revamped to suit new times and men, may be found in the following
'original,' also given by Bebelius, as _Pulchrum factum cujusdam militis
Tubigentis_--a fine deed of a certain soldier of Tuebingen:
'Conrad Buhel of Tuebingen, distinguished by his bravery among the
captains of Caesar Maximilian in the Hungarian campaign, was, once
in camp, lying on the straw and expecting no evil, when there
entered another soldier to whom Conrad had done an injury. Who,
when he found him thus lying on his back, said with that noble
magnanimity characteristic of the German mind: 'Wert thou not lying
helpless, I would stab thee with my sword!' To which Conrad
replied: 'Wilt thou do me no injury until I stand up and am ready
for fight?' 'Not I,' replied his foe, 'for I hold it base to strike
an unarmed man.' 'Then,' replied Conrad, 'I shall lie still all
night.' But on the next day he transfixed the other with his
spear.'
The same story is told of an eminent Irish lawyer, who had offended the
client of a rival pleader. 'Will ye get up till I bate yees?' 'An' would
ye strike a man lying down?' 'Divil a bit!' 'Then I'll jist go to slape
again.' In the modern stories the foes are reconciled--in the old camp
incident all is fierce and characteristic of the bloody feuds of the
middle ages, and the final murder of the great-hearted enemy strikes us
with a pang. The _sed postri die alterum cuspide transfixit_ seems
brutal and ungenerous; but the event, whether literally true or feigned,
had no such discord to the readers of those days. It was more essential
to establish the thorough bravery of Conrad, than to reward the
magnanimity of his foe. Truly, the history of jests is the history of
civilization.
In relation to this transmission of the renown of stories of the olden
times to lawyers of the later day, we may cite the well-known incident
of the honest criminal who, travelling alone on foot, was met by Sir
Matthew Hale, and in answer to the questions of the latter, admitted
that he was going to a distant court to be tried for his life. The same
noble truthfulness is beautifully set forth in the following, _Pulchra
historia simplicis praetoris et furis_, or 'Fine Story of a
Simple-hearted Superintendent and Thief.'
'My lord of Stoeffel, of that free and excellent nobility which
are called barons, had a superintendent of his serfs. And he, when
a certain man was accused of theft, and condemned by him to the
torture of the cross (_ad crucis tormentum damnasset_), with rustic
simplicity sent the criminal to the church that he might confess
his sins, first taking his word that he would return after
confession. So he entered the shrine, confessed, and not heeding
the privilege of ecclesiastical immunity (i. e., the right of
sanctuary), 'whereby he might have escaped, kept his faith with the
superintendent (_fidem praetori servavit_), and again returning
underwent extreme punishment. And this I knew from my boyhood, that
he went up to the place of punishment with such alacrity, that it
would seem as if he truly desired death. But many curses were
lavished on the priest to whom he confessed, because he did not
warn the imprudent man not to quit the bounds of ecclesiastical
freedom!'
There is a whole ballad--nay, a whole history of the middle ages in this
story; for among thousands I can recall none as perfectly characteristic
of the times. The absolute aristocratic control of the life of a white
slave; its abuse by transferring it to the arbitrary will of an upper
servant; the blind devotion to feudal service shown in the fidelity of
the poor serf, the horrible cruelty of his punishment; and finally, the
cowardly supple fawning of the local priesthood, who were always either
worms or dragons in their relations to the nobility, are all set forth
here in a few lines.
I have said that the eminent lawyers of modern times are greatly favored
in the inheritance of old jokes. Judge Jeffries, we are told, in
examining an old fellow with a long beard, told him he supposed he had a
conscience quite as long as that natural ornament of his visage. 'Does
your lordship measure consciences by beards?' said the man; 'that is
strange, seeing you yourself are shaven.' Among the monk-Latin tales
there is one to the effect that a certain _pater_, priding himself on
his beard, was informed that in a convent of he-goats he certainly
deserved to be abbot. The same story, re-made into a gross form, is
current in this country, and attributed to an eminent Virginia
politician. In the _Antidotum Melancholiae_ (Frankfort, 1667), it is
given in the form of an evidently very old Latin rhyme:
'Si bene barbatum faceret sua barba beatum,
Nullus in hoc circo fuerit felicior hireo.'
There is a modern story current in America, which is often
circumstantially narrated, of some individual wearing a fine beard or
'whiskers,' and who is said to have sold them to a vulgar practical
joker, who had one shaved off, but suffered the other to remain for a
long time on the face of his victim, annoying him meantime with
inquiries as to 'my whisker.' It is the true type of a great number of
stories which originated in the Southern and South-Western United
States, the point of which almost invariably turns on vexing, grieving,
or maltreating some victim, who is an inferior as regards wit, fortune,
or physique. It is worth remarking that the only really original and
characteristic class of jokes which the slave States originated are
strongly marked with that cruelty and vulgarity which naturally attend
the morbidly vain and semi-civilized man, who is so unfortunate as to
have inferiors by fortune entirely in his power. I would ask the reader
in confirmation of this to simply turn over the large collection of
'Georgia Major' and 'Simon Suggs' tales, which, emanating from the
South, have contributed so much to brutalize and vulgarize the humorous
tendencies of that portion of the more Northern public which reads them.
But to return to the story of the half shaven beard. It also is a very
old one, being told in its original form as _Barba deceptus
Judaeus_--'The Jew deceived by a beard,' and is as follows:
'A nobleman of Frankfort, while being shaved in a barber's shop,
was summoned by a Jew to whom he owed money. But at the request of
his debtor the Jew consented to forego the arrest until the
nobleman's beard should be shaved. Upon which the latter departed
unshorn, and ever remained so.'
The old story--Jews, Cogots, serfs, negroes--the outwitting,
persecuting, and swindling some outlawed class of poor helpless victims,
who have been made worse than they should be by oppression. This
anecdote--like that of the free lance Conrad--is a sad epitome of the
middle ages, and to us of the present day, it rings like a curse on the
olden time, in the form of a diabolical jest. It is, however, bitterest
of all, to find the oppressed--as in the stories illustrating mere
_feudal_ fidelity,--so utterly degraded as to actually take part with
their oppressors and with the foes of humanity, against their own
rights. So, in this present struggle with that incarnation of evil, and
of the old devilish feudal oppression, the Confederate South, we are
still pained to find among its adherents men, who, having been socially
trampled on in Europe, seek, by sheer force of slavish habit, masters to
lord it over them here. There is but one type of man who is more
pitiable--it is he who is recreant to the great cause of freedom for the
sake of--money!
