Tom Johnson he lived on the Western border,
Where he went to escape from 'law and order,'
For Tom was a terrible fellow, was he,
He drunk, and he swore, and he fou't[B] like the
Old Harry--and Tom he had a wife:
Fit partner she was of his backwoods life.
Tom lived on the border for divers years,
Where he fou't the red-skins, and he fou't the bears
And there wasn't a thing that could bite or scratch
For which Tom Johnson wasn't a match,
Excepting his wife, and she was the better
Half by all odds--he'd often get her
In a tight place, and give her a strapping.
But somehow or other 'twould always happen,
In every tussle and every bout,
In every 'scrimmage' and every rout,
She'd come out ahead of the cross-grained old wizzard,
And by hook or crook manage to 'give him a blizzard.'
Sometimes from a brawl of which Tom was the hero,
Returning at midnight, the weather at zero,
His wife snug in bed, and the door safely barred,
Long time would elapse ere his shouts could be heard;
And sometimes she'd catch him dead drunk or asleep,
When he'd find himself suddenly 'all of a heap,'
And open his eyes on his bellicose bride,
Hot mush in his mouth and his under-pins tied.
So she managed to keep just inside of the law,
While he ever would find himself '_hors du combat_.'
As Johnson was one day exploring the wood,
To replenish the meat-tub--then empty--with food,
While a tree-top near by he was leisurely viewin''
He spied the short ears and sharp eyes of old Bruin,
Peering out 'mid the branches--a sight worth a dollar
When the rifle is charged and the stomach is hollow;
So he drew a bead on him, and sent him a missile,
Which Brain perceived, by an ominous whistle,
Was very near taking him plump in the eye,
But he dodged just in time, and the bullet went by.
Now bears are pugnacious--as much so as wives,
And whenever assaulted will fight for their lives;
So seeing that Tom's ammunition was spent,
He determined at once on a hasty descent;
For knowing that he or Tom Johnson would eat,
The question arose which should furnish the meat;
For although the bullet had wrought some confusion,
A moment's reflection produced the conclusion,
That he at the foot of the tree with the gun,
Minus powder and bullet, must needs be the one;
So he slid down the tree, with much scratching and clawing,
Designing to give poor Tom's carcass a gnawing.
But Thomas, intent upon saving his life,
And calling to mind a sharp trick of his wife,
As Bruin came down, his legs clasping the tree,
Caught a paw in each hand and held tight as could be:
He put on a grip unto Bruin quite new,
Like a vice when the blacksmith is turning the screw.
But now what to do there arose a great doubt,
For Bruin and Johnson had both just found out
What neither had thought of until 'twas too late,
That each was exposed to a merciless fate
At the hands, or the teeth, or the claws of the other,
At which _neither_ could his astonishment smother,
And neither knew what it was safest to do;
'Twas _hard_ to hold on, but 'twas worse to let go!
Now Johnson still being not far from his house,
Bethought him in time of his excellent spouse,
So he hooted and hallooed and made such a noise
She distinguished at last his affectionate voice,
Calling loudly for help as it rose on the breeze,
Like the panther's wild scream in the tops of the trees:
'O Julee, dear Julee! come, help me this time,
And I never again--will--(oh! bother the rhyme,)
Will bite you, or scratch you, or whip you, not I,
But love and protect you till you or I die.'
Now good Mistress Johnson, dear soul, when she heard
The piteous cries of her penitent lord,
Got herself to the wood with broom-stick in hand.
'I am, most respectfully, yours to command,'
Said the wife, as she came and found Tom and the bear
Both hugging a tree with the grip of despair.
'O Julee, _dear_ Julee! How can you?--now come,
Do help me, or quickly-confound it!--our home
Won't have any master!--dear Julee, consider--
The children no daddy, and you a lone widow!'
An _un_lucky hint for poor Tom, by the by,
'For worse things _might_ happen!' thought she with a sigh.
But good mistress Johnson, though love was but scant,
Had a heart never hewn from the worst adamant;
It softened apace, so with broom-stick in air
And ire in her eye she advanced on the bear,
Who seeing the enemy thus reënforced
Tried to get his fore-paws from Tom's clutches divorced.
O woman, poor woman! dear woman! sweet thing!
O light of earth's darkness! O treasure supernal!
Thy fond heart, though crushed, win unceasingly cling
To a loved one, though fallen, degraded, infernal!
