Now it had come to pass years before, and was on record,
That MASON, having been asked to visit Boston,
Replied, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you that I will not set foot
therein again save as an ambassador to that land.'
Now these things were remembered against him, and printed in all the
papers, even in the Boston papers printed they them.
And they bare him into prison, with SLIDELL, and poor
EUSTIS was he borne of them.
And they seemed extremely wamble-cropt and chop-fallen; their feathers
shone not, even their sickle-feathers drooped in the dust, and their
combs were white.
And they seemed as unclean men caught in their unrighteousness, who had
been sold uncommonly cheap, with nary buyer.
And they took from them the gold which they had stolen afore-time from
UNCLE SAM, even the bills upon the Hebrews did they yield up.
Howbeit, they received a receipt for them.
And they asked much, 'How shall we feed, and may we have servants?' and
wished to live pleasantly; yet, when at Richmond, SLIDELL had
reviled the Yankee prisoners sorely, and counseled harsh treatment.
Then went they into the jug, and were allotted each man his bunk in the
prison-house.
And the word went forth to hang all pirates and robbers on the sea, even
as it had been spoken sternly by OLD ABE, of Washington;
Saying, string them up in short order.
And if they of Secessia hang the brave CORCORAN and his
friends,
Then, as the LORD liveth, SLIDELL and MASON
shall pull hemp; even on the gallows shall they hang like thieves and
murderers--the land hath sworn it. SELAH!
'SOUND on the Goose Question.'
Who is there among our readers who has not heard that phrase? It has now
for some years been transferred from one political topic to another,
until its flavor of novelty is well-nigh gone. But _whence_ the
expression? An antiquarian would probably hint at the geese whose sound
saved Rome. The great goose question of the Reformation was the burning
of one Huss, whose name in English signifyeth Goose, for which reason he
is said to have exclaimed to his tormentors 'Now ye indeed roast a
goose, but, lo! after me there will come a swan whom ye can not roast;'
which was strangely fulfilled in LUTHER, whose name--slightly
varied--signifies in Bohemian a swan. But, reader, 'an it please you,'
here is the original and 'Simon Pure' explanation, as furnished by a
correspondent:--
'Are you right on the goose question?' But do you know the origin
of the phrase? It was told to me, at Harrisburg, in Pennsylvania,
when I was there in "Fremont's time," _anno_ 1856. Alas! the fates
deal hardly with Fremont. C. and F., now a satellite of C., helped
to slaughter him once before in Pennsylvania--sold him out to
Know-Nothings. Hope they haven't now in Missouri pitched him over
to be succeeded by Do-Nothings. But to the story. Harrisburg has
wide, clean, brick sidewalks. Many of the poorer sort there kept
geese years ago, and sold or ate their progeny in the days of
November and December--the "_embers_ of the dying year." Jenkins
was up for constable. The question whether geese should run at
large was started. The Harrisburg geese made at times bad work on
the clean sidewalks, as do their examplars, spitting on the _pave_
of Broadway. A delegation of the geese-owners waited on Jenkins.
Seeing that they had many votes, he declared himself in favor of
the geese running at large. The better sort of people, who were in
favor of clean sidewalks, hearing of this, set up an opposition
candidate, who avowed himself opposed to having the sidewalks
fouled by these errant fowls. The canvass waxed warm; a third
candidate took the field; he put himself in the hands of an astute
"trainer" for the political fray. We don't know whether or not this
was before the day when Mr. Cameron counseled in politics at
Harrisburg, but his Mentor bid this new candidate, when the
delegations applied for his views on the all-absorbing issues, to
say nothing himself, but to refer to him, the Mentor aforesaid. And
when the delegations accordingly came to Mentor to find the
position of the third candidate, he said to each, with unction,
"You will find my friend sound on the goose question." Third
candidate was elected. His story got wind, and from that day till
Bull Run all the politicians of the land have striven likewise to
be 'sound on the goose question.'
Therefore let us be duly thankful that the time hath come when it shall
no longer advantage a man to say, 'Lo! I am sound,' or--as PRINCE
ALBERT was reported to reply constantly to his royal consort during
the early years of their marriage--'I dinks joost as _you_
dinks,'--since in these--days vigorous _acts_ and not quibbling words
are the only coin which shall pass current in politics.