A brutal and disgraceful jest-story, which stands in close relation to
this last, is that of _Detrimentum barbae propter Sanctos_;' or, 'losing
a beard for the saints,' which runs as follows:
'A Hebrew contending with a Catholic, affirmed there were more
Jewish saints in Heaven than Christian. It was thereupon agreed
that each should name his saints in turn, and as he named, pluck a
hair from the beard of his adversary.
'Abraham,' said the Jew, and plucked a hair.
'Saint Peter,' said the Christian.
'Isaac.'
'Saint Paul.'
And so they kept up their litanies, until the 'Christian,'
exclaiming: 'Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins!' tore
out the whole beard of the Jew by the roots, to the great laughter
of all standing around.'
It would matter but little, that a fanatical and brutal crowd of the
middle ages had laughed at seeing 'only a Jew' disgraced and dripping
with blood, to point a scurvy jest. But, I confess that it struck me as
singular, when I once found this story in a memoir, set down as having
been narrated by an eminent Christian philosopher (now not long dead),
as a capital thing. Granting its humor, is it worth while to inquire if
he would have enjoyed it as much, had the Jew torn out the beard of the
Christian in the name of the thousands who had been martyred for the
faith of Israel?
The jokes of the middle ages on the subject of the beard, were
numerous--it was a favorite ornament, as we may judge from the fact that
Eberhard, the far-famed old warlike duke, sung in more than one poem by
Uhland, is always spoken of in the old stories, as _noster princeps
barbatus_, 'our bearded prince,' or, more familiarly, simply as 'our
bearded one.' One of the table problems of the day was, '_Potestne
probari mulierem quandam habuisse barbam?_'--'Can it be proved that any
woman ever had a beard?' The answer to which, was, 'Yes--when Judith
bore the head of Holofernes.' It was singular that such a question could
have been agitated, when the legends of the saints contained the story
of the bearded saintess of the Tyrol--a converted ballet-dancer, who was
thus rendered hideous in accordance with her prayer, that she might be
made so repulsive as to frighten away all lovers. And yet Mr. Barnum's
Bearded Lady had a husband!
Jokes ridiculing red beards and heads were common in the old time;
probably because a popular tradition declared that Judas, 'the arch
rascal,' was so marked by nature. The anecdote of the good clergyman who
never laughed but once in church, and that was, when he saw a youth
trying to light a cigar, or warm his hands at a certain ruddy poll,
finds its prototype in one of the old Latin stories:
'Our country people are wont to say, when they see a red-headed
man; 'he would make a bad chimney-sweeper.' And when the reason is
asked, they say: 'when his head came out of the chimney the country
folks would think it was fire, and would ring the bells, assemble
from every direction, and cause all the riot and trouble incident
to a conflagration.'
It is worth noting in this connection, that the prejudice against red
hair is rapidly being forgotten among cultivated persons, and is far
from being what it was within the memory of man. The vulgar, who are the
last to abandon an absurdity, still retain a few jokes on the subject;
but these will probably be as unintelligible in time, as would be the
jests of the middle ages on the _rufa tunica_, or red frock. The
boorishness and cruelty of 'the good old times,' are strongly reflected
in the following, which a scholar of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries was not ashamed to record of himself:
'When lately during Lent, in the year 1506, we had several guests,
among them a rustic from Weilsberg, who wore a long red beard. I
asked him why he did so? and he replied, 'out of grief for the
death of his father-in-law.' To which I replied: 'All wrong, for
red is a color suited to rejoicing'--at which remark all the guests
present began to laugh immoderately. But he with his rustic
simplicity, being made ashamed, answered: 'Yes, sir--that is very
true, and yet I assure you that I feel as sorrowful in this red
beard as any other man does in his black one.'
The man who does not--though three and a half centuries lie
between--sympathize with the sad, honest simplicity of the poor
red-bearded mourner, must be as gross and heartless as was the narrator
of the incident. It gives one, indeed, strange subject for reflection,
to pause among these old trifles of a by-gone day; jotted down for
passing time in a rude age, and yet preserved so clearly, cut and
freshly colored in the modern time! Conrad Buehel, the free lance, and
his enemy--the red-bearded mourner, the Baron von Stoeffel and his
praetor, with the simple minded thief, and timid priests, and the genial
but coarse scholar, Bebelius himself, were all real men in their day,
who might have passed away without the slightest link to bind their
names or natures to an after age--and now they live in a jest! Still
they live--and it may be that when the page which you now peruse, O
reader, shall be as old as the yellow leaves of the sixteenth century
volume now before me, some one may revive them again. It is something to
be near a scholar now and then, for no one knows who once crosses his
path, but that he too may be noted down, to be borne by an anecdote
across stormy centuries, into ages all unlike our own. No man ever yet
died out of a printed book.
Many a happy thought dashed off by a modern writer, is only the adroit
plagiarism of an old joke, 'But oh, the Latin!' says Heinrich Heine, in
describing his boyish sorrows to a lady--'Madame, you can really have no
idea of what a mess it is. The Romans would never have found time to
conquer the world, if they had been first obliged to learn Latin. Lucky
dogs! they already knew in their cradles the nouns ending in _im_.' This
is a very adroit theft from the _Epistolarum Obscurorum Virorum_,
attributed to Von Huetten and others, in which a stupid monk, having
argued with Erasmus, writes as follows to his master:
'Then our host, who is a good scholar, began to talk of poetry, and
greatly praised JULIUS CAESAR in his writings and deeds. Now when I
heard this I was specially delighted that I had read so much, and
that I had heard you lecture on poetry in Cologne, and I said:
'Since you speak of poetry, I can no longer keep quiet, and I tell
you plainly that I do not believe that CAESAR wrote those
commentaries; and I strengthened my assertion with this argument:
'He who has his business in war and in constant labors, cannot
learn Latin. Now, CAESAR was always in wars or in great toils,
therefore he could not be erudite, or learn Latin.' I think,
however, that SUETONIUS wrote those Commentaries, for I never saw
any writer whose style so much resembles that of CAESAR, as does
that of SUETONIUS.'