Thrice Bruin's tough hide from the broom-stick now had a cut;
Quoth Johnson: 'My darling, that weapon's inadequate--
Hold a bit--let me see--now we'll fix him--here, Mother--
Reach your hand--take this paw--hold it tight--now the other.
There, _I_ will dispatch him--ah! where is my gun?
And bullets? dear me!--ah!--why, what have I done?
I will run to the house, and be back in a trice--
Hold on, my beloved! be 'still as a mice!''
'Quick! quick!' the wife shouted. 'Be off--get away!
Make tracks, Mr. Johnson! don't stand there all day!'
So Tom started off in pursuit of assistance,
And leisurely walking a very short distance,
Turned, paused to reflect, then addressed her: 'My dear,
My conscience upbraids me concerning this bear;
A very great doubt has arisen in my mind--
I am not quite sure--but am rather inclined,
Indeed--I may say--I have reached the conclusion
That bears have been made a Divine Institution;
This is plainly deduced from the Scriptures of truth,
Which frightened me much in the days of my youth,
With the story of forty of ages quite tender,
Torn to strings by two gears of the feminine gender:
And not only so, but you see, Mistress Julia,
This same institution is very 'peculiar;'
I found it somewhat inconvenient to hold,
(The cubs are quite harmless, but this one is old,)
He is gentle at first, but as muscle increases,
Shows some disposition to tear one in pieces.
Then hold him the tighter, and keep up good heart,
As it's all in the family, you'll do your part.'
Tom closed his oration with actions to suit,
Then went to his house, where the reprobate brute
Whipped the children and kicked his old mother out-door,
Got tipsy as Bacchus and rolled on the floor,
While his wife held the bear, fast tied to the spot,
And how long she staid there, deponent says not.
* * * * *
Secesh has a bear, and has had many years,
At first, a mere pet, he engendered no fears;
But now he's grown strong and can fight like a major,
And has like his master become an old stager;
He has taught him to work, and has trained him to fight,
Adding strength to his hands and increasing his might;
Albeit if _free_ he would turn on his master,
Who knows it full well, and hence holds him the faster;
But not only so, he insists _we_ shall help
While he fights to destroy us, at holding his whelp!
And strangely enough, we obey his command,
While he strikes at our vitals and plunders the land!
He has murdered the son and led captive the brother,
Has broke up the home and made war on his mother;
And now while our sons by the thousand are slain
The nation to save and its life to maintain,
When the patriot's eyelids are closing in death,
While a prayer for his country inspires his last breath,
Or bleeding he lies as the foul traitor's dart
Is caught in the folds of the flag round his heart,
While freedom's bright bow, for the millions unborn,
No longer encircles the brow of the storm,
While the sun of our glory grows dim in our sight,
And the star of our destiny's shrouded in night;
Still our paralyzed hands, to our country untrue,
Are stretched out to _succor_ the traitorous crew,
As they strike for our lives, fully bent on our ruin,
_We_ lend them assistance by holding their Bruin,
And tell all the world that our national wars
Shall be waged to protect _constitutional bears_.
And now let us know, my dear sir, in conclusion,
How long must continue this monstrous delusion,
(If not a state secret, so sacred a one
That it may to the Cabinet only be known,)
While being destroyed by a traitorous war,
_How long we must aid them by holding their bear_?
Or how long shall we flourish our broom-stick, and say,
To one who would help us: 'Keep out of the way!
Go home to your master, your Samaritan neighbor;
Return all his kindness and give him your labor,
Plant corn, hoe the cotton, and keep things all bright,
Give him plenty to eat and more leisure to fight;
For we mean to protect him in every 'RIGHT;'
And the best way of keeping the 'whole Constitution'
Is to help those who fight for its _whole_ dissolution,
(Though this proposition may seem somewhat strange,)
While we dig our own ditches and fire at long range,
For our duty is plain, when the traitor makes war,
To give aid and comfort by _holding his bear_.'
[Footnote B: In the border dialect this word rhymes with 'shout,'
'about,' etc.]
* * * * *
We find the following in the notice of THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY by a
contemporary:
'The CONTINENTAL looks upon Slavery through blood and murder eyes.
It sees in the institution nothing but lashes, salt-rubbed wounds,
bloodhounds, and iron-hearted taskmasters. _It looks upon the war
as solely for the freedom of the nigger_; and judging from its tone
for the past six months would undoubtedly go in for an entire
separation, if its editors and contributors thought at the end of
the conflict the rebellious States would be restored to the Union
with the 'peculiar institution' still in force.'
