Chapter XIV: Introduction (5)

It was a terrible battle. Amid the rattle of musketry and
whistling of bullets, the clashing of sabres, the unearthly cries
of wounded horses and the wild shouting of men, the clear voice of
Lieutenant Hugh Gregory rang out: 'Rally! my brave boys, rally,
and avenge the Captain's death!'

'Not quite so fast, sir,' quietly remarked a rebel officer,
bringing his sword to a salute; 'you observe that your men are
retreating and you are my prisoner.'

Hugh saw that it was so, and with a heavy heart gave himself up.

'Hurrah for the stars and stripes!' shouted a brave young soldier,
attempting to raise himself upon his elbow, but falling back,
exhausted from the loss of blood.

'Damn you, I'll stripe you!' exclaimed a brutal fellow, rising in
his stirrups and aiming a blow at the wounded man.

'Dare to strike a helpless man!' shouted his commander; and he
warded off the blow with a stroke that sent the fellow's sabre
spinning into the air. 'Now dismount, and help him if you can.'
But it was too late; the brave soul had gone out with those last
words.

'Lieutenant,' said the rebel officer, whom we will know as Captain
Dumars, 'I see that you are wounded. Let me assist you upon this
horse, and one of my sergeants will show you the surgeon's
quarters.' And he bound up the wounded arm as well as he could,
helped him upon the horse, and, with a playful _Au revoir_, rode
on.

Hugh's wound was too painful, and he was too weak and tired, to
wonder or to think clearly of anything; he only felt grateful that
his captor was a gentleman, and quietly submitted himself to the
sergeant's guidance.

The battle was ended,--in whose favor it does not matter, so far
as this story is concerned,--and Captain Dumars obtained
permission to take Lieutenant Gregory to his mother's house until
he should recover from his wound or be exchanged.

When Hugh found himself established in a pleasant little chamber
with windows looking out upon the flower-garden and the woods
beyond, fading away into his own loved North land, he thought
that, after all, it was not so terrible to be a prisoner of war.
He was decidedly confirmed in this opinion when he occasionally
caught a glimpse of the lithe form of Annie Dumars flitting about
among the flowers; and being somewhat of a philosopher, in his
way, he determined to take it easy.

The presence of one of the 'Hessians' at Mrs. Dumars' house gave
it much the same attraction that is attached to a menagerie.
Feminine curiosity is an article that the blockade can not keep
out of Dixie, and many were the morning calls that Annie received,
and many and various were the methods of pumping adopted to learn
something of the prisoner,--how he looked, how he acted, how he
was dressed, and so forth.

'Impertinence!' he heard Annie exclaim, as one of these gossips
passed through the gate, after putting her through a more minute
inquisition than usual. And he heard dainty shoe-heels impatiently
tapping along the hall, and when she brought in a bouquet of fresh
flowers he saw in her face traces of vexation.

'I seem to be quite a "What-is-it?"'

'Shame!'--and she broke off a stem and threw it out of the window
with altogether unnecessary vehemence.

'Splendid girl!' thought Hugh; 'where have I seen her?'

And he turned his thoughts back through the years that were past,
calling up the old scenes; the balls, with their mazy, passionate
waltzes, and their promenades on the balcony in the moonlight's
mild glow, when sweet lips recited choice selections from Moore,
and white hands swayed dainty sandal-wood fans with the potency of
the most despotic sceptres; the sleigh-rides, with their wild
rollicking fun, keeping time to the merry music of the bells and
culminating in the inevitable upset; the closing exercises of the
seminary, when blooming girls, in the full efflorescence of
hot-house culture, make a brief but brilliant display before
retiring to the domestic sphere--Oh, yes--

'Miss Dumars, were you not at the ---- Institute last year?'

'Yes.'

'Then you know my cousin,--Jennie Gregory?'

'Yes, indeed:--and you are her cousin. How stupid in me not to
recollect it.'

And she told him how that 'Jennie' was her dearest friend, and
how in their intimacy of confidence she had told her all about
him, and shown her his picture, and--in short, Hugh and Annie
began to feel much better acquainted.

It was a few days after this that Hugh sat by the open window,
listening to Annie reading from the virtuous and veracious
_Richmond Enquirer_. Distressed by what he heard, not knowing
whether it was true or not, he begged her to cease torturing him.
She laid aside the paper with an emphatic 'I don't believe it!'
that could not but attract his attention, and he looked up in
surprise.

'I must tell you, Mr. Gregory--I have been tortured long enough by
this forced secrecy--_I am a rebel!_'

'That is the name we know you by,' he replied, smiling.

'But I am a _rebellious_ rebel. Yes,' she added, rising, 'I detest
with all my heart this wicked, causeless rebellion. I detest the
very names of the leaders of it. And yet I am compelled to go
about with lies upon my lips, and to act lies, till I detest
myself more than all else! I have consoled myself somewhat by
making a flag and worshiping it in secret. I will get it and show
it to you.'

'This,' she continued, returning with a miniature specimen of the
dear old flag, 'a _real_ flag, the emblem of a real living nation,
must be kept hidden, its glorious lustre fading away in the dark,
while that,' pointing to where the 'stars and bars' were
fluttering in the breeze, 'that miserable abortion is insolently
flaunted before our eyes, nothing about it original or
suggestive--except its stolen colors, reminding us of the
financial operations of Floyd! Oh, if hope could be prophecy--if a
life that is an unceasing prayer for the success of the federal
arms could avail, it would not be long before this bright banner
would wave in triumph over all the land, its starry folds gleaming
with a purer, more glorious light than ever!'

And as she stood there, with eyes uplifted as in mute prayer, and
fervently kissed the silken folds of the flag, Hugh wished that
his station in life had been that of an American flag.