Who has not heard the story of the hackney coachman, who, at the end of
the day, was wont to divide his gains into 'half for master and half for
me,' when the whole should have been given to the proprietor? Or of the
American public functionary, who said that his annual gains were 'one
thousand dollars salary, besides the cheatage and stealage?' Both seem
to me to be foreshadowed in the following '_Sacerdotis jocus non
illepidus_';
'A certain priest named FYSILINUS who begged for a convent of Saint
Sebastian, being asked what his annual salary was, replied: 'Twenty
gold crowns!' 'Little enough!' answered the other. To which
FYSILINUS replied: 'Various, however, are the emoluments of
mortals; for I have also what is given to me, and what I steal. And
very good is Saint Sebastian, who, whatever division I make with
him, is always silent and contented.'
It is worth noting that this story and thousands which bore much more
severely on the priests, were current for centuries before the
Reformation. There were many anecdotes of this priest, all to his
discredit, many of which were attributed, at a later day, to other
unworthy monks. Among these, a very dull one is interesting, as
connecting him with Eberhard, 'our bearded prince,' already referred to.
Having begged of this truly noble man a benefice, Eberhard, who was
aware of his character, replied: 'If I had a thousand vacant, you should
not have the least of them.'--'_Si mille, inquit, mihi beneficia, ego
minimum tibi non conferrem._' To which Fysilinus impudently replied:
'And if I should hold divine service a thousand times, I would never
bear you in mind, nor pray once for your salvation.'
I have attempted in the foregoing remarks to set forth, or rather
illustrate, the manner in which modern jests have flown directly or
indirectly, from those of earlier generations; and have, in so doing,
called attention to a rare and curious class of humorous books, which
have been but little cited for more than two centuries. The principal
point which I would most gladly make clear, is the fact that in
literature and the history of culture, there are two classes of critics:
the ultra-modern and the ultra-conservative, both of whom are in the
wrong. The one cries that every flash of genius is new, and that an old
jest is an old abomination--the other vows that there is nothing new
under the sun, and that every good story is hidden away, in all its
excellence, somewhere in the storehouse of the past. Examination is,
however, like Pietro D'Abano, always a _Conciliator_. We find the
original _thema_ in the past, often reduced to the careless illustration
of some principle or characteristic common to all humanity; but when we
follow it down to the present, it becomes varied, improved, and enlarged
into whole groups and families of new anecdotes, poems, jests, or
proverbs; any single member of which is, perhaps, better than the
original.
The history of jests can, in turn, be made to furnish an extremely vivid
and curious history of the social conditions of men, and their changes
from the earliest ages--not to be surpassed in value by that of any
other peculiarities. In nothing is a man so much himself as in his
humor.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: Erneuerte und vermehrte Lustige Gesellschaft (_Comes
facundus in via pro vehiculo_), von JOHANN PETRO DE MEMEL, Zippelzerbst
im Droembling. Im Jahr, 1657.]
[Footnote 5: _Facetiarum_ HENRICI BEBELII, Poetae. Tuebingen, A.D., 1542.
Date of Preface, 1506.]
[Footnote 6: Peter Cunningham's last Book, p. 45.]
[Footnote 7: _Hortuli amoeni, viridis et elegantis floribus Historicis
et Poeticis_, &c. BALTHASARI SCHNURII. Rotenburg. 1637.]
[Footnote 8: _Democritus Ridens: sive Narrationum Ridicularum Centuria._
_Selecta_ JOHANNI PETRO LANGIO. _Ulmae, anno 1667._]
LITERARY NOTICES.
An historical research, respecting the Opinions of the Founders of
the Republic on Negroes as Slaves, as Citizens, and as Soldiers.
Read before the Massachusetts Historical Society, August 14, 1862.
By GEORGE LIVERMORE. Boston: John Wilson & Son. 1862.
Within the past two years we have met with two pamphlets referring to
the negro question during the days of the Revolution--the one being a
reprint with comments of the celebrated Laurens letter,[9] the other
containing information as to the part taken by blacks in the
struggle.[10] We inferred from these works that much remained to be
told, and find our surmise verified by an examination of the neatly
printed octavo of 215 pages, now before us, in which is given a mass of
information, fully establishing the fact that the negro played no mean
part in the army of the Revolution, and, we may add, suggesting the
reflection that he may only need proper encouragement to do as much,
again, unless he should have strangely deteriorated from the original
stock of his ancestry. Such a work as this, thorough and full of plain
facts, telling their own story, was greatly needed, and we congratulate
all who are interested in the future of this country on its appearance.
Published under the auspices of the Massachusetts Historical Society,
and warmly approved by EDWARD EVERETT and the venerable JOSIAH QUINCY,
the work in question possesses, of course, the highest claim to
consideration as a well written and perfectly digested _resume_ of its
subject. It is curious to observe, from its documentary proofs, how
fully the slave-holding arguments of the present day were once negatived
by the experience of the past; and it is almost bitterly amusing that
men can learn so little from experience, and that in one generation the
dense clouds of ignorance should gather so thickly over a subject of the
most vital importance to the country.
From this work we may learn that 'no language of radical reformers in
recent times surpasses in severity the honest utterances' of the first
men of the Revolution on the subject of slavery. It is worth knowing
what Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Laurens, Pinckney, Randolph, Sherman,
and a host of others said--to realize that slavery was regarded by them
as a curse; and it is grievous to learn that 'circumstances,' local
feuds, and bewildering side-issues should have interfered to prevent
'abolition' at a time when it might have been safely carried out. The
vast amount of historical research on this subject, and its results, are
well set forth by Mr. Livermore; and had his work been limited to these
chapters alone, it should have won him a distinguished place among those
who have cast a light as of life upon the obscure difficulties which now
beset the great question. More encouraging and extremely interesting is
that second portion of the work which gives the opinions of the founders
of the republic respecting negroes as soldiers, and facts establishing
their military ability. That the first fight of the Revolution should
have been led by a negro, who was its first martyr, is of itself deeply
significant: so is the fact that the most remarkable incident at Bunker
Hill--the death of Pitcairn--was due to the bullet of a brave black
soldier. With the exception of the two Tory States, Georgia and South
Carolina, blacks, _slave_ blacks, were enlisted from all the States in
great numbers, and fought well. It is remarkable that in the beginning
the same absurd objections to employing them were raised as those which
still abound in our 'Democratic' press; and it was not, indeed, until
forced by stern experience and dire need, that 'the States' found out
the folly of their prejudice.
All of these data in the history of slavery, and with them several of
minor importance, are remarkably well set forth in the present volume,
which may fairly claim to be the first work on the subject ever
published--the 'Historical Notes' already referred to having been
suggested, as we are told, by Mr. Livermore himself, and forming an
_avant courier_ to the 'Historical Research.' It is needless to say that
we commend it with our whole heart to all who would study the question
of negro slavery from the beginning in this republic, and know, what few
do, the extent and importance of the early troubles on the subject, or
settle for themselves the greatly vexed question whether negroes, when
treated as men, will or will not fight. It is all there.