_Ab uno disce omnes._ This, reader, is the manner in which every
democratic-conservative journal which has undertaken to notice our
Magazine speaks of it. And the reader who has followed us--who has
fairly and equitably appreciated our views of the war and of
Emancipation--will not hesitate for an instant in pronouncing it as
perfectly _false_ a verdict as was ever yet given against any one. We
have never in any way looked upon the war as 'solely for the freedom of
the nigger,' and we have been chid by the regular Abolition press
because we did _not_ look more to the welfare of the negro, or, as the
_Liberator_ accused us, of being willing to 'colonize the slave out of
the way.' It was in the _Knickerbocker_ and in these pages, and
editorially, that the principle of the true Republican, Free White Labor
Emancipationists, in the words, 'Emancipation for the sake of the WHITE
Man,' first appeared. And while we advocate ultimate emancipation, it
is not as _the_ matter of _primary_ importance that we do so. Slavery
has inextricably entangled itself with the war, and no one who takes a
broad, comprehensive view of the struggle, or of contemporary history,
can fail to see that slavery must ultimately go, because it makes bad
citizens of the masters, wastes soil, represses manufactures,
neutralizes the proper development of capital, and, worst of all,
degrades labor--man's noblest prerogative--and inflicts grievous wrong
on the white working man. And does not every Southern journal and every
Southern 'gentleman' prove what we say? 'Aristocrat,' 'Norman
gentleman,' 'Yankee serf,' 'vile herd'--is it not enough to make the
heart sick and the brain burn to hear the poor sons and daughters of
toil, those whom God has appointed to be truly good and useful, cursed
and reviled in this manner by the few owners of black labor? Is there
not enough in the wrongs of the _white_ man to inspire all the headlong
zeal and boldness with which the press credit us, without making the
miserable _negro_ the chief aim? Not but that we pity the latter, God
knows! But it is the elevation of the dignity of _white_ labor that we
have in hand, and while we advocate 'emancipation to come' sooner or
later, it is as a means of doing justice to the white man. Let us
emancipate white labor from the comparison with slavery and from the
sneers of an aristocracy which _will_ be 'Cæsar or nothing' among us.
The South has sinned against man and God by voluntarily, boldly,
shamelessly reviling the poor, who are the chosen children of God. And
for all this they shall be judged by those whom they have cursed and
ridiculed. The most crushing tread of destiny is reserved for those who
impertinently aid her in trampling the lowly. Does Christ, think you,
whose whole teaching was one upholding of the poor and the hard-working,
approve this scorn of the 'laboring scum'? So surely as this thing has
been fevered to a war, so surely shall there be one last moment when
dying Southern sin shall exclaim: '_Vicisti Galilæ!_'
But what are we to think of the hangers-on and parasites and shadows and
'shadows of shadows,' as Plautus calls the vilest toadies to sycophants,
who, hard-working men themselves, try to catch some faint reflection of
sham gentility by 'talking pro-slavery because they think it
aristocratic,' as Winthrop says? What of an _editor_--the one who of all
men works hard for indifferent reward--who forgets the nobility which
_should_ surround all who speak for and to the people, and beslabbers
the meanest and most contemptible of even sham aristocracies, that which
is _self_-conscious, self-glorifying by comparison and forgetful that
_noblesse oblige_? Or what of him when he cunningly and with the vulgar
'cuteness which characterizes the most degraded snobbery, takes pains to
make it appear that the labor of another on behalf of the poor white man
is meant solely for the negro, and that the former is to be sacrificed
to the latter!
We know, see, and feel clearly what we want and what we believe. It is
the progress of the rights of free white labor, which correctly
considered means all that is right. And if this were understood and
felt, as it _should_ be by those most deeply interested, our police
would be amply sufficient to punish the _soi-disant_ Normans of the
South.
* * * * *
If we could speak a word to all men in or about to enter the army, it
would be: 'Don't drink.' We know the fever and ague country, and assure
our readers that all advice to the contrary notwithstanding, he who lets
liquor alone will fare best in the end. _Apropos_ of which we clip the
following:
'Hall's _Journal of Health_ recommends to those writing to soldier
friends to inclose a little _capsicum_ (in the vulgar, simply
strong cayenne pepper) in the letter. The editor declares that the
effect of the slightest pinch in a glass of water, is better than
quinine whisky. It prevents thirst, and wards off miasma; it
protects from chills, and does not induce too much animal heat. It
stimulates without leaving any depressing effect; all of which we
most firmly believe. The weight is so small that enough to do a
great deal of good may be put in tissue-paper and be inclosed in a
single letter without cost additional to the regular postage
rates.'