Time passed on, and the prisoner was to be exchanged for a rebel
officer of equal rank. Captain Dumars brought him the
intelligence, and was surprised at the seeming indifference with
which he received it.

'You don't seern particularly elated by the prospect of getting
among the Yankees again.'

'I am eager to take my sword again; but my stay here has been far
from unpleasant. You, Captain, have been away so much that I have
not been able to thank you for making my imprisonment so pleasant.
I am at a loss to know why you have shown such favor to me
especially.'

'This is the cause,' replied the Captain, laying his finger upon a
breast-pin that Hugh always wore upon his coat, at the same time
unbuttoning his own; 'you see that I wear the same.'

It was a simple jewel, embellished only by a few Greek characters,
but it was the emblem of one of those college societies, in which
secrecy and mystery add a charm to the ties of brotherhood. And it
was this fraternal tie, stronger than that of Free-Masonry,
because more exclusive, that made Hugh's a pleasant imprisonment,
and made him happy in the love of one faithful among the
faithless, loyal among many traitors. For of course the reader has
surmised--for poetic justice demands it--that Hugh fell
desperately in love with Annie, and Annie _ditto_ Hugh. How he
told the tender tale, and how she answered him,--whether with the
conventional quantity of blushes and sighs, or not,--is none of
your business, reader, or mine; so don't ask me any questions.

It was the evening of the day before Hugh's departure. They, Annie
and Hugh, sat in the little porch, silent and sad, watching the
shadows slowly creeping up the mountain side towards its
sun-kissed summit, like a sombre pall of sorrow shrouding a bright
hope.

'And to-morrow you are free.'

'No, Annie, not free. My sword will be free, but my heart will
still linger here, a prisoner. But when the war is over, and the
old flag restored--'

'Then,' and here her eyes were filled with the glorious light of
prophetic hope, '_I_ will be _your_ prisoner.'

And still Hugh is fighting for the dear old flag; and still Annie
is praying for it, and waiting for the sweet imprisonment.

There has been many as sweet a romance as this, reader, acted ere this, during the war. Would that all captivity were as pleasant!

* * * * *

'I would not live alway,' says the hymn, and the sentiment has, like every great truth, been set forth in a thousand forms. One of the most truly beautiful which we have ever met is that of

THE CITY OF THE LIVING.

In a long-vanished age, whose varied story
No record has to-day,
So long ago expired its grief and glory--
There flourished, far away,

In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all measure
A city fair and wide,
Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and pleasure
And never any died.

Disease and pain and death, those stern marauders,
Which mar our world's fair face,
Never encroached upon the pleasant borders
Of that bright dwelling-place.

No fear of parting and no dread of dying
Could ever enter there--
No mourning for the lost, no anguished crying
Made any face less fair.

Without the city's walls, death reigned as ever,
And graves rose side by side--
Within, the dwellers laughed at his endeavor,
And never any died.

O, happiest of all earth's favored places!
O, bliss, to dwell therein--
To live in the sweet light of loving faces
And fear no grave between!

To feel no death-damp, gathering cold and colder,
Disputing life's warm truth--
To live on, never lonelier or older,
Radiant in deathless youth!

And hurrying from the world's remotest quarters
A tide of pilgrims flowed
Across broad plains and over mighty waters,
To find that blest abode,

Where never death should come between, and sever
Them from their loved apart--
Where they might work, and will, and live forever,
Still holding heart to heart.

And so they lived, in happiness and pleasure,
And grew in power and pride,
And did great deeds, and laid up stores of treasure,
And never any died.

And many yers rolled on, and saw them striving
With unabated breath,
And other years still found and left them living,
And gave no hope of death.

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity,
Craving a boon like this--
Mark how the dwellers in the wondrous city
Grew weary of their bliss.

One and another, who had been concealing
The pain of life's long thrall,
Forsook their pleasant places, and came stealing
Outside the city wall,

Craving, with wish that brooked no more denying,
So long had it been crossed,
The blessed possibility of dying,--
The treasure they had lost.

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals
Swelled to a broader tide,
Till none were left within the city's portals,
And graves grew green outside.

Would it be worth the having or the giving,
The boon of endless breath?
Ah, for the weariness that comes of living
There is no cure but death!

Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity,
Were that sweet rest denied;
And few, methinks, would care to find the city
Where never any died!

* * * * *

Does the reader recall DEAN SWIFT'S account of the immortal Strudlbrugs and their undying miseries--it is in the City of Laputu, we believe. Their life was passed as if in such a city. Ah, death! it is, after all, only birth in another form. And to step to the ridiculous, we are reminded of an

EPITAPH IN A DEDHAM CHURCHYARD.

I've paid the debt which all must pay,
Though awful to my view,
On frightful rocks where billows poured,
And broken buildings flew.
The cruel Death has conquered me;
The victory is but small,
For I shall rise and live again,--
And Death himself shall fall.

* * * * *

There are not many of those who 'read the papers,' who have not met from time to time with the quaint experiences of THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR,--a gentleman who, in the columns of the _Buffalo Republican_, and more recently in the spicy _Cleveland Plain Dealer_, has often wished that his too, too solid flesh would melt. It is with pleasure that we welcome him to our pages in the following original sketch:--

THE 'FAT CONTRIBUTOR' AS A GYMNAST.

'But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks.'

RICHARD III.