* * * * *
Never was there an institution which required such constant repairing as
'the great Southern system.' One of the latest and most terrible leaks
discovered is that of the danger to be apprehended from an influx of
vile Yankee immigrants after the North shall have been conquered. Unless
this is prevented, say the Charleston papers, who dictate pretty
independently to the whole of Dixie, we shall have sacrificed in vain
our blood and treasure, since nothing is more evident than that at no
distant day the Northern men among us will be fully able to control our
elections. Therefore it is proposed that no Northern man ever be allowed
the right of naturalization in the South.
But as even Southern injustice has not as yet the insolence to restrict
this precious prohibition to 'Yankees,' it is sequentially proposed that
with the exception of those foreigners now in the South, no person, not
a (white) native, shall ever, after this war, be allowed the rights of
citizenship in the C. S. A. There has not been, that we are aware, any
opposition to this hospitable proposition, but, on the contrary, it has
been most largely circulated and approved of.
It must be admitted that the South is in one thing at least
praiseworthy. It is consistent--to say nothing of being thoroughly in
earnest. To exclude all poor white immigrants from civil, and
consequently social privileges, is perfectly in keeping with its long
expressed contempt for mudsills. It legislates for F. F.'s, and for them
alone. It wants no Irish, no Germans, no foreign element of any
description between itself and the negro. It will make unto itself a
China within a wall of cotton-bales, and be sublimely magnificent within
itself.
But what of the Border, or, as GEO. SAUNDERS aptly called them,
the Tobacco States? (By the by, where is now that eminent rejected of
the C. S. A.?) The Patent Office Report for 1852 spoke as follows of
Fairfax County, Virginia, where thousands of acres of land have become
exhausted through slave labor, abandoned as worthless, and reduced to a
wilderness:--
'These lands have been purchased by Northern emigrants, the large
tracts divided and subdivided and cleared of pines, and neat
farm-houses and barns, with smiling fields of grain and grass in
the season, salute the delighted gaze of the beholder. Ten years
ago it was a mooted question whether Fairfax lands could be made
productive, and if so, would they pay the cost? This problem has
been satisfactorily solved by many, and in consequence of the above
altered state of things, school-houses and churches have doubled in
number.'
But school-houses and churches are not what the C. S. A. want. 'Let us
alone with your Yankee contrivances. "Smiling fields indeed!"--we want
no smiling among us save the "smiles" of old Monongahela or Bourbon. The
fiery Southern heart does not condescend to smile. "Neat farm-houses!"
They may do for your Northern serfs--we'll none of them.' Verily the C.
S. A. is a stupendous power, which, according to the development of its
own avowed principles, must necessarily become greater as it is more and
more limited to fewer persons. In due time these will be reduced to
hundreds, those in time to scores, until, finally, all Southerndom shall
be merged in one individual quintessentially concentrated exponent of
Cottondom, who must needs be, perforce, so intensely respectable and so
sublimely aristocratic that Northern eye may not see nor Northern heart
feel the magnitude of his superiority, or pierce the gloom wherein he
shall sit, 'a sceptred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own
originality.'
* * * * *
Five of the present Cabinet, with Secretary CAMERON at their
head, have expressed themselves fairly and fully in favor of
Emancipation,--foreseeing its inevitable realization, and, we presume,
the necessity of 'managing' it betimes. Only Messrs. SEWARD and
BATES hang timidly behind, waiting for stronger manifestations,
ere they hang out their flags. Meanwhile, from the rural districts of
the East and West come thousand-fold indications that the great 'working
majority' of Northern freemen--the same who elected LINCOLN and
urged on the war in thunder-tones and lightning acts--are sternly
determined to press the great measure, and purify this country for once
and forever of its great bitterness. It is a foregone conclusion.
