If any one doubts that there is a powerful Southern influence in active
operation in the Union, let him reflect over the movement in Washington
'for the purpose of reviving the Democratic party.' A more treacherous,
traitorous, contemptible political intrigue was never organized in this
country; and the historian of a future day will record with amazement
the fact, that in the midst of a war of tremendous magnitude, when our
national existence and our whole prosperity were threatened, the enemy
were still allowed to plot and plan unharmed among us, under so shallow
a disguise that its mockery is even more insulting than would be open,
brazen opposition.
They have ingeniously taken advantage of the cry against the management
of the war by McClellan, these covert disunionists, to form a McClellan
party, and 'to support General McClellan's war policy'! A more ingenious
and more iniquitous scheme of fomenting disunion could not be devised.
By resolving to resist President Lincoln's moderate, judicious, and wise
Message, while on the other hand they indorsed in express contrast
McClellan, these treacherous disunion Democrats hoped to foment discord
among us and thereby extend important aid to the enemy.
If the people would know where their foes are most active, let them look
at home. Months ago they were warned that this very trick would be tried
among us on behalf of the South. Months ago the Louisville _Journal_, in
speaking of the manner in which Southern spies in the North were working
by treachery, declared that 'they wound a net-work of influences around
Congress and the powers that be, to retain men in the departments and to
get others in--especially in the War Department--who were shining lights
in the 'castles' of the K.G.C. _for the avowed and express purpose of
aiding the enemy_ by treacherously watching and conveying the secrets of
the Government to the rebel army.'
Has not this accusation been abundantly proved? Does not the whole
country know that traitors, 'democratic' traitors, have acted so
successfully as spies that nothing has been kept secret from the enemy?
'Men were selected in the States and sent hundreds of miles to
Washington, with strong influences to back them for this purpose. Better
to carry out their project, they adroitly raised the 'No Party' cry,
_and by professing the most exalted and devoted loyalty_, claimed the
best places in which to betray the Union cause.' 'They claim a large
number of the officers of companies, regiments, brigades, and divisions,
and even have the audacity to whisper that General McClellan understands
their programme and is not unfavorable to working up to it.'
Fortunately the great mass of the Northern people can not be affected by
such traitorous tricks. There is but one party in the country, and that
is the Union and the War party. Here and there a coward may waver and be
frightened at the prospect of a Democratic opposition raising its head
successfully to withstand the great onward movement, but his quavering
voice will be unheard in the great cry for battle. We have accepted this
war with all its fearful risks, and we will abide by it. We will be true
to our principle of a united country, we will be true to our word to
crush rebellion, and we will be true to our brave soldiers who are
fighting manfully for the right. If we adhere steadfastly to these
resolutions, we shall have no cause to dread traitors within or foes
without the loyal Union.
When the World's Fair was held in 1851, in London, _Punch_, moved by the
intensest spirit of British conceit, politely suggested that it would be
a good plan to have placards containing the words, 'It is good to have
the conceit taken out of us,' in all languages, hung all over the
Exhibition--the intention being to courteously intimate to foreigners
their general inferiority to John Bull. Certainly it is a good thing to
have the conceit taken out of us--with the saving clause added by our
contributor, H.P.L.--'so that it be not done with the corkscrew of
ignorance,' or of conceit itself, as is generally the case when English
wit attempts such extraction. Yet it must be admitted that in one thing
Brother Jonathan has very fairly had the conceit taken out of him--which
need not have been, had he only attended to the lessons taught him by
John Bull and Jean Crapaud.
We refer to the matter of iron-clad vessels of war. England already had
her 'Warrior,' and France her 'Gloire,' with all their resistant powers
fully tested by experiment, and yet this war had progressed one year
without finding our Government in possession of a single iron-mail
steamer. Our foes, with many disadvantages, had more wit, and gained a
victory the more galling, because in naval matters we of the North claim
in ability to rank with England herself. Perhaps history contains no
parallel instance of such negligence, such weakness. It is a matter
calling for investigation and exemplary punishment. The guilt lies
somewhere, and must be atoned for.