* * * * *
Every mail brings fresh proof of English antipathy to the Federal Union.
It is now only a question of time when we are to be attacked by the
great Abolition nation. John Bull is hammering away at his iron-clads
and doing his best in every direction to aid the aristocratic and
despotic principle, so dear to his soul--nay, which _is_ his very soul
and self. In China he is helping the Imperialists, whose awful and
heart-rending atrocities go beyond all belief--in the West, the
slaveholder meets with his warmest sympathy. How well--how human--how
Christian he looks _now_ with his sheepskin thrown aside--this selfish,
brutal savage, howling for cotton and trade and gold as though all
truth, honor, and nobility were as dirt before them.
For all this, England will have its reward. In the history of nations,
1862 shall be marked as the year of British falsehood, infamy, and
guilt. _Upharsin!_
* * * * *
DEAR CONTINENTAL: Curious fellows those Pre-Raphaelites!
Do you remember Holman Hunt's picture of the Light of the World? I
remember that one evening at the Century, among a cheerful group of
Leutze, Durand, Gifford, Mignot, and others, you once called it a
pre-Raphaelight of the World!
Well, 'twas far away in Switzerland, _tilly hi ho--tilly i o!_ all in
the mountains high, several years ago, and I was touring and sketching
somewhere along in the Oberland. I found at last a retired village
without English. No--not without them altogether--there was one little
man with a _barba rossa_, and he was pre-Raphaeliting round for a
subject.
He found it at last in a small rock about nine inches by twelve--full of
sentiment, tone, color, piety, feeling, reality, child-like faith and
trustingness.
And he went to work to paint the rock.
Day after day he painted. When it rained he worked under an umbrella;
when it sun-shone on him he toiled in the heat.
I pitied him. 'Smith,' said I, 'what do you do that for? Why don't you
pick your stone up and take it home with you? Put it in your trunk and
carry it back to London. It isn't a landscape, you know.'
'By Jove!' quoth he, 'I never thought of that. So I will, d'ye know. 'Ow
very hodd! Vell! you Yankees are werry hinwentive, I must hadmit.'
And he did; and the portrait of the rock went into the 'Annual
Exhibish,' and was thought to be the deepest-toned thing 'out.'
And it's _true_.
Yours also,
GALLI VAN T.
* * * * *
It is odd, but after all, the world seldom sees a real original letter.
Letters of business, old letters, love-letters, and letters written for
print, the world sees enough. But the real life-descriptive gossiping
letter is rarely en-typed. More's the pity.
Here is one--from a never-seen friend--which has been lying for months
in THE CONTINENTAL his drawer. Shall we be pardoned for publishing it?
We hope so, for we remember that it pleased us well when we received it,
and what is good for the editor must be good for the reader. Let it go!
_The Hermitage, May_, 1862.
DEAR FRIEND: Appearances--to make a very original remark--are deceitful.
To the traveler who may chance to cast his eyes upon this little brown,
house, a little brown house it will be to him, 'and nothing more.' He
will not even notice the woodbines that are flinging their arms around
the windows, nor will he dwell for an instant upon the thrifty
cotton-woods that guard the door, or bestow more than a casual glance on
the artistically arranged garden-beds, wherein I have anxiously watched
tulips and radishes sprouting into existence. Anxiously--for winter has
been writing a somewhat lengthy postscript to his annual message, and
the modest, gentle-mannered spring retreats in lady-like fright before
his furious blasts.
Now we are having an interval of hazy warmth--the really royal weather
of the year--red sunshine, the hills purple and blue in the distance,
and the still air savory with the smoke of brush-burnings and the wild
breath of new-lifed vegetation. Lovelier than the Indian summer, for
mingled with all things is the consciousness of the flowering and
fruiting _to come_. The Indian summer has a sweet sadness. The spring is
full of hope and promise, and the _heart_ buds with the flowers.