LIKE AND UNLIKE. By A. S. ROE. New York: Carleton. Boston: A. K.
Loring.
Mr. Roe's novels are of the manufactured kind. Like those of many others
who are in the business, they give the impression that they are easily
written, and might possibly be turned out by a machine, had invention
progressed a little farther than it has. Still his _pieces de
manufacture_ are very good of their kind, and sell very well--like the
moral romances in China, which are disposed of by weight and in
fragments, in such vast quantities, and which are so entirely a matter
of mere pastime that the authors never think it worth while to affix
their names to them. _Like and Unlike_ may be safely intrusted by the
most fastidious aunt to the most unsophisticated of nieces--and it is
not unlikely that the niece would greatly enjoy its perusal. It is by no
means devoid of interest, and indicates in many particulars that
familiarity with the press which preserves any work of its nature--so
far as style is concerned--from harsh judgment. There are better
books--but certainly there are thousands which are much worse.
TITAN. From the German of JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER, by CHARLES
T. BROOKS. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1863.
To many men JEAN PAUL has always been the greatest of German writers,
however they might protest their preference for some other idol. CARLYLE
knows and names GOETHE as the intellectual culmination of the past
age--and yet shows in every sentence the influence of The Only One, with
very barren traces indeed of The Old Heathen; reminding us of those
devotees who profess a faith in GOD, but manifest it in the worship of
some congenial saint. At the present day, Richter, instead of being
overrated, is neglected. Already thirty years ago HAUFF bewailed that
his works were not taken from public libraries; and yet it is as true as
ever that he is, if not the greatest of German writers, at least the
most German among the great ones of his fatherland. And it is here that
the drawback lies--he carried to such excess all the peculiarities of
his very peculiar country, and was a giant of grotesqueness. No one can
really know German literature who knows not Jean Paul.
The work before us is Richter's masterpiece, which cost him ten years of
labor. We could sum up of his other writings some thousand or two of
pages which we read with more pleasure; yet still commend 'Titan' as the
best beginning and ending for those who intend to go through all of
Richter's writings. It is a romance _sui generis_--in the world, and yet
most unworldly--full of unusual characters set forth in more unusual
language--refreshing and delightful to the initiate, and most wearisome
to commonplace minds. As regards the merit of the translation, we can
only say that, having compared the first hundred pages with the
original, we find them admirably and accurately rendered, and presume,
of course, that the remainder is equally excellent. Will not Mr. Brooks
at some future time give us a translation of Richter's _Vorschule der
AEsthetik_, a work sadly needed by some of our art-critics?
LINES LEFT OUT; or, Some of the Histories left out in 'Line upon
Line.' New York: Harper & Brothers. 1863.
A juvenile work with an extremely awkward title; 'Line upon Line' having
been a collection of Bible stories, adapted to the capacity of children,
of which book the present volume is a continuation. While we credit the
author for the best intentions, we must, however, suggest that it would
have been better in every instance had the original text been given as
well as the paraphrase, unless, indeed, it be assumed that the Bible is
unfit for children to read, or above their comprehension.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 9: A South Carolina Protest againt Slavery. New York: G.P.
Putnam. 1861.]
[Footnote 10: Historical Notes on the Employment of Negroes in the
American Army of the Revolution. By GEORGE H. MOORE. New York: Charles
T. Evans. _Vide_ also THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, May, p. 324, vol. i.]
EDITOR'S TABLE.
Another month of these most eventful times has passed by with mingled
good and evil fortune, and we still find 'that great mystery, the
American Republic,' strong and in good hope, careering in headlong
speed, with accelerated motion, adown the great torrent of history. It
is natural enough--yet it is still most unreasonable--that there should
be so many who believe that every eddy and whirl should be its
death-struggle or its final dart into the deep calm sea of safety. With
every battle lost or won there are thousands who despair or
exult--forgetting that, come what may, the cause of human progress is
_never backward_, and that we might as soon hope to recall the middle
ages as build up into prosperity the 'patriarchal' old slave South.
Every rebel's slave is free. Free on paper, if you will--theoretically
free; but is _that_ nothing? How many years will slavery, or the
Southern system in its integrity, exist side by side with a rapidly
growing free country no longer recognizing the existence of 'the
institution?' How many months, in fact, _when_ we shall have and
hold--as we are absolutely determined to do--the whole west bank of the
Mississippi and the confederate ports; which, by the way, _should_ have
all been secured at the outset at _any cost_? Let us win or lose in the
field, we shall still, thanks to our fleet, hem them in. And will not
_that_, with mere waiting, prove a complete victory? Whatever financial
crises may be before the North, it will ever possess, in spite of the
most terrible sufferings, its enormous recuperative power, and its old
ability for hard work. But how is the exhausted, ruined South to arise,
save through Northern aid? Will its poor whites labor in factories? They
are expected to form a permanent standing army. The negroes? The day of
slavery is passing away rapidly. Let the South gain battles, if it
will--they are only defeats in disguise; and in the long run it will be
found that God willed this war to be long and bitter, that by it the
last stronghold of the wrongs of man might be the more thoroughly
exhausted.
* * * * *
THE GOLDEN ROD.
Upon the waves that rise and die
Along the banks of Severn's river,
Amidst the blue of broken sky,
I saw thy half-drawn image quiver
In changing gleams of golden light,
Now broadly spread, now vanished quite.
Late Golden Rod! in thought I deem
I still shall find thee swaying there,
As if some naiad of the stream
Gave to the wind her yellow hair,
Or, leaning o'er the margin, sought
The restless shape the waters wrought.
Though swaying, yet in quietude,
Thy beauty touched my very soul,
Like the calm eye of womanhood,
In stillness keeping all control.
And lo! as under sudden spell,
Thy presence shadowed all the dell.
The valley took October's crown,
I found thy glory still the same;
The sumach flung his red leaves down,
And lit his winter crest of flame;
The early elm and maple gave
Their burden to the patient wave.
I sought thee in the later year,
I sought, but found thee there no more;
Only a rigid stalk and sere
A withered head in silence bore,
Or swung, responsive to the sigh
Of the stray wind that passed it by.
Now Severn's banks in snow are still,
And Severn's stream is hushed and pale;
The sun shines on the whitened hill,
And glows like summer in the dale;
And yet I come, and half in gloom
And half in joy recall thy bloom.