It is, however, interesting to remark, that in this, as in so many other
matters, science is very rapidly changing the character of warfare. In a
few years the war-navies of the world will consist almost exclusively of
iron-mail steamers, since no other vessel can resist their attacks. Yet
these steamers, though far more expensive than the old wooden hulks--so
expensive that the 'Warrior' alone caused an outcry in England as a
national burden--can readily sink one another in a few minutes by the
use of the prow, or by returning to the primitive cock-fighting fashion
in vogue among the iron-beaked galleys of earliest antiquity.
Will it pay, under such extraordinary conditions of naval warfare, to
fight at all? will probably be the next question, asked. When a few
minutes may witness the literal sinking of a few millions of dollars,
tax-paying people will begin to stand aghast. The very idea of England
and America playing a game of war with such checks, is as terrible as it
is startling; it is like the suggestion to fight out a duel with
columbiads, or as the two Kentucky engineers are said to have done, with
full-steamed locomotives in collision. No patriotism, no wealth, no
sacrifice, can endure such drafts as the loss of iron-clad navies would
involve. War would eat itself up.
Possibly genius may contrive vulcanized gutta-percha or other resistant
steamers which can neither be billed nor gaffed, shot nor slashed into
sinking--vessels beyond all capacity for bathos, and no more to be
persuaded into going under than was the black Baptist convert of David
Crockett's story. What would naval battles amount to between such
invulnerables? The Roman mythology had a fable of a hare which had
received from the gods the gift that it was never to be caught, while at
the same time there was a hound which was destined to catch every thing
he pursued. One day the hound began to chase the hare; Jupiter settled
the question by changing them both to stone. Paradoxes can only be
solved by annihilation. When war becomes, by the aid of science,
all-destructive, yet all-resistant, it must perish. History shows a
gradual decrease of deaths in proportion to improvements in destruction
of life. It is gratifying to reflect, that this war, by developing the
full capacities of iron-plated vessels, has made a most important
advance toward the impossibility of warfare.
It is amusing to see how decisively, yet with what preposterous
ignorance of any thing like the true state of affairs in this country,
the English press informs the public as to the 'ex or inexpediency' of
President Lincoln's Message.
Not one of its editors has, as yet, had the grace or wit to discover
that, simply as a precedent and as a record, it puts an entirely new
face on the war, by manifesting a _policy_ on the part of Government.
Not one seems to appreciate that the slaveholder who, after its
publication, loses his human chattels by the hap of war, has only
himself to thank for his loss. If Cuffy runs away, when the army comes,
by what earthly show of sense or justice does the master complain, who
has refused to accept payment for him? _Dans la guerre, comme a la
guerre_--in war-time, people must accept of war's chances.
To voluntarily offer to literally ease the fall of the enemy, as Mr.
Lincoln has done, is a stretch of magnanimity which would be
incomprehensible to any Old World rulers. How long would a Napoleon or a
Wellington, unembarrassed by aught save the direst military conduct of a
war, have hesitated to free the blacks, and win victory by every or any
means? Mr. Lincoln has had more difficult and complicated elements to
deal with. He has the enemy not only in the field, but by myriads at
home, among those who pretend to urge on the war. He has them 'spying
and lying' every where--_promoting cabals in favor of a General, and
exciting opposition, in order to eventually crush him_--urging Southern
rights and amnesties--deluding and confounding every thing. No wonder,
after all, that the London _Times_, comprehending nothing, should have
been so wildly asinine as to see in the Message only a bid to conciliate
the South!--a timid, making-up measure. The _Times_ is behind our times,
and no wonder, when a Russell flounders about for it among us, becoming
more densely befogged and confused with every new idea which entangles
itself with his pre-conceived English opinions.
The country is rejoiced to hear that General Wool has ordered Russell
away from Fortress Monroe. When the latter quits the country, it will be
as though it had heard some very good news for our nation's benefit.
* * * * *
We were not at first disposed to believe in the many revolting stories
so generally circulated, stating that the rebels had actually, in many
instances, boiled the bodies of the Federal dead, for the purpose of
obtaining the bones as relics. So frequently, however, has the story
been repeated, and from so many trustworthy quarters, that we are
reluctantly compelled to admit that such paragraphs as the following,
from the Southern correspondence of the Boston _Journal and Transcript_,
are very possibly founded in fact:
'_Washington, 1st_.