Says the cardinal in the play--'In the bright lexicon of youth
there's no such word as fail.' Without stopping to discuss the
reliability of a lexicon that omits words in that careless manner,
I must say that in the dictionary of fat men who aspire to
gymnastics that word distinctly occurs. I had my misgivings, but
was over-persuaded by my friends. They said gymnastics would
develop muscular strength, thus enabling me to _hold_ my flesh in
case it attempted to run away. They added, as an additional
incentive, that the spectacle of a man who weighs nearly three
hundred pounds, doing the horizontal ladder, climbing a slack-rope
hand over hand, or suspending his weight by his little finger,
would be a 'big thing.' I asked them how I was to attain that end.
'By practice,' was the reply; 'practice makes perfect.' It
did;--it made a perfect fool of me, as you shall see.

I never had much taste for feats requiring physical effort, except
lifting--lifting with my teeth. The amount of beef, pork, mutton
and vegetables that I have lifted in that way is immense. After
hearing Dr. WINSHIP lecture, I practiced lifting a flour barrel
with a man inside of it, and finally succeeded in holding it out
at arm's length. [I may remark incidentally that the barrel _had
no heads in it_.]

To return to the case in hand (and a case in hand is worth two in
the bush): I was deluded into purchasing a season ticket in the
gymnasium, and one afternoon I sought the locality. A number were
exercising in various ways, and I laid off my coat preparatory to
'going in.' As I bent down to adjust a pair of slippers, I heard
some rapid steps behind me, and the next instant a pair, of hands
and a man's head fell squarely on my back, a pair of heels smote
together in the air, and with a somersault the gymnast regained
the ground several feet in advance of me. I assumed an indignant
perpendicular, when the fellow turned with well-feigned amazement
and stammered forth an apology. Bent over as I was, he had
mistaken me for a heavily padded 'wooden horse,' which formed a
portion of the apparatus.

Desiring to be weighed from time to time, in order that I might
note the effect of gymnastics upon my tonnage, I asked one, who
was resting after prodigious efforts to wrench his arms off at a
lifting machine, if there were scales convenient. He surveyed me
for a moment--looked puzzled--and finally replied
hesitatingly,--'Y-e-s, I think we can manage it.' He led the way
to a window overlooking the Ohio canal. 'Do you see that
building?' said he, pointing to a low structure on the heel path
side, extending partly over the canal. I intimated that the fabric
in question produced a distinct impression on the optic nerves,
and inquired its use. '_Weigh-lock_' he shrieked; '_go and be
weighed!_'

'_Go and be d----d!_' I yelled, furious at being thus victimized;
but my angry and profane rejoinder was lost in the shout of
laughter that went up from the assembled athletes.

Natural abhorrence of jokes, practical or otherwise, is a trait
among my people; it runs in the family, like wooden legs. I
immediately sought the boss gymnaster and related the manner in
which I had been introduced to his elevating establishment. I told
him I had come there neither to be made a horse of by one nor an
ass of by another. He pledged his word that the like should not
occur again, and I was appeased.

I first attempted the parallel bars, but they were never intended
for men of my breadth. My hands giving way, I became so firmly
wedged between the bars that it was necessary to cut one of them
away in order to release me. A wag pronounced it a feat without a
parallel.

The horizontal bar next claimed my attention. I had seen others
hang with their heads down, suspended by their legs alone, and the
trick appeared quite easy of execution. I succeeded in suspending
myself in the manner indicated, but--_revocare gradum_--when I
attempted to regain the bar with my hands, it was no go. I was in
a perspiration of alarm at once; my legs grew weak; my head swam
from the rush of blood; twist and squirm as I would, I couldn't
reach the bar with the tip end of a finger even. My head was four
or five feet from the ground, so that a fall was likely to break
my neck, and when my frantic efforts to clutch the bar with my
hands failed, I shrieked in very desperation. Men came running to
my aid. They raked the tan bark, with which the ground was strewn,
in a pile beneath me, to break my fall as much as possible, and,
relaxing my hold of the bar, I came down in a heap, rolled up like
a gigantic caterpillar, and dived head and shoulders into the tan
bark, where I was nearly smothered before I could be extracted. It
was a terrible fright, but I escaped with a few bruises.

My brief career as a gymnast terminated with the 'ladder act.' I
felt unequal to the task of drawing myself up the ladder (which
was slightly inclined from the perpendicular), as I had seen
others do, but once at the top I believed I could lower myself
down. A purchase was rigged in the roof, by which I was hoisted to
the top of the ladder, some thirty feet from the ground, when,
grasping a round firmly with my hands, the purchase was
disconnected from my waist belt, and I began the descent. It was
very severe on the arms, and I desired to rest myself by placing
my feet on a round, but my protuberant paunch would not permit it.
When I had accomplished about half the distance in safety, a round
snapped suddenly with the unusual weight. I remember clutching
frantically at the next, which broke as did the other; then
followed a sensation of falling, succeeded by a collision as
between two express trains at full speed, and I knew no more. When
I recovered consciousness, I was in my own bed, and four surgeons
were endeavoring to set my broken leg with a stump extractor.
Gymnastics are a little out of my line.

FAT CONTRIBUTOR.

Unlike BRUMMEL, _we_ know who our fat friend is, and shall be happy to see him again.

* * * * *

'Talbot,' of Washington, one of those who keep the many chronicles of government, gives us the following from his repertoire:--

Shortly after the inauguration of President Lincoln, and during
the period in which the throng of office-seekers was greatest, an
applicant for a clerkship in one of the departments received
notification to appear before the 'examining committee' for
examination as to qualifications. In due time he appeared, and
announced himself 'ready.' The aforesaid 'committee,' supposing
that they had before them a decidedly 'soft one,' determined to
enjoy a little 'sport' at the poor fellow's expense. After having
put a great many questions to him, none of which in the least
applied to the duties he would be expected to perform, he was
asked how he would ascertain the number of square feet occupied by
the Patent Office building. This question aroused in him
suspicions that 'all was not right,' and, with a promptness and
emphasis that effectually dampened the hopes of his questioners,
he replied, '_Well, gentlemen, I should employ an experienced
surveyor._'

The same correspondent tells us that--

In one of the rural towns of Illinois lived, a few years agone, a
very eccentric individual known as 'DICKEY BULARD,' whose original
sayings afforded no little amusement to his neighbors.