* * * * *
Reader--do you want
SOMETHING NEW FOR DINNER?
It is not necessary to refer to a cook book to know what an excellent
fish is the sheep's-head; you may find it in Noah Webster's large
dictionary, where it is described as "the Sargus Ovis of Mitchell;
esteemed delicious food"; or, you can find it in market.
Mr. Withers was married to a lovely young lady who once worked an entire
piano cover with worsted. They had commenced housekeeping but a few
months, when one morning the husband informed his wife that he should
invite a friend to dine with him that day.
Mrs. Withers was in despair at this announcement, but she smiled and hid
her grief; or at least her grief, in the shape of a Celtic cook, was at
that time not to be seen, being employed in the kitchen, where she had
invited two of her friends to "come in and ate."
Mr. Withers went down town; his wife then gave directions to the cook,
Biddy O'Shaughshenny by name, to buy a sheep's-head, beef, game, and so
forth.
'By the way, Bridget, have you ever cooked a sheep's-head before?'
'A shape's hid is it? Then I'm thinking, ma'am, I've cooked the likes of
them minny a time and oft in the owld counthry when I bided with Mister
Maginnis the grate counsillor in Dublin. I did.'
This was sufficient: Mrs. Withers was relieved of all care, and soon
wended her way out shopping and making calls, until nearly the dinner
hour. Home came Mr. Withers and friend, an Englishman by the name of
Molesworth, with keen appetites. The dinner was served; oysters and soup
finished, the waiter brought on a large dish covered.
'Ha, what have we here?' asked Withers, the husband.
'Something new, my dear,' answered Withers, the wife. 'I knew they were
in season, and I ordered it for a surprise.'
Withers lifted the cover!
There WAS a sheep's head--with horns on.
However a Sheep's Head is like a turbot--for a turbot--according to
Albert Smith's account of the Frenchman learning English--is not unlike
a _tire-botte_ (or a boot-jack) which _has_ horns. Is'nt _that_ a
frantic conciliation of differences, and one which might have done honor
to Petrus d'Abano, the Conciliator, himself?
* * * * *
There are many conscientious men whose consciences tear at the first
pull--as is shown 'in the subsequent:'
CONSCIENTIOUS.
DEAR CONTINENTAL: Perhaps the following incident will cause a smile to
ripple the good-natured features of some of your readers:--In the county
of M----, the Draft Commissioner held an extra appeal for the
'conscientious men.' Now, in said county, there dwelt one Barney Mullen,
who, not being exempted at the first appeal, on 'non-citizenship'
grounds, was in 'great tribulation' in regard to the approaching draft.
Some wag persuaded him to attend the second 'hearing,' telling him to
swear that he was conscientious, and he would get his exemption papers.
So Barney was at hand at the 'appointed time and place,' At last, 'it
came to pass' that he got a hearing, and the Commissioner asked him what
he had to say for himself.
'Shure, it's consyintious I am, an' exempted I want to be.'
The Commissioner had not forgotten Barney, so, to humor his whim, asked
him if he would take the affidavit, having first read that paper to him.
'Afther David, the divil! It's me exemption papers I'm afther,' he
replied.
'Have you conscientious scruples against fighting?' asked the
Commissioner.
'Och, it's the schrupils an' dhrams both I have. I get 'em bad, too, yer
honor.'
'Well, Barney,' said 'his honor'--putting the same question to him that
he asked all others who offered the conscientious plea (and who always
gave an affirmative answer)--'if your wife was being murdered, would you
stand by a silent spectator?'
'Divil a silent spectator! D'yees take me fer a haythen? Be the howly!
show me the scallywag that would harrum a hair o' the ole 'oman's hid,
an' I'd give him sich a pelt on the gob, that he would think he'd got
forninst a horse's hoof!'
'Then we can't exempt you, Mr. Mullen.'
'Mither ov Moses!' exclaimed Barney, as he left the room, 'not exempt a
man because he wouldn't shtand by an' see the 'ole 'oman murdered!'
* * * * *
We are indebted to a friend--who is requested to call again--for the
following from
PHILADELPHIA, Nov. 1862.
DEAR CONTINENTAL:
Did you ever study the language of signs?
I have--and a queer language it is. It is divided into two great
families.
The first is of street signs.
The second of signs manual, optical, and otherwise by gesture
sign-ificant.
An excellent illustration of this latter class was witnessed lately in a
police court of this city. I give it as narrated to me by a friend.
A deaf mute, whose banged and battered face spoke for itself, lately
appeared before a local magistrate to complain of the sufferings
inflicted upon him by certain iniquitarians to ye court unknown.
'He's deaf and dumb as a nadder, your honor,' remarked the solemn
policeman who introduced the silent man. 'But he kin tell his story
bully.'
And he did.
Striking an attitude the dumb one pointed to his bruises, and then
struck out one, two and three _a la_ Heenan, to signify that his sorrows
had been caused by a pugilistic attack.
The court nodded its perfect comprehension of the business thus far.
Raising the two fingers of his left hand, the mute bowed them up and
down, so that they seemed to be human beings with solidified legs,
making salaams to the court.
The court nodded.
Then the two fingers precipitated themselves fiercely against the
forefinger of the right hand, which at once fell down, and was danced
upon and bumped in a variety of ways by the inhuman digits of the
sinister party.
The court nodded. It understood that the dumb man had been attacked by
two persons.
But who were the two?
Elevating the forefinger of the left hand, the plaintiff first pointed
to its face--or the place most suggestive of one, and then pressed his
own nose flat.
The court nodded. One of the assaulters had been flat-nosed.
'A nigger, your honor!' exclaimed the constable in breathless
admiration.
Raising the second finger the dumb man after a second crossed his two
forefingers, and made upon his breast the sign of the cross. It was
catholically done.
The court nodded.
'An Irishman, your honor!' exclaimed the constable, who like the
complainant argued very promptly from religion to nationality. An
Irishman and a nigger--and I'll find out in ten minutes all about it.'
And he did--a warrant was issued, and the guilty men punished.
"Thus he by gestes made knowne hys sufferance."
Yours devoted,
JOT.
* * * * *
IN THE BATTLE.
The drums are beat, the trumpets blow,
The black-mouthed cannon bay the foe,
Dark bristling o'er each murky height,
And all the field is whirled in fight.
The long life in the drowsy tent
Fades from me like a vision spent;--
I stand upon the battle's marge,
And watch the smoking squadron's charge.