'The certainty that the graves of the members of the Chelsea and
Boston Fusilier companies who fell in the advance on Bull Run,
last July, have all been despoiled, with a probability that their
bones were sent South, as relics, causes a deep feeling of
indignation here.
'A citizen of Cambridge, Mass., who went to Bull Run to recover
the remains of his brother, who belonged to a Boston company,
gives a sad account of the sacrilege committed upon the graves of
our soldiers by the rebels. About twenty of a Boston company and a
Chelsea company had been buried near each other, but every skull
had been taken away, and nearly all the principal bones of the
bodies were gone. Some of the bodies had been dug out, and others
pried out of the graves with levers, and in some the sleeves of
uniforms were split to obtain the bones of the arms. It was
described as a sickening spectacle.'
When we recall the savage, half-Indian nature of many of the lower
Southern troops, and the threats of scalping and mutilating, in which
they so often indulged; and when we remember that even in Richmond, the
body of John Brown's son is still exposed, as the label on it intimates,
not as a scientific preparation, but as a warning to Abolitionists; we
see nothing extraordinary in such tales. If professors, men of science,
and 'gentlemen' can wreak vengeance on the harmless bodies of the dead,
and place a placard, expressing the hope that it may be thus with those
who simply differ with them in political opinions, it is not to be
wondered at that their rude and ignorant _confrères_ should dig up dead
bodies, and send the bones home as relics. It is just possible, however,
that we do not appreciate the true motives of these Ghouls. When
Scanderbeg died, his enemies fought among themselves to obtain the
smallest fragment of his bones, believing that their possession would
confer on the lucky wearer some of the courage of the great hero
himself. And so it may be that these craven savages hope to get a little
real Northern pluck and stubborn endurance.
* * * * *
We cheerfully find place for the following, dated from 'Willard's,
Washington, D.C., April 2d:'
'DEAR CONTINENTAL: I know that the CONTINENTAL publishes nothing but
original articles, and therefore beg you, at the request of your large
and highly respectable Washington constituency, to find a shelf for the
following, which is original with Bill H. Polk _and_ the Louisville
_Dem'docrat_:'
THE EXPERIENCES OF GEORGE N. SANDERS--HOW HE LEFT NASHVILLE, AND
HOW HE HOPES TO GET TO RICHMOND.
'There is no one better known in the country as a scholar, a
politician, and a wit, than Wm. H. Polk, of Tennessee. He has a
plantation some forty miles from Nashville, lives comfortably, has
a joke for every one, and is, withal, a resolute man in his
opinions. He was the opponent of the evanescent Harris, who has
disappeared mysteriously, and voted for by the coöperationists in
the election for Governor of that State. About a month ago notice
came to him that he must leave the State: a notice which, however,
he did not obey. His description of the terror of the rebels on
the taking of Nashville is said to be supremely rich. Among other
incidents, is one of peculiar interest to us Kentuckians,
concerning the fate of the late Provisional Government.
'Colonel Polk, a few days before the arrival of our army at
Nashville, and, indeed, before he heard of the fall of Fort
Donelson, in going down the road from his farm, descried a fat,
ragged, bushy-headed, tangled-mustached, dilapidated-looking
creature, (something like an Italian organ-grinder in distress,)
so disguised in mud as to be scarcely recognizable. What was his
surprise, on a nearer approach, to see that it was the redoubtable
George N. Sanders.
'George had met the enemy, and he was theirs--not in person, but
in feeling. His heart was lost, his breeches were ragged, and his
boots showed a set of fat, gouty toes protruding from them. The
better part of him was gone, and gone a good distance.
''In the name of God, George, is that you?' said the
ex-Congressman.
''Me!' said the immortal George; 'I wish it wasn't; I wish I was
any thing but me. But what is the news here? is there any one
running? They are all running back there,' (pointing over his
shoulder with his thumb.)