* * * * *
'If you would know what your neighbors think of you,' says an old
proverb, 'quarrel with them.' It has not been necessary of late to
quarrel with England to ascertain _her_ opinion of us, as expressed by
her editors, writers, and men of the highest standing. Our war with the
South has brought it out abundantly, and the result is a great dislike
of everything American, save cotton! We are not of those who would at
this time say too much on the subject,--every expression of Anglophobia
is just now nuts to the C. S. A., who would dearly relish a war between
us and the mother country,--but we may point to the significant fact
recently laid in a laconic letter by 'Railway TRAIN,' that
while everything is done in England to preserve a 'strict neutrality,'
as regards the North, and while the most vexatious hinderances are
placed in the way of exporting aught which may aid us,--much
_gratuitous_ pains being taken to prevent any material aid to the
Federal government,--vessels are allowed to load openly with all
contraband of war, even to arms and ammunition, for the avowed purpose
of supplying the South. This is not mere _rumor_--it has been amply
confirmed for months.
Very well, gentlemen; very well, indeed. We may remember all your
kindness and the depth of your zealous abolition philanthropy. '_Haud
immemor._' But you are reasoning on false grounds. You forget that it is
almost as important for you to self your manufactures to America as to
get cotton from it. And articles in the _Times_, and speeches from your
first statesmen, show that you really believe the enormous fib so
generally current, that the South consumes the very great majority of
all our imports. 'The South is where the North makes all its money--the
South does everything.'
Do not believe it. The entire South consumes only about one sixth or
seventh of all Imports, and contributes no greater proportion to the
wealth of the North. But the North, with a very little sacrifice, can
free itself almost entirely from dependence on your manufactures, and
if, in homely parlance, you 'give us any more of your impudence,' she
_will_--will most decidedly. There is even a stronger king than Cotton
here; we may call him King Market. Let King Market once lay hands on
you, and whereas you were before only broken, _then_ you will be ground
to powder.
* * * * *
Over many a home since the last New Year, Death has cast the shadow,
which may grow dimmer with time, or change to other hues, but which
never entirely departs. But now he comes with strange, unwonted form,
for he comes from the battle-field as well as the far-off home of fever,
or the icy lair of consumption, and those left behind know only of the
departed that he died for honor.
'My brother! oh, my brother!' Such a cry arose not long ago in a family,
for one of the best and bravest whom this country has ever known. And
more than one has brought back from the war a sorrowful narrative of a
long farewell inclosed in as brief and touching words as those of the
following lyric:--
LINES.
I.
My brother, take my hand;
The darkness covers me,
And now I fly to thee;
O, hear my call!
II.
My brother, take my hand;
Weary, and sick, and faint,
To thee I make complaint,
Who art my all.
III.
My brother, take my hand;
Though pale it is and thin,
The same blood flows within
That is in thine.
IV.
My brother, take my hand;
It's all I have to give;
O, let me, while I live,
Press it to thine.
V.
My brother, take my hand;
And with the hand receive
The blessing which I leave,
Before I die.
VI.
My brother, take my hand;
And when at last you come,
I will receive you home,--
The home on high.
* * * * *
A correspondent in Ohio sends us the following:--
'It is a good thing for a weak brother to have faith; and some one
to rely on is to such an especial blessing. Squire BULLARD
was wont to find such a prop in his friend Deacon PARRISH,
who, he firmly believed, "knew everything."
'Near by the Squire lived a graceless old infidel named
MYERS, who was wont to entangle his simple neighbors in
arguments sadly vexing to their orthodoxy. On one occasion he
devoted an hour to prove to BULLARD that there was no
future after death.
'"Well," exclaimed Squire B----, "you kin talk jest as much as ye
please. Free speech is permitted; but I don't believe ye. I tell
you what, MYERS, the soul _is_ immortal; I'll bet five
dollars on it, and leave it to Deacon PARRISH!"'
This is indeed believing in human power; and yet who would laugh
_through_ his heart at it? For it is this same _belief_ in other men,
mere mortals like ourselves, in hero-worship, which led man through the
stormy ages of old on to the lighter and brighter time, when we see afar
the promised time when great ideas shall rule instead of great men, and
heroism yield to sincere, unselfish ministry. Great was the final lesson
of Friar BACON'S head--'Time will be.'