Out in the midst of all this country springtime freshness, our
'Hermitage' looks up from its shrubberies and rejoices within itself,
and does not care for the traveler's careless glances. The traveler may
call it stupid and ugly, if he calls it at all; our Hermitage still
patiently wears its havelock of weather-beaten shingles, for _it_ knows
that beneath its lowly roof--radiant with whitewash and fresh paper--are
cozy, coolly curtained rooms, where friendly books look down from the
wall, and drowsy arm-chairs woo from the corners.
Yes, many Wisconsin banks have yielded up their lives in the past year,
and in one of these fatal safes our little pile of 'ready' irrevocably
evaporated! Ah! the palmy days! when we had rooms at the ----; when our
tables were marble-topped and our mirrors presented full-length
portraits of us; when every dinner was a feast for epicures; when
servants awaited our nod or beck; when Davis's best turn-out bowled us
away to the purple bluffs yonder, at every sunset, and bowled us back
again happy in pocket and in heart! Those days have gemmed themselves in
the past.
We find it necessary to 'put in for repairs,' as they say of a steamboat
when her smoke-stacks are snapped off by a Lake Pepin gale, and she goes
ashore. At no distant day we will again go out into the tide. From any
quantity of 'wild lands'--which we have the felicity of paying taxes
on--we have selected a ten-acre patch in the neighborhood of the city,
and are living something after the style of Thoreau, except that we have
a better cook!
From our modestly architectured porch we look out upon the broad,
far-stretching valley of the Mississippi. It is a vast view--so that a
shower becomes a part of the landscape, and it is delightful to watch it
trailing over the hills. Alexander Smith is ahead of me in this idea,
but no matter. East and west the picturesque bluffs mingle in hazy
softness with the sky; the roofs and steeples of the city glimmer in the
sunny distance; now and then, away through the wooded banks we see
columns of pearly steam, as some stately boat goes gliding by. I shall
always have a weakness for these proud, screeching steamboats, for there
is one among them--the dear old 'Milwaukee'--for which I entertain a
confirmed infirmity! _We_ went honey-mooning in the 'Milwaukee.' Its
musical and far-heard whistle is doomed for evermore to deluge my soul
in a 'sea of soft-blue memories.'
Our carpets are of matting and oil-cloth, islanded here and there with a
choice bit of rug. My little kitchen is exultant in shining tins, a
glittering 'Hotspur,' patented 1860, and a capacious cupboard, through
the glass doors of which shines forth a complete set of 'Ironstone.' On
Mondays a little Bohemian--with surprising strength in her diminutive
person--comes, and out from the fury of suds and steam issues a line of
snowy, flapping clothes. She receives her 'tri shealing' and trots home.
Aside from washing, I am addicted to that unpoetical, homely, dry, and
utterly plebeian practice of doing my own work. Think you I could endure
to have a poetic mood burst in upon by a red-faced girl, smelling of
dish-water, exclaiming, '_The tay's out_'? Besides, I never was born to,
had thrust upon me, or achieved, any surplus amount of 'greatness,'
consequently my laurels will not suffer from being in contact with
sauce-pans and toasting-forks. (But fancy the idea of Mrs. Browning
a-frying _flapjacks_!) I have lived for the most part in the country,
you know, and at the old home I was applauded on by an appreciative
mamma to rare feats in this department of humble life. I combine the
artist with the cook--the ideal with the material. I consult color and
the nice shades of taste. Indeed, I make cooking and furniture-arranging
an art. The emerald lettuce I mingle with the ruby radish; the carefully
browned trout I surround with a wall of snowy and hot potatoes; the
roseate shavings of beef and ham flank the golden butter, which is
stamped in a very superior manner, I may say, with the American Eagle;
the amber honey sides with the royal purple of grape-jelly; and the
creamy biscuit contrasts with the deep chrome of the sponge-cake beside
it, etc., etc. Of various pastries and _entrees_--of which I alone hold
the original recipes--I will not speak. Suffice to say, that it may be
of interest to some housekeepers to send me a prepaid envelope!
Should you go Minnehahaing this summer, I shall hope that you may fail
to make connections with the St. Paul Packet Company, so that while
waiting a boat you may find it convenient to immortalize 'The Hermitage'
by breaking fast beneath its humble roof.
Hermetically thine,
MARIE.
We would that we could. Alas! there is very little 'ha-ha-ing' of any
kind this serious 'battle-summer'--least of all for us toward the rosy
West. Well, a time _may_ come, and when it does, of a verity the
Hermitage shall become well known to 'Esquire CONTINENTAL.'