Behold one starry banner reel
With that wild shock of steel on steel;
And ringing up by rock and tree
At last the cry that summons me.
I hear it in my vibrant soul,
Deep thundering back its counter roll;
And all life's ore seems newly wrought
In the white furnace of my thought.
No dream that made my days divine
But flashes back some mystic sign;
And every shape that erst was bright
Sweeps by me garmented in light.
High legends of immortal praise,
Brows of world heroes bound with bays,
The crowned majesties of Time
Rise visioned on my soul sublime.
Dear living lips of love and prayer
Come chanting through the blackened air;
And eyes look out of marble tombs,
And hands are waved from churchyard glooms.
"Charge! charge!" at last the captain's cry!
We pant, we speed, we leap, we fly;
I feel my lifting feet aspire,
As I were born of wind and fire!
On! on! where wild the battle swims,
On! on! no shade my vision dims;
Transcendent o'er yon smoky wreath,
I see the glory of great Death!
Come flashing blade, and hissing ball!
I give my blood, my breath, my all,
So that on yonder rocking height
The stars and stripes may wave to-night!
* * * * *
Our Art writer is awakened. Listen to him.
DEAR CONTINENTAL: You were kind enough to inform me that you would be
much obliged if I would let you know if there was anything stirring in
the world of Art.
The last thing which stirred in my world--I mean in my workshop in the
Studio Building--was a German of the carpenter persuasion. At least he
had a side pocket, and folding two-feet rule, with a shaving on his left
curl.
'Bees you a poor-trait bainter?' he inquired.
'Truly I am!' I replied.
'I wants you to baint de likeness to my fader.'
'With pleasure. Bring him here.'
'Yas--see now, dat is not bossiple. He lies geburied in the purying
crount in Stuttgart in Shermany.'
'Well, have you a photograph of him?'
'_Nichtss_ photograb.'
'Or a bust?'
_Nichts_ pust.'
'Or a drawing?'
'_Nichts_ trawing.'
'Or an engraving?'
'_Nichts_ craving.'
'Well, then--what have you got?'
'I got _dis_ dings.'
Saying this, he brought forth a small book, greatly worn, which he
slowly opened, and unfolded from it a broad leaf, adorned with German
emblems, and cragged pot-hook inscriptions which looked like lager-bier
signs.
'What is that?'
'Dis is mein fader's passport. Look ant readt! Plue eyes, proun hair,
round _kinn_, pig mouf--und all dat, so fort. He hafe a goot deal of
exbression like mine.'
(Where this latter could have been I could not imagine.)
'Yas--und he wear a plue gote.'
'Oh--a _goatee_, I suppose, on his chin?'
'No. It was a plue gote on his pack. He hafe a peard like mein, und look
like mein. Put mein fader was a more older man dan me.'
'Ah, indeed!'
'Yas. Baint him mit a piple on a taple, und mit a girl on his hands.'
'_What!!_'
'Yas--mine leetle daughter. I prings her here to be colored.'
It was a bold thing to do; but on this small capital I went to work, and
succeeded. At least, Jacobus Kirchelheimer said so--and _he_ ought to
know, for he was a first-rate fellow, and sent me over and above the
price agreed upon, a dozen bottles of Rudesheimer. A suspicion seemed
indeed to haunt his mind that the portrait resembled himself much more
than it did the late Herr Kirchelheimer, _pere_,--but he speedily found
comfort in the following reflection:
'Ven I kits to be more older it will do shoost as goot for mine bicture
as for de old one.'
It wasn't very self-flattering--that of hoping to resemble the Old One;
but I said nothing. And no more at present from
Yours truly,
POPPY OYLE.
* * * * *
JAMES BUCHANAN--not satisfied with hoping for the parings of a
nomination to the Senate after having eaten the Presidential apple, has
pushed his impudence so far as to attempt to vindicate FLOYD from the
charge of stealing, although the theft was by FLOYD self-confessed and
gloried in. This is proving more than the record. What will FLOYD say
for BUCHANAN?
The Raven said: 'Of birds I know,
The very whitest is the Crow.'
The Crow declared: 'While birds endure,
The Raven will be whitest, sure!'
The Raven said: 'I do believe
The Crow knows not what 'tis to thieve.'
The Crow inquired: 'Who ever heard
The Raven was a stealing bird?
'He calls himself a thief, I know,
But I can prove it is not so.'
The Raven swore by wet and dry,
The Crow was never known to lie.
The Crow swore out by hot and cold,
The Raven's word was good as gold.
The Crow flew o'er an old oak tree;
'Caw me,' he croaked, '_and I'll caw thee_.'
It is an old story, and one which will last while rogues endure--be they
broken-down politicians, craving, like Buchanan, a little more paltry
notoriety, or any other variety of the great family of the Dishonest.
And they will go their way adown the road of time and into history,
properly brandmarked. The truth ever comes to light.
'And that isn't all--either.' For even as we write, the following is
handed us by a friend:
Take, oh, take his pen away,
That so feebly runs on paper;
Keep him quiet, or he'll play
Other trait'rous prank and caper.
Why apologize for treason,
Or for stealing give a reason?
Hide, oh, hide his pens and ink;
Try to keep him silent: do!
Would you let him lower sink,
He'd defend the Devil too.
Keep him silent, let him be:
He has _not_ escaped Scott-free.
Not he--nor the opinion of the whole world, either. There--let him
go--_his_ place in the future is at any rate decided on. And yet the
vindicator of Floyd intends, we are told, to vindicate himself!
* * * * *
A late 'horrible and agonizing execution' of two murderers in cultivated
and Christian England was witnessed by one hundred thousand
people!--according to the London _Times_. In the first-class English
journals a large space is always devoted to police reports, in which the
vilest and most vulgar criminal cases are always given in full detail,
to gratify the almost universal British craving for filth and cruelty. A
drunken vagabond cannot maim his wife but all England must know all
about it. Let it be borne in mind that while English writers are never
weary of speaking of the blackguardism of the American press, nine
tenths of our journals abandoned many years ago the abominable practice
of regularly publishing police cases; and that, making every allowance,
English newspapers at present publish on an average ten times as much
demoralizing matter as the American.