''No,' said Mr. Polk; 'not that I know of. You needn't mind
pulling up the seat of your pantaloons; I'm not noticing. What in
the ---- are you doing here, looking like a muddy Lazarus in the
painted cloth?'
''Bill,' said George to the Tennesseean confidentially, and his
tones would have moved a heart of stone: 'Bill, you always was a
friend of mine. I know'd you a long while ago, and honored
you--cuss me, if I didn't. I said you was a man bound to rise. I
told Jimmy Polk so--me and Jimmy was familiar friends. I intended
to get up a biographical notice of you in the _Democratic Review_,
but that ---- Corby stopped it I'm glad to see you; I'll swear I
am.'
''Of course, old fellow,' said the charitable Tennesseean, more in
pity of his tones than even of the flattering eloquence: 'but what
is the matter?'
''Matter!' said George; 'the d----d Lincolnites have seized
Bowling-Green, Fort Donelson, and have by this time taken
Nashville. Why,' continued he, in a burst of confidence, 'when I
left, hacks was worth a hundred dollars an hour, and, Polk, (in a
whisper,) I didn't have a d----d cent.'
'The touching pathos of this last remark was added to by the
sincere vehemence with which it was uttered, and the mute
eloquence with which he lifted up a ragged flap in the rear of his
person that some envious rail or brier had torn from its position
of covering a glorious retreat.
''Not a d----d cent,' repeated he; 'and, Polk, I walked that
hard-hearted town up and down, all day, with bomb-shells dropping
on the street at every lamp-post--I'll swear I did--trying to
borrow some money; and Polk, do you think, there wasn't a
scoundrel there would lend any thing, not even Harris, and he got
the money out of the banks, too?'
''No?' said Polk, who dropped in a word occasionally, as a sort of
encourager.
''Bill,' repeated Sanders: 'Bill, I said you was a friend of
mine--and a talented one--always said so, Bill. I didn't have a
red, and I've walked forty-five miles in the last day, by the
mile-stones, and I haven't had any thing to buy a bit to eat;
and,' he added with impassioned eloquence, 'what is a cursed sight
worse, not a single drop to drink.'
'This is complete. It is unnecessary to tell how the gallant and
clever Tenneseean took the wayfarer home, gave him numerous, if
not innumerable, drinks, and filled him with fruits of fields and
flesh of flocks. When George was filled, however, he signified by
numerous signs, and finally by words, that he wished the servants
to leave the room. 'Polk,' said he, 'I knew you were a man with a
heart in your bosom; I told 'em so. I said no better man than Bill
Polk could be found. I told 'em so.'
''Told who so?' asked Mr. Polk, rather surprised at the sudden and
mysterious language, accompanied by the removal of the servants.
''Mr. Polk,' said Sanders, 'I want your horses and carriage for a
time.'
''Certainly, Mr. Sanders, if you wish them.'
''Mr. Polk,' said George, 'I do not appear before you in any
ordinary character to-day; I am clothed with higher authority; I
am an emissary.'
'The tone and manner indicated something fearful--perhaps to
arrest his host.
''I am an emissary,' repeated Mr. Sanders, speaking in very large
capitals, 'from the State of Kentucky, and hope to be received as
such. The fact is,' continued he, coming down to the level of
familiar conversation, 'I left the Provisional Government of
Kentucky a mile or so back, on foot, finding its way southwardly,
and I demand your horses and carriage in the name of that noble
State.'
'Of course, the carriages were harnessed up at once, and Mr.
Sanders proceeded to bring the Provisional Government to Mr.
Polk's house.
'How shall we describe this part? Hon. George W. Johnson, as much
a Clay man as the sacred soil of Tennessee could afford, but still
preserving his light and active step; McKee, late of the
_Courier_, following; Walter N. Haldeman, with all his industry
and perseverance, trying to keep up with his associate; and Willis
B. Machen, vigorous, active, slightly sullen, but in earnest, with
every boot he drew out of the snowy, muddy soil giving a groan of
fatigue. Imagine them safely ensconced at Mr. Polk's, on their
road South.
''Mr. Sanders,' said the Governor with dignified suavity, after
the walnuts and wine, 'claimed to be an acquaintance of yours, and
we were very glad to send him forward.'