* * * * *
The failure of the great Southern Confederacy to secure recognition in
Europe will doubtless provoke sad strains from the bards of that
unfortunate 'empire.' Nor less to be pitied are those who have put their
trust in contracts and become the 'victims of misplaced confidence.' The
following brace of parodies sets forth the sorrows of either side with
touching pathos.
THE UNIVERSAL COTTON GIN.
He journeyed all creation through,
A peddler's wagon, trotting in;
A haggard man, of sallow hue,
Upon his nose the goggles blue,
And in his cart a model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
His seedy garb was sad to view--
Hard seemed the strait he'd gotten in;
He plainly couldn't boast a _sou_,
And meanly fared on water-gru-
el, or had swallowed whole a U-
niversal nigger-cotton gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
To all he met--Turk, Christian, Jew--
He meekly said, 'I'm not in tin;
In fact I'm in a serious stew,
And therefore offer unto you,
At half its worth, my model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
'As sure as four is two and two,
It rules the world we're plotting in;
It made and ruined Yankee Doo-
dle, stuck to him like Cooper's glue,
And so to you would stick this U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.'
Now Johnny Bull the peddler knew,
And thus replied with not a grin:
'Hi loves your 'gin' like London brew-
ed ale, but loathes the hinstitu-
tion vitch propels your model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
'Hi knows such coves as you a few,
And, zur, just now, hi'm not in tin;
Hi tells you vot, great Yankee Doo-
dle might hincline to put me through
Hif hi should buy your model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.'
Then spake smooth Monsieur _Parlez-vous_,
Whose gilded throne was got in sin,--
(As was he too, if tales are true):
'I does not vant your modal U-'
(He sounds a V for W)
'niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
A negar in de fence I view--
Your grand machine he's rotting in;
I smells him now, he stinketh! _w-h-e-w_--
_Give me a good tobacco chew_,
And you may keeps your modal U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.'
The peddler then sloped quickly to
The land he was begotten in;
With woeful visage, feelings blue,
He sadly questioned what to do,
When none would buy his model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
From out his pocket then he drew
A rag that _blood_ was clotting in;
It had a field of heavenly blue,
Was flecked with stars--the very few
That glimmered on his model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
He gazed long on its tarnished hue,
And mourned the fix he'd gotten in;
Then filled his eyes with contrite dew,
As in its folds his nose he blew,
And thus addressed his model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin.
'Thou crownless king, thy days are few;
The world thou art forgotten in;
Ere thou dost die, thy life review,
Repent thy crimes, thy wrongs undo,
Give freedom to the dusky crew
Whose blood now stains the model U-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin-
niversal nigger-cotton-gin!'
A SORROWFUL DIALOGUE.
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
Needy axe-grinder! whither are you going?
Sad is your visage, sadder far your raiment,
Rimless your hat, your coat has got a hole in't,
So have your trowsers!
Seedy axe-grinder! little know the great ones,
Who buy fat jobs, and steal the public lucre,
What times befall the poverty-stricken devils
Who grind their axes!
Tell me, axe-grinder, how you came so seedy?
Did some great man ungratefully entreat you?
Was it FERNANDO, first king of our Gotham,
Or the Collector?
Or did some evil WEED set you to burning
The Cataline, and pocket all the plunder;
Or did the patriot BEN engulf your little
All in a lottery?
Tell me, axe-grinder! 'tell me how you cum so:'
'Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall the moment you have told your
Pitiful story.'
AXE-GRINDER.
Story! God bless you! mine is sad to tell, sir;
The gratitude of great men drove me downward,
Reduced me to these shoddy coat and trowsers
So sad and seedy!
Listen! while I disclose the secrets of the
Mansion which standeth on Broadway, where strangers
Are taken in and done for at two dollars
And a half per diem.
There congregate Lord THURLOW, ALEXANDER
The Wonder of the World, and they who pull the
Wool o'er the eyelids of the veteran Com-
Missary-general.
And there, while they within did manufacture
The ways and means to 'work' this foul rebellion,
I kept the door without, and turned the grindstone
Which ground their axes.
And daily to their private closet came one
Called ORSAMUS, of fame in all the churches,
Whose savory name smells sweetly to all lovers
Of public plunder.