* * * * *
A CORRESPONDENT, whose style, by the way, is quaint enough to be printed
with black-letter, thus favors us with his protest against certain
merely 'bread-and-butter' notions of Woman:
I object to the current newspaper 'Advice for Girls.' A woman may
know how to cook, sweep, sew, tend babies; but is _this_ what a
young man--Spanish, _virgen_--most looks, or cares for, or thinks
of, when he seeks life-companionship--a Somebody to get him dinner,
tidy his room, fasten his shirt-buttons, and bear him children?
'Tis not for spread tables, kept house, mended clothes, nor
pleasure, that the young man's soul thirsts. For sympathy, for
love, for the object of his manliness, for its complement, for his
wife--and not a servant, nor a mistress.
He does indeed holily choose the mother of their little ones, but
newspaper-notice hints nothing of that; it teaches bodily, not
spiritually, and simply trains up a female able to bear offspring
of healthy flesh.
However, the husband requires a lover fit to join with him in
spirit also, for the total benefit of posterity.
The education which best suits a woman, then, is it carnal or
soulful? to make a kitchen-drudge or a soft-eyed maiden? a prudent
housewife or a thoughtful heartsweet? 'a special breeder' (POPE) or
a trusted bosomer? Cattle and machinery are for this labor-saving.
The true end of woman is feminity. Therefore, if she is any
brighter and heartsomer for playing in the fields, any more pensive
and sober for meditating there, who shall deny her God's free air
and sunshine?
If she is more delicate and softer to handle the light embroidery,
or plan the curious patchwork, who shall restrict her busy
ingenuity to garments of _wear_--coarse jackets, trowsers, shirts?
If she is more earnest and devoted for loving and suffering through
a romance, who shall hinder from reading and writing, or limit the
one to _Pilgrim's Progress_, the other to a letter, or confine her
pity to street-beggars, for whom alms-giving is act of charity not
more than tears are for imagined woes?
If she is more winning and tender by dwelling with old friendships
and memorable passages of trial or happiness, who shall fetter her
thoughts to the selfish indifference of the present, or the dull
routine of daily toil called duty?
If she is gentler and meeker, purer and loftier, Christlier, for
contemplating God and the angels, who can bind her conscience to
worship her husband or 'God in him'? (MILTON.)
Summarily and concisely, if she is more _womanly_, in any sort, for
doing, saying, thinking, whatsoever, howsoever, whithersoever, is
not what she ought the term and measure of what she may? or else
who shall presume to prescribe other bounds to her nature, and
undertake to restrain its ongoings in this or that direction?
Is female determined by male? woman's mind by the wind of man's
caprice? or both mutually interdetermined by the law of their
correlation, his wants and her capacities, her wants and his
abilities? And if he preaches utility, but she follows taste,
whether is to be concluded, that he needs more of practicality in
her, or she more of æstheticality in him? Is it that women lack
usefulness or that men lack beautifulness?
The sterner sex, by assuming to itself superior desires, can
stigmatize the other because the female disposition does not meet
its own; but truth and right may be much upon the other side. Women
may be nearer _standard_, just in this land and age, than men; and
their unsatisfied longings for handsome, chaste, and noble men are
swifter witnesses than all the low complaint about feminine finery
and extravagance. When men can seem to better understand that it is
not necessarily madness to prefer (as Nero) a fortune in marble to
a fortune in gold, or a Raphael's painting to 'money in the bank,'
when they shall come to recognize the utility of beauty and
holiness, then will not women be slow to acknowledge the use and
usefulness of so much utility.
* * * * *
Honor to Sigel! honor to Heintzelman! Whatever may have been said or
sung against others, there is no doubt as to the ability, faithfulness,
perseverance, and courage of these gallant _Deutschers_, and with them
of many others of their glorious nation who have followed their national
and instinctive hatred of tyranny, and taken part with us in battle
against the South. Hurrah then for our German Generals. _Sigel soll
leben, vivat hoch!_
Wir geh'n die Waffen in der Hand,
Zu retten unser Vaterland,
Und unser Kampf ist Sieg.
Wir tragen nicht Erober-Schwerdt,
Wir schützen Weib und Kind und Heerd,
Gerecht ist unser Krieg.
(ENGLISH.)
'We go with weapon in our hand,
And all to free our Father-land,
A victory is our fight.
We seek to win no foreign earth,
We fight for wife and child and hearth:
God knows our cause is right.'