'The Honorable Governor maintained throughout that easy, self
possessed manner which characterizes the gentleman.
'The emissary--for he ought to be so known--shortly after
suggested to the Provisional Government that he was 'broke,' and
wished to represent the Seventh Congressional District of
Kentucky, that is, the Louisville District: 'For,' said he, in his
persuasive, confidential tones, 'that is the only way I know of
for a man without money to get to Richmond.'
'A session was at once held of the State Council, and it is our
pleasure to record that Mr. Sanders is now authorized by the
Provisional Government to proceed to Richmond and represent our
interest in the Rebel Congress, vice H.W. Bruce, removed or
resigned.
'Mr. Polk at this time addressed the new Congressman, saying that
he had a particular favor to ask.
''Bill,' said George to his host, speaking out of a full heart and
a full chest: 'Bill, you are a boy after my own heart; whatever
request you make I grant.'
''It is only a trifle,' said Mr. Polk, 'which you can easily
grant, and which will please you.'
''It is granted,' interrupted the grateful Sanders.
''I may be arrested,' continued Mr. Polk, 'within a few minutes,
for disagreeing with some measures which Governor Harris has urged
upon the people.'
''Never mind that,' said the impetuous Sanders; 'I'll stand by
you.'
''All I want,' continued Mr. Polk, 'is for you to return to
Nashville as a hostage for my wife and family.'
''Bill Polk,' said George gravely, but firmly, 'you are a man I
love; I love you, and I love your wife and family; but if ever I
go back to Nashville, may I be d----d!'
'Of course, there was no reply to this, and the redoubtable George
and the Provisional Government soon went on their way rejoicing.
'We do not pretend to give this in the language or manner of Mr.
Polk, which is said to be inimitable; neither do we claim him as a
'Union man.' He has remained quietly at home, and taken no part in
the contest; but we are indebted to him, or to some one who has
reported it as coming from him, for a genial and laughable account
of the exit of what once promised to be very injurious to our
State, and still more for his characterization of that wise,
pushing, incomprehensible character, George N. Sanders, Member of
Congress from the Seventh District of Kentucky to Richmond.'
We have long wondered what became of Sanders, the illustrious author of
that excellent term, 'the Tobacco States,' which so exactly defines the
Southern border. The last time we saw him was while talking with Arctic
Dr. Hayes, a few days before his departure for the Unknown Sea. Just
then Sanders went by arrayed in all the glory of a perfectly new _pareil
partout_ suit of spring clothes. Days passed by, and we heard of him as
frantically endeavoring to galvanize the C.S.A. at Montgomery, Alabama,
into faith in his exceeding Southern proclivities. It was up-hill work,
as we were told--almost as hard as several other small renegade literati
and politicians found it, when they, too, went over into Dixie about a
year ago. In vain did George N. Sanders utter the largest size secession
words--no office rewarded him, no foreign mission fell into the fat
fingers of the deserter. The change from the comfortable quarters of the
New-York Hotel to hurried war-marches and wild retreats must have been
indeed trying; only that so many politicians have of late fared quite as
badly, that pity would seem wasted. Meanwhile we would suggest, as a
good question for youthful democratic debating-societies: 'When we catch
the enemy, what shall be done with George N. Sanders?'