* * * * *
We clip the following from the Boston _Post_:
'Speaking of the heathen names reminds the London Athenaeum of what
M. Salverte says with respect to that fairest of the heroines in
that poem for all spring time, "Lalla Rookh." Everybody, in his
happy turn, has been in love with that lady of the peerless
enchantments: perhaps they will be taken a little aback when they
hear that before the lord of the East gave her the name of
Nourmahal, 'Light of the Harem,' or, in the later excess of his
love, Nourdjihan, 'Light of the World,' she was known to her family
and friends as Mher-ul-Nica, or, in equivalent Saxon, the
'Strapping Wench;' and that this 'tallest of women,' of whom it is
said her lover, Djihanguyr,
----preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd
Down her exquisite neck, to the throne of the world,
only became the light of his harem by the process of cutting the
throat of her first husband. If this annotation, to be made in all
copies of the poem, do not wring all charm out of the names by
which the poet's lady is known to fame, then fiction again will
prove stronger than fact.'
'And _that_ isn't all, either.' For _Noor-Mahal_, albeit conventionally
used as Light of the Harem, _does_ mean Light of the Workshop in Arabic.
We shouldn't in the least wonder if the lady in question, in her earlier
and better-behaved days, had been chief engineer of a sewing machine at
two shillings a day. However, we set that down to her credit side.
* * * * *
READER--you have travelled? If so, did you ever suffer from too much
landlord?
The last time we were at Mackinaw, we had our boots blackened, our
clothes 'swept,' and our cigars diminished by a very funny halfbreed
named Pierre, and noticed that when more cigars than usual were taken,
we were always sure of receiving an extra amount of attention from him
in the way of sweeping, brushing, and small talk.
'Mossu, how you lak Detroit?'
'I like it very well.'
'Zat fust-rate 'otel, ze Fiddle House; ze landlord he maks var' big fuss
over ze grand persons as come zere--var' big fuss. Mamselle GRANDROSE
she var splendid danseuse, she 'ave ze grande attentions: Madame COLSON
she grande _chanteuse_ 'ave ze grand care. Ah, bote zere comes zere
oncet ze MARQUIS DE CHOUXFLEURS, zen you should see zat landlord; he
bows and he smiles, and he rons round all ze time, viz, 'Musshoe ze
Markiss, vat you lak for to eat, for to drink, for to sleeps? can I do
somesings fore you. At lass ze Marquis he call for his bill, and he goes
for to leave ze hotel. Zen ze landlord he comes to ze door, and he bows,
and he smiles, and he robs his hands togezzer, and says he:
'Musshoe ze Markiss, _bone voyyaidge_;' (you see he spiks ze French var'
bad;) 'I hope you have been satisfy wiz my ho-tel?'
Zen ze Marquis smiles var' moch pleasaunt, and viz ze air off grand
seigneur he lokes down on ze landlord and spiks slowlee:
'Ze eat is var' good, ze sleep is not so var' bad, bote I 'ave notice
one sing--zere is entairely TOO MOCHE LANDLORD!'
In American hotels, as strangers declare, unless one be acquainted, the
complaint is apt to be of too _little_ landlord. Then--oh, _then_, 'all
goes as it does with a divinity in France,' as the European proverb hath
it--that is to say, very Paradisiacally indeed. Which reminds us of a
letter on the coming of the Millennium, from a friend who declares it to
be his conviction that those who are afraid of the immediate realization
of this consummation devoutly to be wished for, may lay aside their
apprehensions, since it is evident that nothing of the kind is to come
off _this_ year at least.
'Of which, dear CONTINENTAL friend, there can be no doubt, albeit there
may be somewhat pity. For I have lang syne awaited a millennium and a
golden age, and, when FERNANDO WOOD was kicked out of the mayoralty into
Coventry, hailed it as the beginning. Now, however, the old serpent
lifts his head--Fernando has gone to Congress, and the devil is let
loose again for a little season--to give seasoning by his sin to the
great sea of gruel of excessive virtue with which the world is
inundated. Oh for the wings of a dove, to be 'out of this'--cut loose
from all such 'carryin's on,' and fairly calm in some silent Lubberland
or Atlantis fairy realm of peace!
'Where, with glasses ever clinking,
The gentles, ever drinking
To their lady loves in winking,
Cry aloud _in jubilo_;
And the jolly plump old president
Calls out to every resident,
And, when they answer, says he meant
To pledge _in gaudio_:
'Where the bells all day are ringing,
Where the world is ever singing,
And the roasted ducks fly winging
Their way into your mouth:
Where doors are never banging,
Where tongues are never clanging,
Where the peach and grape while hanging
Turn _all_ sides toward the south:
'Where you find no foolish fussing,
Where you hear no oaths or cussing,
Where the babies need no nussing,
But in smiles or sleep are found:
Where they all own herds and flockses,
Where we get in no 'bad boxes,'
And where all the paradoxes
Are made straight, or else come round.
'O land so sweet and sunny!
O land of milk and money!
O land of peach and honey!
O land withouten peer!
O land of good society!
O land of great variety!
And genial sobriety,
Oh, would that thou wert here!
'Or that I were 'over yonder!'
Free to rest and free to ponder,
Free to print, and free to wander
'Mid the maidens short and tall!
On 'the other side of Jordan,'
Where all is tuned accordin'
'To your leastest wish, my lord,' in
Every matter, great and small!
'Knowest thou, O Editor LELAND, of aught such, _where the board is
cheap_? Answer, I pray ye, forthwith. _Sono stancato._'
Not we. When we hear of it, O friend, we will take passage for two--by
the first boat.
* * * * *
A FRIEND communicates to us the following:
'PLATO, I think, PYTHAGORAS, I guess, and FO-HI, as I suppose--to judge
from his eight KUA--believed that all knowledge was capable of
mathematical representation.
'I don't know Miss Brown,' quoth a lady lately, in my hearing, 'she
isn't in my Circle.'
'And I don't know her,' added Miss Black, 'for she doesn't live in my
Square--and I never visit out of it.'
Dr. HOLMES has, however, declared that a person may be known by
Triangulating the descent from the grandfather down.
From all of which I should judge that to mathematically set forth the
knowledge of any person, it would be necessary to draw that slightly
paradoxical figure popularly described as a triangular square with round
corners!
Q.E.D.
* * * * *
Yes--we think we see it. Square--corner--tri--Here, Thomas--carry it off
and have it set up. It's all right, we suppose. Somebody will find it
out, at any rate. Let us continue by singing the following genial
'Soldier's Song,' which hath the good ring of the good old time, and
which has just come to hand:
* * * * *
SOLDATENLIED.
The wide world is the soldier's home,
His comrades are his kin;
His palace-roof the welkin dome,
The drum his mandolin.
