Editor's Table, 369

* * * * *

The article in this issue on NATIONAL UNITY, is by the Hon. HORACE

GREELEY, who will hereafter contribute to each number of 'The

Continental.'

SHOULDER-STRAPS, by HENRY MORFORD, Esq., author of 'Rhymes of

Twenty Years,' will be a sparkling commentary on 'Men, Manners, and

Motives in 1862.' It will depict some prominent characters whose love of

the UNION is shown in a decided penchant for 'shoulder-straps.'

The future chapters of 'A MERCHANT'S STORY,' by the author of 'Among the

Pines,' will be mainly descriptive of Southern life and society.

* * * * *

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress in the year 1862, by

JAMES R. GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court

of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.