* * * * *
Notwithstanding our war--to say nothing of our want--we have had the
OPERA this winter; had it in great variety and perfection, and, as many
a reader can testify, with by no means thin houses. Grau has been
busy--the most courteous and indefatigable polyglot and active of
impresarios, with the good-natured Gosche, heralding a troupe of all the
stars, D'Angri, Hinckley, Kellogg, Brignoli, Susini, and all the rest,
including divers new singing birds. Maretzek has led, and we have had a
range from Mozart to Verdi, which was, on the whole, well-chosen. We
have had Brignoli singing, if possible, better, and acting, if possible,
worse than usual--a nightingale imprisoned in a pump; Mme. D'Angri, with
her _embonpoint_ voice, pouring forth like an inexhaustible fountain of
Maraschino; Miss Hinckley, pleasant and pretty as ever, steadily singing
her way star-ward; and Susini, who combines German strength with Italian
fire--a true _Tedesco Italiana-zato_. Something, too, we would say of
Mancusi, whose clear and rapid execution, in _Figaro_, and whose real
Spanish _majo_ rollicking style of acting were quite spirited enough,
even for that very spirited part. Formes was indeed under the impression
that he himself was the _Figaro Figarorum_, the incarnate half-Spanish
ideal of that wonderful barbaresque conception; but then, the Formes
_Figaro_ was 'developed from the depths of his subjective moral
consciousness,' whereas the _Figaro_ of a Southern European is _the
thing itself_--like Charles Mathews playing the part of Charles Mathews,
or like the Greek comedian's imitation of a pig's voice, by pinching a
veritable pork-let, which he bore concealed within his mantle.
Perhaps no character is so little appreciated by Anglo-Saxon audiences
as this of _Figaro_. To them he is little more than a buffoon. To
Southern Europe, he is the bold, prompt, shrewd, popular ideal, suiting
himself by craft to every superior, regarding all things with a
shoulder-shrugging, quizzical philosophy; a democratic Mephistopheles; a
lurking devil, equalizing himself, and the people with him, by wit and
insolence, with nobility itself. Among the Latin races, as in the East,
such Figaros often rise, like Oliver le Daim, to power, and the people
understand it.
Fast-Day, in Boston, was operatically fêted with 'the light and
melodious _Martha_,' by that arch-thief of melodies, Flotow. Would
not--considering the day in question--_I Puritani_ have been more
appropriate for 'a day of fasting and prayer'? It has already been
discovered (by the sagacious Ullman, we believe) that the _Huguenots_
was appropriate to sacred concerts. A friend suggests that _Masaniello_
for high mass, and _Don Giovanni_ for St. John's day would be a great
advance in these dramatic unities.
* * * * *
We are indebted to a new contributor for the following sketch:
We are all familiar with Hayden's dinner-party, and the
Comptroller of Stamps, and Charles Lamb's 'Diddle diddle
dumpling,' and 'Allow me to look at the gentleman's phrenological
development.' I am always reminded by it of a circumstance which
occurred between the Rocky and Alleghany mountains. A certain
witty professor of a certain Western college, had been invited to
deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Society of Athens--not the
capital of Greece, nor the Athens of America, but a sort of
no-town, without even the advantages of an established groggery,
or mutual admiration society. The poet, not having attained that
celebrity which is incompatible with keeping one's word with small
towns, small lyceums, and small profits, and the roads not being
stopped up, in short, 'Providence permitting, and nothing
happening to prevent,' the poet made his appearance at the proper
hour, like any ordinary mortal, and acquitted himself with such
rhythmical eloquence, such keen, silvery humor, as brought the
house down, and himself _vice versa_.
The audience having dispersed in a state like the afflatus of
laughing-gas, the poet and a privileged clique proceeded to the
house of the Baptist elder, to prolong the night with metaphysical
wassail. From the froth of poetry, they rose to a contemplation of
the old classics; Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Virgil, rising
grandly from their dust, ensphered in vibratory eloquence.
The elder, whose, education had been accomplished simply by a New
Testament and three-inch rope, sat, or rather twisted through the
rhapsody, as a dunce twists through his Greek roots, and at the
first pause, drawing himself erect with the self-complacent air of
a man who applies the clincher, ejaculated, with the Western
twang: 'What do you think of Hi-awa_thy_?' The professor, giving
him one look, to be sure of his sanity, and a second to be sure of
his obtusity, answered gravely, above a convulsion of laughter:
'Hi-awathy was a genius!'
Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy
composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being
the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has
immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style,
on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my
Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _élite_ of
the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the
Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in
possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to
her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he
seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by
a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense
crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream
ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription
beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her
Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he
should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now
zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are
respectfully invited to observe.
The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic
eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a
burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this
glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American
Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the
shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his
tail?'
One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an
appreciative public.
The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin
hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of
the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet
lost their _freshness_.'
Exit Athens and fresh salt.
* * * * *