How many hundreds of thousands of Germans are there to whom these lines
have become as applicable in this our 'Trans-Atlantic Germany' as when
sung of old under the oaks of the Teuton father-land. When this battle
shall be over, let every one bear in mind the good and faithful aid they
gave us. Nor shall the Irish be forgotten, who with such desperate
courage have contributed so largely to swell our armies. They are in
every regiment, they have been foremost in every battle, their dead lie
on every field. Let those deny it who will, we should have fared badly
enough had it not been for the Irish. They have shown themselves from
the beginning as presenting
'First fut on the flure,
First stick in the fight.'
They gave us the poet-warrior O'Brien, and the brave and generous
Kearney, and the noble Corcoran--but the list is too long. Honor to them
all.
There are many very good sort of people who will tell you, 'I don't like
Germans,' or 'I don't like Irish!' We trust that this war will drive all
such dislikes among us out of existence. Those who indulge in them are
generally narrow-minded, un-cosmopolite sort of people. The principles
of our day and of our war--the Republican principles--are opposed to all
such illiberality. The Southerner, indeed, proposes to exclude all
foreigners--it is his 'policy'--the Republican would give to the brain
and muscle of every living being the fullest chance for development
_every where_. Free Soil and Free Labor forever!
* * * * *
Literature and religion have of late sustained a great loss in the death
of Benjamin J. Wallace, D.D., which took place in Philadelphia August
first. The deceased was a descendant of the great Harris family, which
may be almost said to have founded Western Pennsylvania, and which gave
a name to its largest city. Originally educated at West-Point, he
subsequently studied divinity at Princeton, distinguished himself as a
New-School clergyman in many States, especially in the West, was at one
time a professor at Delaware College, Newark, and was well known during
the later years of his life as editor of and contributor to that very
able magazine, the Presbyterian _Quarterly Review_.
We had frequent opportunities of becoming familiar with the scope of Mr.
Wallace's abilities, and can testify that they were truly remarkable.
Apart from his theological learning he was a thorough and extremely
varied student of general literature; one familiar to a degree rare in
this country with Greek genius; a most able and ready writer; and above
all, a man of strong belief; one who touched no subject on which he did
not write with sincerest interest.
Mr. Wallace left a large circle of friends and a family to mourn a loss
which all the friends of religion and of culture share in common with
them. It is seldom that the journalist is called on to record the death
of any one who to natural gifts, aided by most excellent education,
added such a life of conscientious and modest industry. He was a true
Christian and gentleman in all things.
* * * * *
The writer of the letter excerpted from in the following story, will
accept our sincere thanks for the 'De Bow,' which, as he will find
'other wheres,' has been turned to account by us:
_New-Orleans, August 13th, 1862._
DEAR CONTINENTAL: Let me give you a true version of an anecdote touching
the 'contraband' question: it may do for the Drawer.
A rascally slave-jockey of this habitat procured an order for the
rendition of a fugitive, who was supposed to be in the Quartermaster's
employ at the Custom-House, addressed to that functionary. Meanwhile the
negro, who had doubtless been there, had taken refuge in the hospital,
whither Jew pursued him with the same order, not doubting that the
Major-General's order was as good for one place as another. But Dr.
Smith, it seems, thought otherwisely, for he coolly informed the
applicant that _he_ was not Quartermaster, and declined to pay any
attention to an order on that officer. Back to head-quarters travels
'Shylock,' with his dishonored order and his complaint. The paper is
forthwith returned with a curt indorsement and the assurance that 'that
will make it all right.' Thus fortified, he returned to the charge, and
triumphantly displaying the back of the paper only to Dr. Smith,
demanded his 'nigger.' Dr. Smith looked at the writing presented to him
and read:
'DR. SMITH: You will turn this man out at once.'
Then to the Jockey: 'Here, I am ordered to turn you out of my house. Get
out, sir, get out; get out of my house!' And as he stood petrified with
astonishment at the apparent disrespect shown to the General's order,
Dr. Smith called out to the guard: 'Orderly, put this man out at the
door, and see that he is not admitted again.' The fellow found his
tongue at length, but the Doctor, who is no admirer of slave-hunters,
would not hear a word of remonstrance, and the discomfited trader was
hustled down the stairs, shaking his order behind him, and spluttering
out his wrath and disappointment.
* * * * *
'Grasp thy happiness and bear it with thee.' Is that Sanscrit or
Persian? He who said that, had grasped a great truth. The Beautiful
never perishes to him that _wills_.