DICKEY had his troubles, the saddest of which was the loss of his
only son. Shortly after this event, in speaking of it to some
friends, he broke out in the following pathetic expression of
feeling:

'I'd rather a' lost the best cow I have, and ten dollars besides,
than that boy. If it had been a gal, it wouldn't a' made so much
difference; but it was the only boy I had.'

On another occasion, in referring to the death of his grandmother,
who had been fatally injured by a butt from a pet ram, DICKEY gave
vent to his feelings as follows:

'I never felt so bad in all my life as I did when grandmother
died. She had got so old, and we had kept her so long, _we wanted
to see how long we could keep her_.

* * * * *

It is the 'turn of the tune' which gives point to the far-famed legend of 'The Arkansaw Traveler,'--which legend, in brief, is to the effect that a certain fiddling 'Rackensackian,' who could never learn more than the first half of a certain tune, once bluntly refused all manner of hospitality to a weary wayfarer, avowing with many an oath that his house boasted neither meat nor whisky, bed nor hay. But being taught by the stranger the 'balance' of the tune,--'the turn,' as he called it,--he at once overwhelmed his musical guest with all manner of dainties and kindnesses. And it is the 'turn of the tune,' in the following lyric, from the soft tinkle of the guitar to the harsh notes of the 'beaten parchment,' which gives it a peculiar charm.

THE GUITAR AND THE DRUM.

BY R. WOLCOTT, CO. B., TENTH ILLINOIS

Evening draws nigh, and the daylight
In golden splendor dies;
And the stars look down through the gloaming
With soft and tender eyes.

I sit alone in the twilight,
And lazily whiff my cigar,
Watching the blue wreaths curling,
And thrumming my old guitar:

Old, and battered, and dusty,--
A veteran covered with scars;
Yet to me the most precious of treasures,
The sweetest of all guitars.

For a gentle spirit dwells in it,
That speaks through the trembling strings,
And in echo to my thrumming
A wonderful melody sings.

As I softly strike the measures,
The spirit murmurs low
A song of departed pleasures,
A dream of the long ago.

And like a weird enchanter
It paints in the star-lit sky
Pictures from memory's record,
Scenes of the days gone by.

And as the ripples of music
Float out on the evening air,
There comes to me a vision
Of the girl with the golden hair.

Kindly she turns upon me.
Those lustrous, violet eyes,
And my heart with passionate yearnings
To meet her eagerly flies.

Nearer she comes, and yet nearer,
At the beck of the spirit's wand,
And I feel the gentle pressure
On my brow of her warm, white hand--

_Tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum, tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum!_
'Tis the warning voice of the rolling drum.
Through the awakened night air come
The stern command and the busy hum
Of hurried preparation.
'Tis no time now for idle strumming
Of light guitars: in that loud drumming
Is fearful meaning; the hour is coming
That for some of us will be the summing
Of all life's preparation.

Quick, quick, my boys: fall in! fall in!
Now is the hour when we begin
The battle with this monstrous sin.
Onward to victory!--or to win
A patriot's martyrdom!
Stay no longer to bandy words;
Trust we now to our gleaming swords;
For foul rebellion's dastardly hordes
A terrible hour has come.

By all that you love beneath the skies;
By the world of cherished memories;
By your hopes for the coming years;
By the tender light of your loved one's eyes;
By the warm, white hands you so highly prize;
By your mothers' parting tears,
Swear the horrible wrong to crush!
What though you fall in the battle's rush,
And the velvet leaves of the greensward blush
With your young life's crimson tide?
The angels look down with pitying love,
And your tale will be told in the record above:
'For his country's honor he died.'

The gentle strings of the light guitar,
Waking soft echoes from memory's chords,
And tender dreams of home--
The noise, and the pomp, and the glitter of war;
The furious charge, and the clashing swords;
The song of the rolling drum.

How many a young heart has, in these later days, been turned from soft guitar-tones of idleness, to the brave, rattling measures of drum-life! It will do good, this war of ours; and many a brave fellow will, in after years, look back upon it as the school in which he first learned to be a thoroughly practical and sensible MAN.

* * * * *

We are indebted to a gossiping and ever most welcome New Haven friend for the following anecdote of one of the men who, clothed in a little brief authority, 'go about 'restin' people:'

Our village we consider one of the most pleasant in the country;
our boys full of life and activity, and our officers men of energy
and perseverance, and men who understand their importance. In
proof of these assertions, I offer the following sketch of an
occurrence a few years ago.

DICK BARNES was a blacksmith, and a man of considerable notoriety
in those days, and from the peculiar prominence of his front upper
teeth he had derived, from the boys of the village, the singular
nick-name of 'Tushy.' For two or three successive years he had
been elected constable, and the duties of this great public office
appeared to demand that he should neglect his legitimate private
business, so that it was said that the safest place for him to
secrete himself--the most unlikely place where he would be
sought--would be behind his own anvil. Like many others 'clothed
with a little brief authority' he was not overmodest in showing
his importance.

The boys were then, as they are now, fond of skating, and there
was a large pond near the centre of the village on which they used
to have fine times on moonlight evenings, and especially Sunday
evenings, and, as a natural consequence, when large numbers of
boys are engaged in sport, they were somewhat noisy.

One Sunday evening, when the ice was very smooth and the boys were
enjoying themselves, BARNES made his appearance on the ice and
ordered them off, in tones, and exclamations of authority. The
boys did not like this interference in their sports and couldn't
see the justice of his demand. 'That's old Tushy,' says one, and
the cry of 'Tushy,' 'Tushy,' soon passed among the crowd of
skaters, till BARNES began to think it personal, and was
determined to catch one of them and make of him an example. The
ice was 'glib,' as they termed it, and as they all had skates
except 'Tushy,' they were rather rude in their behavior towards
him,--a not very uncommon circumstance,--and though they were
careful to keep out of harm's way, they kept near enough to him to
annoy him. Finding all efforts to catch one of them fruitless,
with the advantage they had,--for 'the wicked _stand_ on slippery
places,'--he announced his determination to catch one of them
anyhow, and started for the shore.

Boys are usually quicker in arriving at conclusions than older
people, and one of them suggested that he had gone for his skates.
'Good! now we'll have some fun, boys,' says Phil Clark, who was a
good skater, and withal a good leader in a frolic. 'You follow me
and do as I tell you, and I don't believe old "Tushy" will follow
us far.' By general consent he led them to the dry, sandy shore,
and such as had them filled their handkerchiefs, and such as could
not boast of that superfluity filled their caps, with sand. 'Now,'
says Phil, 'when he comes back, and it won't be long, we'll form a
line and wait till he gets his skates on, when he'll put chase for
some of us. If he gets near any of us, some one sing out "Bully,"
and every boy drop his sand, and if he catches any one we'll all
pitch in.'

'Tushy' in a little while made his appearance, and soon had his
skates strapped to his feet, and after a few stamps upon the ice,
to see that they were properly secured, glided a few strokes and
started off for the boys. The moon was shining 'as bright as day,'
and old Tushy's movements were perfectly apparent. The pond was
huge, and afforded a good opportunity for a trial of speed, and,
though many of the boys were good skaters, 'Tushy' perseveringly
determined to capture one of them, and started for the one
nearest. This was 'Phil,' who was the master spirit of the frolic,
and as 'Tushy' approached with almost the certainty of capturing
him, he would glide gracefully aside and let him pass on. He had
almost caught up with a group of the smaller boys who were going
at full speed, when 'Phil' shouted out the word 'Bully.' In an
instant the contents of handkerchiefs and caps was deposited on
the glaring ice, the boys continuing their flying course. 'Tushy,'
elated with the prospect of capturing at least one of the urchins,
increased his speed with lunger strides, and was in the act of
grasping one, when the sparks from his steel runners, the sudden
arrest of his feet and the onward movement of his body, convinced
him that _he_ was caught. The impetus he had acquired with the few
last strokes on the smooth ice, and the sudden check his feet had
received from the sand, sent him sliding headlong many yards
towards an air-hole,--one of those dangerous places on ponds
suddenly frozen,--and soon the ice began to crack around him. The
water in the pond was not deep, but the ice continued to break
with his efforts to extricate himself. He found that the boys had
successfully entrapped him, and it was not until he had made a
promise not again to interfere with their sport that they
consented to assist him out. He kept his promise, and the boys
ever after, when they designed any extra sport on the ice, had his
nick-name for a by-word.

JAY G. BEE.

* * * * *

'Salt,' according to MORESINUS, 'is sacred to the infernal deities,'--for which reason, we presume, those who were seated 'below the salt' at the banquets of the Middle Ages were always 'poor devils.' Attic salt is always held to be more pungent when there is a touch of the diabolical and caustic in it,--and therefore caustic itself is known as _lapis infernalis_. 'Poor Mr. N----,' said a country dame, of a recently deceased neighbor who was over-thrifty, 'he always saved his salt and lost his pork.' 'Yes,' replied a friend, 'and now the salt has lost its Saver.' The reader has doubtless heard of the lively young lady, named Sarah, whom her friends rechristened Sal Volatile. Apropos--a New Haven friend writes us that--

My chum, Dr. B., is not a little of a wag. At a social gathering,
shortly after he had received his diploma, the young ladies were
very anxious to put his knowledge of medicine to the test.
'Doctor,' queried one of the fair, 'what will cure a man who has
been hanged?' 'Salt is the best thing I know of,' replied the
tormented, with great solemnity.

* * * * *

According to a cotemporary--the Boston _Herald_--the best Christians may be known by the pavements before their houses being cleaned of ice and snow. This reminds us of a spiritual anecdote. A deceased friend having been summoned through a medium and asked where he had spent the first month after his decease, rapped out,--

'I-n--p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y.'

'Did you find it uncomfortable?'

'Not very. While I lived I always had my pavements cleared in winter, and all the ice and snow shoveled away was given back to me in orange-water ices, Roman punch, vanilla and pistachio creams, frozen fruits, cobblers, juleps, and smashes.'

Somebody has spoken in an Arctic voyage of the musical vibrations of the ice. There is certainly music in the article. 'Take care,' said a Boston girl to her companion, as they were navigating the treacherously slippery pavement of our city a few days since; 'it's See sharp or Be flat.'

* * * * *

Somebody once wrote a book on visiting-cards. There is a great variety of that article; an English ambassador once papered his entire suit of rooms with that with which a Chinese mandarin honored him. MICHAEL ANGELO left a straight line as a card, and was recognized by it. Our friend H---- once distributed blank pasteboards in Philadelphia, and everybody said, 'Why, H---- has been here!' Not long since, a lady dwelling in New York asked her seven-year-old GEORGY where he had been.

'Out visiting.'

'Did you leave your card?'

'No; I hadn't any, so I left a marble!'

GEORGY'S idea was that cards were playthings. And _cartes de visite_ are most assuredly the playthings for children of an older growth, most in vogue at the present day. Go where you will, the albums are examined, nay, some collectors have even one or two devoted solely to children, or officers, or literary men, or young ladies. The following anecdote records, however, as we believe, 'an entirely new style' of visiting-card:--

Madam X. was busy the other morning. Miss Fanny Z. 'just ran in to
see her' _en amie_, without visiting-cards.

The waiter carried her name to Madam X. Meanwhile Miss Fannie,
circulating through the parlors, saw that there was dust on the
lower shelf of an étagére, so she delicately traced the letters

_Smut_

thereon and therefore. Waiter enters, and regrets that Madam X. is
so very much engaged that she is invisible. Miss Fanny flies home.

In the evening she meets Madam X., who is 'perfectly enchanted' to
see her. 'Ah, Fanny, dear, I am charmed to see you; the waiter
forgot your name this morning, but I was delighted to see your
ingenuity. Would you believe it, the first thing I saw on entering
the parlor was your card on the étagére!'

* * * * *

The Naugatuck railroad, according to a friend of the CONTINENTAL,

Is in many places cut through a rugged country, and the rocks
thereabout have an ugly trick of rolling down upon the track when
they get tired of lying still. So the company employ sentinels
who traverse the dangerous territory before the morning train goes
through. One of these,--Pat K. by name,--while on his beat, met
Dennis, whose hand he had last shaken on the 'Green Isle.' After
mutual inquiries and congratulations, says Dennis, 'What are you
doin' these days, Pat?' 'Oh, I'm consarned in this railroad
company. I go up the road fur the likes o' four miles ivry mornin'
to see is there ony rocks on the thrack.' 'And if there is?' 'Why,
I stops the trains, sure.' 'Faith,' said Dennis, 'what the divil's
the good o' that--_wouldn't the rocks stop 'em?_'

* * * * *

The Hibernian idea of a meeting is, we should judge, peculiar, and not, as a rule, amicable. 'What are ye doing here, Pat?' inquired one of the Green Islanders who found a friend one morning in a lonely spot. 'Troth, Dinnis, and it's waiting to mate a gintleman here I'm doing.' 'Waiting for a frind is it?' replied Dennis; 'but where is yer shillaly thin?' This was indeed a misapprehension, and of the kind which, as a benevolent clergyman complained, who was actively engaged in home mission work, was one of the most constant sources of his frequent annoyances. 'Why,' he remarked, 'it was only the other morning that I heard of a poor girl who was dying near the Five Points, and went to administer to her such comfort as it might be in my power to render. I met an impudent miss leaving the room, who, when I inquired for the sufferer by name, replied, "It's no use; you're too late, old fellow,--she's give me her pocket-book and all her things."'

* * * * *

A friend has called our attention to the following extract from an advertisement in a New York evening paper, and requests an explanation:--

STRABISMUS, OR CROSS-EYE, IN ITS WORST STAGES, CURED IN ONE
MINUTE. READ!

NEWARK, August 14th, 1861.

Dear Doctor: I write to express my thanks for the great difference
you have made in my appearance by your operation on my eye. I have
had a _squint_, or _cross-eye_, since birth, and in less than one
minute, and with VERY LITTLE PAIN, you have made my eyes perfectly
straight and natural. Having consulted in Europe the greatest
_Aurists_, I, therefore, can testify that your system of restoring
the _hearing_ to the deaf is at once scientific, safe and sure;
and I confidently recommend all deaf to place themselves under
your care. W.T.

There's a nut to crack. Having had a cross-eye cured in one minute, Mr. T. can _therefore_ testify that the system by which he was enabled to see is just the thing to enable the deaf to hear! But an instant's reflection convinced us of the true state of the case. There is an old German song which translated saith:

'I am the Doctor Iron-beer,
The one who makes the blind to hear,
The man who makes the deaf to see:--
Come with your invalids to me.'

We evidently have a Doctor Iron-beer among us. 'He still lives,' and enables people to outdo the clairvoyants, who read with their fingers, by qualifying his patients to peruse the papers with their auricular organs.

* * * * *

Walter will receive our thanks for the following æsthetic communication:--

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

Do you know the superb picture of Judith and Holofernes, by
ALLORI? Of course. But the legend?

The painter ALLORI was blessed and cursed with a mistress, one of
the most beautiful women in an age of beauty. He loved her, and
she tormented him, until, to set forth his sufferings, he painted
_la belle dame sans mercy_ as Judith, holding his own decapitated
head by the hair.

'She was more than a match for her lover,' said a young lady,
who--between us--I think is more beautiful than the 'Judith.'

'Yes,' was the answer; 'the engraving proves that she got a-head
of him.'

Of course it was Holofernally bad. I once heard a better one on
the same subject, of scriptural be-head-edness. Where is a centaur
first mentioned? John's head on a charger. The postage stamp on
your lawyer's bill--mine especially--represents the same thing,
with the substitution of General Washington for John. Rarey tamed
Cruiser--I wonder if he could do anything by way of 'taking down'
this legal 'charger' of mine.

Yours truly,
WALTER

* * * * *

Much has been written on oysters. There was a time when England sent nothing else abroad. 'The poor Britons--they are good for something,' says SALLUST, in 'The Last Days of Pompeii;' 'they produce an oyster.' In these days, they export no oysters, but in lieu thereof give us plenty of pepper-sauce. But to the point,--we mean to the poem,--for which we are indebted to a Philadelphia contributor:--

OYSTERS!

He stood beside the oysters. Near him lay
A dozen raw upon the half-shell: he
With fork stood ready to engulf them all,
When to his side a reverend gray-beard came.
Pointing his index finger to the Natives,
Slowly he spoke, with measured voice and low:--
'They are the same, THE SAME! I've eaten them
In London, small and coppery; at Ostend,
A little better; and in the Condotti,
Yea, in the Lepré--'tis an eating-house
Frequented by the many-languaged artists
Of great imperial Rome. At Baiæ: also
I've tasted that nice kind described by MARTIAL,
Who calls them ears of Venus;--there I've had 'em.
Also at Memphis--now I'm coming to it:
I've seen amid the desert sands of Egypt,
Exposed among the hieroglyphs, these Natives.
(The hieroglyphs, you know, are outward forms
Of things or creatures which unfold strange myths,
Read by the common eye in vulgar way,
But to the learned are types of truths gigantic.)
Thus unto you those oysters are but bivalves;
But unto me they're--P'raps you'll stand a dozen?'
'Well, I will, old hoss; it seems to me you need 'em!'
'Good! Then to me they are as hieroglyphs
Of our poor human state; as PLATO says,
"The soul of man, a substance different from
The body as the oyster from the shell,
Does stick to it, and is imprisoned in it.
Its weight of shell doth keep it down and force it
To stay upon its muddy bottom. So does
Man's body hold his soul in these dark regions,
Keeping it ever steadily from rising
To those superior heights where are abodes
More fitting its serene and noble nature."
Good as a quarter-dollar lecture. Boy! fork over.'
'Another "doz." to this old gentleman;
For I perceive he plainly hath it in him
To swallow down two dozen oysters' souls.
See what it is to be a philosopher!'

This is indeed finding sermons in 'shells.'

* * * * *

'Punning is a power,' according to somebody, and, like most power, is sadly abused. Take, for illustration, the following specimen of the 'narrative pun:'

The reader knows that BYRON once punned on the word Bullet-in, and
was proud of it; distinctly proud, be it remembered. After which
comes the following:--

Some years ago it was summer time, and in the office of the
Philadelphia _Evening Bulletin_, one, as the French say, was
preparing the daily paper. Along Third Street streamed Shinners,
Bulls, Bears, and Newsboys,--in the sanctum, Editors wrote and
clipped,--proof rose up and down in the dumb waiter,--there was
the shrill scream of the whistle calling to the foreman far on
high,--

Suddenly there was a tremendous run in the front office.

A maddened cow,--an infuriate, delirious, over-driven
animal,--breaking loose from the cow-herdly creature who had her
in charge,--careered wildly past the _Ledger_ building.

One would have thought that the straw paper on which that sheet
was then printed might have tempted her to repose.

It didn't.

Past FORNEY'S paper:--he was proprietor of the _Pennsylvanian_ in
those days. Those days!--when he was Warwick, the king-maker, and
carried Pennsylvania for Old Buck. Bitter were the changes in
aftertimes, and bitterly did Forney give fits where he had before
bestowed benefits. On went the cow.

Right smack into the office of the evening paper, then engineered
by ALEXANDER CUMMINGS, now held by GIBSON PEACOCK.

Rush! went the cow. Right into the next door--turn to the left,
oh, infuriate--charge into the newsboys! By Santa Maria, little
DUCKEY is down--ha! Saint Joseph! the beast gains the front
office--she faceth streetwards--she jaculates herself
outwards--she is gone.

By the door stood a Philadelphia punster.

The cow switched him with her tail; he heeded it not. His soul
felt the morning gleam of a revelation,--the flash of a Boehmic
Aurora,--

Far, far above the world, oh dreamer!--in the pure land of
Pun-light, where the silent Calembergs rise in the sunset sea.

And he spake,--

'_I see you have_ A COW LET OUT _there, and a_ BULL LET IN HERE!'

This is going through a great deal to get at a pun, says some
over-heated and perspiring disciple.

Well--and why not?

Have you never heard of the clergyman who preached an entire
sermon on the slave-trade, and gave a detailed account of its
head-quarters, the kingdom of Abomi?

And why?

Merely that he might ring it into them bitterly, fiercely, with
this conclusion:

'My hearers, let us pray that this Abomi-Nation may be rooted out
from the face of the earth.'

That was so. _Consummatum est_.

No wonder we hear so much of the sufferings and sorrows of the Third Estate--which is the editorial.

* * * * *

'Wine is _sometimes_ wine, but not very often in these days:' what it very often is not when labelled 'Heidsick' and 'Rheims.' 'But then the _cork_ proves it, you know,'--for, by a strange superstition, it is assumed that when the cork is correct the wine is not less so; a theory which is exploded by a revelation in the following by no means Bacchanalian lyric:--

BOGUS CHAMPAGNE.

Fill up your glass with turnip-juice,
And let us swindled be;
Except in England's cloudy clime
Such trash you may not see.
With marble-dust and vitriol,
'Twill sparkle bright and foam,--
Who will not pledge me in a cup
Of champagne--made at home?

We do not heed the label fair
That's stuck upon the glass;
It's counterfeit,--an ugly cheat,
That takes in many an ass.
The cork is branded right, and we
Know that it once corked wine;
They give the hotel-waiters tin
To save the genuine!

Think of this when you next 'wish you had given the price of that last bottle of champagne to the Tract Society,' as _Cecil Dreeme_ hath it.

* * * * *

One of the best repartees on record is that of WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, who, having been reproached with inconsistency for having taken from his journal the old motto, 'The Constitution is a league with Death and a covenant with Hell,' replied that 'when he hoisted that motto, he had no idea _that either death or hell intended to secede_. Circumstances alter cases, and definitions modify both. Slavery, it now appears, is death, as every political economist claims, while the South is--the other place.

* * * * *

The following is from one who was not 'well off for soap:'--

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

It was my fortune, some time ago, while traveling through the New
England States, to lose my trunk, on my way to a very thriving
manufacturing village. Arrived at the principal hotel a few
minutes before the dinner hour, I was shown up to my room, every
article of furniture in which sparkled with newness,--its carpet
shining like fireworks, curtains painfully stiff, and the air
redolent of novelty.

One article of furniture, which I took to be a cottage piano or
melodeon, turned out, on raising the lid, to be a wash-stand,
amply munitioned with water, towels, and a new piece of soap.
Having noticed that the article had never been used, and my own
being lost with my trunk, I determined to put it to its legitimate
destination.

I commenced rubbing it between my hands, immersing it in water,
passing it quickly from one hand to the other, and using all other
persuasive attempts to solve it into lather. Useless; it was
_un-lather-able_, and hearing the gong sound for dinner, I gave it
up as a hopeless job.

After dinner, in conversation with the landlord, he asked me how I
liked my room. I told him that it pleased me very well, and that I
had but one fault to find,--that was, that the soap in the
wash-stand was the hardest I had ever seen, and I believed it was
made of iron.

'Well,' said he, with a diabolical smile, 'it _is_ hard soap, and
it ort to be--it's iron-y--for it's Cast-Steel!'

* * * * *

The annexed may be read with profit by the charitable:--

H---- has never yet been known to give one cent in charity. A
Christian called on him, the other day, and begged him to give
something to a soup society.

'Ah-h-h!' said H., 'war times, now. Can't give anything.'

'The soup society is very poor, and would be thankful for the
_smallest sum_.'

'Would it?' said H., cheerfully. 'Why, then, twice one are two.
Good-morning.'

This, we presume, may be called figuring as a benefactor.

* * * * *

Our Arabic-studying friend has supplied us with a fresh batch of oriental proverbs:--

'A monkey solicited hospitality from devils. "Young gentleman,"
they replied, "the house is quite empty of provisions."'

'Eat whatever thou likest, but dress as others do.'

'Like a needle, that clothes people, and is itself naked.'

'He who makes chaff of himself the cows will eat.'

'Give me wool to-day, and take sheep to-morrow.'

'He is high-minded but empty-bellied.'

'Easier to be broken than the house of a spider.'

'He descends like the foot of a crow, and ascends (like) the hoof
of a camel.'

But all yield in grim drollery to the last given:--

'There are no fans in hell.'

Which, as our friend declares, 'sounds as Western as Eastern.' Verily, extremes meet.

* * * * *

Many of our exchanges have spoken of the series entitled 'Among the Pines,' now publishing in this Magazine, as being written by FREDERICK LAW OLMSTED. In justice to Mr. OLMSTED we would state that he is not the author of the articles in question, and regret that the unauthorized statement should have obtained such general credence.

A statement has also appeared in many journals declaring that the literary matter of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY is the same with that published in the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine. We need not say that it is _entirely false_, as any reader may ascertain for himself who will take the pains to compare the two publications. Not one line has ever appeared in common in the Magazines. The _Knickerbocker_ is printed and PUBLISHED in New York, at No. 532 Broadway, the CONTINENTAL in Boston, at No. 110 Tremont Street.

* * * * *

The editor of the CONTINENTAL begs leave to repeat that as the principal object of the Magazine is to draw forth such views as may be practically useful in the present crisis, its pages will always be open to contributions even of a widely varying character, the only condition being that they shall be written by friends of the Union. And we call special attention to the fact that while holding firmly to our own views, as set forth under the Editorial heading, we by no means profess to endorse those of our contributors, but shall leave the reader to make his own comments on these.

* * * * *

Readers will confer a favor by forwarding to us any pamphlets, secession or Union, on the war, which they may be disposed to spare.

THE KNICKERBOCKER

FOR 1862.

In the beginning of the last year, when its present proprietors assumed control of the Knickerbocker, they announced their determination to spare no pains to place it in its true position as the leading _literary_ Monthly in America. When rebellion had raised a successful front, and its armies threatened the very existence of the Republic, it was impossible to permit a magazine, which in its circulation reached the best intellects in the land, to remain insensible or indifferent to the dangers which threatened the Union. The proprietors accordingly gave notice, that it would present in its pages, forcible expositions with regard to the great question of the times,--_how to preserve the_ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _in their integrity and unity_. How far this pledge has been redeemed the public must judge. It would, however, be mere affectation to ignore the seal approbation which has been placed on these efforts. The proprietors gratefully acknowledge this, and it has led them to embark in a fresh undertaking, as already announced,--the publication of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, devoted to Literature and National Policy; in which magazine, those who have sympathized with the political opinions recently set forth in the KNICKERBOCKER, will find the same views more fully enforced and maintained by the ablest and most energetic minds in America.

The KNICKERBOCKER, while it will continue firmly pledged to the cause of the Union, will henceforth be more earnestly devoted to literature, and will leave no effort untried to attain the highest excellence in those departments of letters which it has adopted as specialties.

The January number commences its thirtieth year. With such antecedents as it possesses, it seems unnecessary to make any especial pledges as to its future, but it may not be amiss to say that it will be the aim of its conductors to make it more and more deserving of the liberal support it has hitherto received. The same eminent writers who have contributed to it during the past year will continue to enrich its pages, and in addition, contributions will appear from others of the highest reputation, as well as from many rising authors. While it will, as heretofore, cultivate the genial and humorous, it will also pay assiduous attention to the higher departments of art and letters, and give fresh and spirited articles on such biographical, historical, scientific, and general subjects as are of especial interest to the public.