'Twas queer the ex-(tra) congress man resorted
There; strange they were to all invisible when
_His_ oily visage, like a magic lantern,
Lit the apartment.
It were a Matter-son or father might take
A note of; so I questioned of the key-hole,
And, lo! they would bestow warm raiment on our
Suffering soldiers.
I deemed the subject worthy of attention,
The more so as a very fat commission
Would be gained by it, so as almoner I
Tendered my service.
I looked for thanks; when, lo! they gave me none, sir,
But, calling eavesdroppers ungodly sinners,
Applied their patent-leathers to my tender
Unmentionables.
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
They served you right; take wholesome warning by it,
Leave state affairs to those who live upon 'em;
Should not the ox that treadeth in the corn-crib
Eat of the hoe-cakes?
How noble such care for our shivering heroes!
Who would not gladly perish for his country
When, for his sake, her great men stoop so low as
The shoddy business!
* * * * *
The Germans have a fine _Spinn-lied_, or song of spinning; so, too, have
the jolly Flemish dames. And a poetical correspondent of ours seems
determined that few and far between as the old-fashioned spinners are in
this country, the race shall not entirely disappear without taking a
song with them, and a quaint, pleasant lesson. Dear reader, to the
CONTINENTAL'S way of thinking, there is something very winning
in the thought of that 'great holiday,' when, free from all task, we
shall play merrily evermore 'out-of-doors,' in eternal light, over
infinite realms of beauty.
SPINNING.
Dearest mother, let me go;
I am tired of this spinning, yet the whizzing wheel goes round,
Till my brain is dull and dizzy with its ceaseless, humming sound.
I can hear a little blue-bird, chirping sweetly in yon tree;
And he would not stay there, mother, if he were not calling me.
Oh! in pity, let me go:
I have spun the flaxen thread, until my aching fingers drop;
And my weary feet will falter, though the whizzing wheel should stop.
I can see the sunny meadow where the gayest flowers grow;
And I long to weave a garland;--dearest mother, let me go.
Nay, be patient, eager child;
Summer smiles beyond the door-way, but stern poverty is here;
We must give her faithful service, if her frown we would not fear.
Spin on cheerly, little daughter, till your needful task is done,
Then go forth with bird and blossom, at the setting of the sun.
Wait _thou_, also, troubled soul;
Thou may'st look beyond the river, where the white-robed angels stand;
Hear the faint, celestial music, wafted from the summer land;
But thou cans't not leave thy labor;--when thy thread is duly spun,
Thou shalt flee on flashing pinions, at the setting of the sun.
* * * * *
The times have been hard, reader, our friend, yet all merriment has not
entirely died out, and there is still the sweet voice of music to be
heard in the land. In New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and many minor
cities, the Benedictine ULLMANN hath been ubiquitously about, operating
most vigorously, while the philosophic and courteous GOSCHE hath not
been far distant. And they heralded HINKLEY, and BORCHARD, and KELLOGG,
and all the other sweet swans of song; they drew after them the gems of
the opera; there was selling of _Libretti_, (and in Boston,
'los-_an_-gers'); there was the donning of scarlet and blue striped
cloaks, gay _coiffures_ and butterflying fans; there was flirting, and
fun, and gentle gayety in the New York Academy, and with the Boston
Academies it was not otherwise, only that among the latter the Saxon
predominateth, and the dark-eyed, music-loving children of Israel, who
so abound in most opera audiences, are very rare.
What we intended to do, O reader, was to give the biography of
BENEDICT ULLMANN. Lo! here it cometh:--
Vita Sancti Benedicti.
ULLMANN is about three thousand years old.
The New York _Herald_ once called him Mephistopheles. He is not
Mephistopheles, however, but the same thing, which is
ULLMANN. He is a spirit bearing human form. Don't forget.
King SOLOMON sat beneath the golden pavilion one
afternoon, playing silver melodies on a gold harp. Up went the
notes--the spirits of the Sephiroth bore them--even up to a
premium, and the very angels stopped sewing on their white robes to
hear the ravishing melody.
By his side sat the Queen of Sheba, counting out her money.
Suddenly, there was a strange vibration, a marvelous tone. The
queen paused. The king smiled. The angels went on with their
sewing. (According to Rabbi ABARBANEL, they were knitting.
This created a schism between the schools of Cracow and Cordova,
which lasted four centuries.)
'Why smilest thou, Oh SOLOMON?'
'I smiled, my dear queen, because you and I became, just now,
unwittingly, the parents of a strange being.'
'Why, SOLOMON--how you talk!' exclaimed the Q. of S.
'Yea, for the ring of thy gold, oh my Queen, and the last
chord-tone from my harp mingled in mystical unity and made a sound
unheard before on earth. And the spirit of that sound, which is of
money and of music, is the spirit whereof I spoke.'
Then the queen marveled greatly at the wisdom of SOLOMON,
and gave him a shekel. The king rung it on the table and touched
his harp. Again the strange tone thrilled out loud.
'There he goes!' quoth SOLOMON. 'My blessing on him. And
therefore the sprite is called Blessed to this day, which in Latin
is _Benedict_.
Thus was ULLMANN born, who was the first who ever sold music;
and, whereas before his time music was only iron or silvern, after he
took it up it became golden--very fine, and ra-ther ex-pen-sive.
Howbeit, he loved music as well as money, and gave the people their
money's worth, and many a jolly opera and fine tenor did he bring out:
yea, had it been possible he would have engaged DON JUAN
TENORIO himself, so that Don Giovanni might have been produced as
perfectly as possible--the Don Giovanity of vanities.
Apropos of music, there is among the novelties of the season a French
'operetta,' entitled '_Les Noces de Jeannette_,' in which a very
peculiar bridegroom distinguishes himself, like Christopher Strap in
'Pleasant Neighbors,' by smashing the furniture. This recalls something
which we heard narrated in the opera _foyer_ the other evening.
Some years ago, in Paris, there was a very good comedian who prided
himself on being perfectly 'classic.' To be classic in France is to be
elegantly conventional. No actress can be really _kissed_ according to
classic rules; the lips must be faintly smacked about three feet from
her shoulder. Wills are classically written by a flourish of the pen,
and classical banqueters never pretend to eat.
Now there was a humorous scene which greatly depended on much breakage
of furniture; and to this scene our actor, in the opinion of the
manager, did not do justice. Rolling over one tea-cup did _not_,
according to the latter, constitute a grand smash.
The actor became irritated. '_Pa'r'r-bleu!_' he exclaimed, 'you
SHALL have a grand smash then, if you must, and no mistake.'
The scene begun. There was a tea-table, and the irate performer gave one
kick, and sent the whole concern crashing into the pit. There was a roar
of applause.
('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.)
The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest
kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave.
There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped
behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the
timber--crack--splinter--
'Stop!' roared the manager.
'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience.
The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the
scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down;
the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The
manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the
orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after.
We do not know how matters were arranged, but we believe that the
manager never tried afterwards to convert a classic actor to the
romantic school.
* * * * *
The shade of Bishop BERKLEY would rejoice, could it read at
this late date such a tribute to the merit of the once famed tar water,
which he invented. But a solemn feeling steals over our heart when we
remember that the hand which penned these lines now lies cold in death,
and that the shades of the idealist and the poet may ere this have
joined in the spirit land.
TAR WATER.
BY GEORGE W. DEWEY.
From the granite of the North,
Leapt this pure libation forth,
Cold as the rocks that restrained it;
From the glowing Southern pine,
Oozed this dark napthalian wine,
Warm as the hearts that contained it;
In a beaker they combine
In a nectar as divine
As the vintage of the Rhine,
While I pledge those friends of mine
Who are nearest, who are dearest in affection.
I have filled it to the brim;
Not a tear could ride its rim;
Not a fleck of sorrow dim
The flashing-smiles that swim
In the crystal which restores their recollection.
Floating on the pitchy wine,
Comes an odor of the brine,
Half suggesting solemn surges of the sea;
A sailor in the shrouds,
Furling sail amid the clouds;
Noisy breakers singing dirges on the lee,
To those friends upon the main,
Who have ventured once again,
In the realm which cleaves in twain
Loving hearts, that fill with pain
When the storm proclaims the terrors of December.
I will clink the beaded edge
Of the beaker, while I pledge
Safety over surf and sedge,
Foaming round the sunken ledge,
In the track of all the loved ones we remember.
And through Carolinian woods,
Ever muffled in the hoods
Of their fir-trees' aromatic evergreen,
I can hear the mellow stops,
Ever swaying in their tops,
To the playing of an organist unseen.
And the breezes bring the balm
Of the solitude and psalm,
From that indolence of calm,
In the land of pine and palm,
Over hills, and over rivers and savannas,
Till my feelings undergo
All their mortal overthrow,
In celestial strains which flow,
In a song of peace below,
From those regions where archangels sing hosannas.
* * * * *
A friend who has roamed in his time over the deserts and slept in
Bedawee tents; one to whom the East is as a second mother, and in whose
faith the Koran is necessary to really put the finishing touch to a true
gentleman, sends us the following eccentric proverbs from the Arabic.
Words of Wisdom.
'A well is not to be filled with dew.'
There speaks the Arab, choice of water as of wine.
'May a deadly disease love you and Allah hate you!'
Uncle Toby, who would not have had the heart to curse a dog so, would
have found the Excommunication of Ernulphus quite outdone in the desert,
where cursing is perfected.
'He lays goose eggs, and expects young turkeys.'
'The dream of the cat is about mice.'
Meaning, as we say, that what is bred in the bone will not come out of
the flesh. ÆSOP has dramatized this proverb in a pretty fable.
'The people went away; the baboons remained.'
'A rose fell to the lot of a monkey.'
Or, as the Latins said, '_Asinus ad Lyram_'--'A gold ring in a sow's
ear.'
'God bless him who pays visits, and short ones at that.'
'The husband of two parrots--a neck between two sticks.'
'I asked him about his father. "My uncle's name is SHAYB,"
he replied.'
'They wanted a keeper for the pigeon-house, and gave the keys to
the cat.'
'Filth fell upon dirt. "Welcome! my friend," said he.'
'Scarcer than fly-brains.'
'Gain upon dirt rather than loss upon musk.'
Musk plays a great part in the East. Even the porters in Cairo bear bags
of it and are scented by it.
'When the monkey reigns, dance before him.'
This slavish proverb is thoroughly Oriental.
'They met a monkey defiling the mosque. "Dost thou not fear," quoth
they, "lest God may metamorphose thee?" "I should," quoth he, "if I
thought he would change me into a gazelle."'
'He fled from the rain and sat down under the water-spout.'
Or, as we say, out of the frying-pan into the fire.
* * * * *
Divers and sundry 'screeds' which we had hoped to lay on this present
'Editor's Table,' are unavoidably postponed until the February number,
when they will make their 'positively first and last appearance.' Hoping
that our own first appearance may not be without your approbation, we
conclude, wishing you, reader, once more--very sincerely--the happiest
of 'happy New Years.'
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: We honestly believe the true course to pursue with South
Carolina, is to colonize her under the protection of our troops. Let us
start with a settlement of Yankees at Beaufort, who shall addict
themselves to the raising of cotton and other southern products. Let
them employ the negroes whose masters have run away, and who are _ipso
facto_ free. As our army gradually extends its lines, let the northern
pioneer proceed, to occupy and cultivate the soil. This will bring about
a practical solution of some vexed questions.]
[Footnote 2: The reader is earnestly requested to peruse the sermons of
the Southern clergy, collected in an _extra_ of Putnam's _Rebellion
Record_, and especially a discourse by the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of New
Orleans, in which the man of God asserts that slavery is a 'divine
trust, to be perpetuated and continued.']
[Footnote 3: NOTE BY THE EDITOR.--The reader will find further
reference to the grave of AARON BURR in an article, in the
present number of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, entitled 'The
Graveyard at Princeton.']
[Footnote 4: Apart from philosophical and theological agitation in
America, great additions were made to our general literature by
translations from French and German, and their influence upon our
younger writers is visible at the present day in almost every newspaper
article. This task of translating and editing was accomplished--for the
time--on a grand scale and in a scholarly manner. Chief among those who
devoted themselves to it was George Ripley, who, in his excellent
_Library of Foreign Standard Literature_, gave the public the choicer
gems of French and German philosophy, poetry, or lighter prose. C.S.
Henry, then professor of philosophy in the University of New York,
embraced with zeal the teachings of Cousin, translated his
_Psychology_,--there had been a version of the 'Lectures' published in
1838,--and wrote, for the use of students, a small but comprehensive
_History of Philosophy_, which would have been perfectly 'eclectic' had
it not devoted a somewhat unfair proportion of its pages to eclecticism.
Translations of minor German lyrics into English, in most instances
surpassing their rivals of British origin, were made by several young
Unitarian clergymen, among which those by Cranch, Peabody, and Brooks,
were, we believe, preëminent. The _Dial_, by its criticisms of foreign
literature and art, guided many to the originals, while the Orthodox
onslaught, in reviews or in lectures, by Murdoch and others, in which
German philosophy was carefully traced from Lucifer down to Hegel, gave
to hungry and inquiring neophytes many valuable hints. As, with the
majority of its friends, 'Transcendentalism' assumed a deeply religious
form, there resulted, of course, a grand revival of pietistic, mystical,
and magical reading. Even the polemics of the early Quakers were
un-dusted, while Swedenborg was soon found to be a rich mine. In due
time, the works of Jung-Stilling, and other occult seers of the Justinus
Kerner school, were translated, and contributed, in common with the then
new wonders of animal magnetism and clairvoyance, to prepare the public
for 'spiritualism.' The appearance, in 1841, of a translation of the
_Heinrich von Ofterdingen_ of Novalis, by a student of Cambridge, named
Stallknecht, was one of the works of the day which increased the
interest in foreign literature, and made its study fashionable. This
mystical romance, called by its author the 'Apotheosis of Poetry,' was
distinguished by a simple pathos, an ultra-refinement of thought, an
almost womanly delicacy of expression, and a deeply religious sentiment.
Such works fascinated many who had been proof against the sterner
allurements of the more practical Goethe or the aristocratic Schiller,
and added a new regiment to the army that was assailing with vehemence
the fortress of German literature.]
[Footnote 5: Cymbeline, Act III., Sc. 2.]
* * * * *
The
Continental
Monthly
Devoted to Literature and National Policy.
* * * * *
FEBRUARY, 1862.
* * * * *
BOSTON:
J.R. GILMORE, 110 TREMONT STREET.
CROSBY & NICHOLS, 117 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: H. DEXTER & CO. AND ROSS & TOUSEY.
PHILADELPHIA: T. B. CALLENDER AND A. WINCH.
CONTENTS.
NO. II.
ENLARGED SIXTEEN PAGES.
* * * * *
PAGE
Our War and Our Want 113
Brown's Lecture Tour. By a Lecturer 118
The Watchword. Poetry 126
Tints and Tones of Paris 127
The True Basis 136
The Black Flag. Poetry 138
The Actress-Wife 139
Self-Reliance. Poetry 149
The Huguenot Families in America 151
The Black Witch 155
Freedom's Stars. Poetry 166
On the Plains 167
Seven Devils 171
What will you do with us? 175
James Russell Lowell 176
Refurgamus. Poetry 186
Among the Pines 187
Mr. Seward's Published Diplomacy 199
To England. Poetry 209
The Heir of Rofeton 210
Our Danger and its Cause 220
She Sits Alone. Poetry 225
Literary Notices 226
Editor's Table 228
* * * * *
THE PRESENT NUMBER OF THE CONTINENTAL
Contains Articles by Ex-Gov. Boutwell, Hon. Horace Greeley, Hon. George
P. Difofway, A. Oakey Hall, Richard B. Kimball, Henry T. Tuckerman,
Frederick W. Shelton, The Author of "The Cotton States," J. Warren
Newcomb, Jr., Henry P. Leland, Miss Delia L. Colton, Charles G. Leland,
and other diftinguished writers.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, by JAMES R.
GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
District of Massachusetts.
Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery, 3 Cornhill, Boston.