He gives to air
All thought of care,
And trolls his serenade
To fiery Mars,
The king of stars,
That never love betrayed.
The banner is the soldier's bride,
The love of bold and brave;
His wedding feast, the battle tide;
His marriage bed, the grave.
Where bullets sing,
Death's leaden wing,
Light as a dancing feather,
When hero falls,
To glory's halls,
Wafts life and love together.
* * * * *
A teacher of the truly 'genial' stamp--that is to say one who takes
delight, in exercising his or her genius, and in awakening that of the
pupil is, we fear, a rarity; as much even in Art, as in any other branch
of education. We believe, however, that we may claim as an exception
Mrs. ELIZA GREATORIX of this city, whom we believe to be honestly and
earnestly interested in her calling as an instructor in drawing, and one
who endeavors to make Art 'a living language by educating the eye
through the intelligence.' The method which she pursues is that of
drawing from objects, beginning with Harding's series of blocks, and
thereby accustoming both eye and hand to greater accuracy than can be
acquired from copying the usual plane surface pictures, which in most
cases makes of the pupil a mere facsimilist. Mrs. GREATORIX may be found
at Studio 12, No. 204, Fifth Avenue.
* * * * *
A WORD FOR THE TIMES.
There ne'er was harm in anything,
But it came by misgoverning:
For one word of evil guiding
May lose a kingdom or a king!
A sound truth this which all can feel
From the romance of Sir Greye Stele.
Ye rulers all who bear the bell,
Weigh it, I pray you, wisely, well.
* * * * *
In this world nothing is constant save inconstancy. Nature changes all
things, night and morn, and when she puts on again her former semblance,
still it is only a semblance, and never the very same. Young
ladies--when your lovers vow to be true forever to love--you may believe
them; but whether they will be eternally true to you, admits of
reflection. Such at least seems to have been the life-philosophy of him
who penned the following poem:
BY THE STREAM.
Oh water that ever art roving!
O fountain that never canst move!
Oh fancy--some new flame still loving!
O heart, ever constant to love!
The waterfall rustled and glistened,
Till it seemed like a musical flame,
And I lay and I looked and I listened
Till the nymph of the waterfall came.
It was no Undine or Lurley
(Though I thought her as beautiful still)
That came in the evening early--
But a bare-footed maid from the mill.
The pitcher too frequently laden
Must break and be lost at the worst,
But the young heart, when full of a maiden,
Of the twain will be broken the first.
But the pitcher, when cracked by a tumble,
Must be laid, till repaired, on the shelf,
While the heart, although shattered and humble,
Will be mended in time by itself.
And we vowed that we loved--but with laughter,
And we kissed with our feet in the brook;
She left me--my whistle rung after,
To win from the maid a last look.
And months have flown by since I missed her,
For afar with another she's flown;
And now I wait here for her sister,
To vow that I've loved her alone.
Oh water that ever art roaming!
Oh fountain that never canst move!
Oh fancy--some new flame still loving!
Oh heart ever constant to--love!
Sing it, reader, 'if thou canst sing.' A lady friend assures us that it
goeth well unto voice and pianoforte.
* * * * *
YE JOLLIE POACHER.
'Twas I that kept a shoddy mill
In starving Lancashire;
And shaved the Yankees shamefully
For many and many a year.
The mill is stopped, I'm raving mad,
As from the _Times_ you hear;
Oh it's my delight to bark and bite
At all times of the year.
* * * * *
The
Continental Monthly.
The readers of the CONTINENTAL are aware of the important
position it has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the
brilliant array of political and literary talent of the highest order
which supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so
successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with
the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very
certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or
preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of
faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in
the land or it is nothing. That the CONTINENTAL is not the
latter is abundantly evidenced _by what it has done_--by the reflection
of its counsels in many important public events, and in the character
and power of those who are its staunchest supporters.
Though but little more than a year has elapsed since the
CONTINENTAL was first established, it has during that time
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1. Of its POLITICAL articles republished in pamphlet form, a
single one has had, thus far, a circulation of _one hundred and six
thousand_ copies.
2. From its LITERARY department, a single serial novel, "Among
the Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearly _thirty-five
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No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the
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distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere
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times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which
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While the CONTINENTAL will express decided opinions on the
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by tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, the CONTINENTAL will be
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presenting attractions never before found in a magazine.
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are alone worth the price of subscription. Or, if preferred, a
subscriber can take the magazine for 1863 and a copy of "Among the
Pines," or of "Undercurrents of Wall Street," by R. B. KIMBALL, bound in
cloth, or of "Sunshine in Thought," by CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (retail
price, $1. 25.) The book to be sent postage paid.
[Illustration: pointing finger] Any person remitting $4.50, will receive
the magazine from its commencement, January, 1862, to January, 1864,
thus securing Mr. KIMBALL'S "Was He Successful? "and Mr. KIRKE'S "Among
the Pines," and "Merchant's Story," and nearly 3,000 octavo pages of the
best literature in the world. Premium subscribers to pay their own
postage.
* * * * *
[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 these 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 60 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
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
* * * * *
Number 15. 25 Cents.
THE
CONTINENTAL
MONTHLY.
DEVOTED TO
Literature and National Policy.
MARCH, 1863.
NEW YORK:
JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET
(FOR THE PROPRIETORS).
HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY.
WASHINGTON, D.C.: FRANCK TAYLOR.
CONTENTS.--NO. XV.
Turkey. A. Comte, Jr., 257
False Estimations, 274
The Blue Handkerchief, 276
Gold, 279
Last Words. Ingoldsby North, 282
Parting. Edward S. Rand, Jr., 288
A Merchant's Story. By the author of 'Among the Pines,' 289
The Captain of '63 to his Men. Mary E. Nealy, 315
The Vision of the Monk Gabriel. Eleanor C. Donnelly, 316
The Century of Inventions. Charles G. Leland, 318
The Lady and her Slave, 330
For and Against, 334
European Opinion. Hon. F.P. Stanton, 340
The Huguenots. Hon. G.P. Disosway, 348
Montgomery in Secession Time, 354
The Union. By Hon. Robert J. Walker, 366
The Soldier's Burial, 373
Literary Notices, 374
Editor's Table, 379
'SUNSHINE IN THOUGHT,' by Charles Godfrey Leland, one of the editors of
this magazine, has just been issued by Charles T. Evans.
'MY SOUTHERN FRIENDS,' by the author of 'Among the Pines,' will be
published in book form, by Carlton, 448 Broadway, about March 1st.
* * * * *
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.
JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER.