Chapter VII (4)

'Of course, the carriages were harnessed up at once, and Mr.
Sanders proceeded to bring the Provisional Government to Mr.
Polk's house.

'How shall we describe this part? Hon. George W. Johnson, as much
a Clay man as the sacred soil of Tennessee could afford, but still
preserving his light and active step; McKee, late of the
_Courier_, following; Walter N. Haldeman, with all his industry
and perseverance, trying to keep up with his associate; and Willis
B. Machen, vigorous, active, slightly sullen, but in earnest, with
every boot he drew out of the snowy, muddy soil giving a groan of
fatigue. Imagine them safely ensconced at Mr. Polk's, on their
road South.

''Mr. Sanders,' said the Governor with dignified suavity, after
the walnuts and wine, 'claimed to be an acquaintance of yours, and
we were very glad to send him forward.'

'The Honorable Governor maintained throughout that easy, self
possessed manner which characterizes the gentleman.

'The emissary--for he ought to be so known--shortly after
suggested to the Provisional Government that he was 'broke,' and
wished to represent the Seventh Congressional District of
Kentucky, that is, the Louisville District: 'For,' said he, in his
persuasive, confidential tones, 'that is the only way I know of
for a man without money to get to Richmond.'

'A session was at once held of the State Council, and it is our
pleasure to record that Mr. Sanders is now authorized by the
Provisional Government to proceed to Richmond and represent our
interest in the Rebel Congress, vice H.W. Bruce, removed or
resigned.

'Mr. Polk at this time addressed the new Congressman, saying that
he had a particular favor to ask.

''Bill,' said George to his host, speaking out of a full heart and
a full chest: 'Bill, you are a boy after my own heart; whatever
request you make I grant.'

''It is only a trifle,' said Mr. Polk, 'which you can easily
grant, and which will please you.'

''It is granted,' interrupted the grateful Sanders.

''I may be arrested,' continued Mr. Polk, 'within a few minutes,
for disagreeing with some measures which Governor Harris has urged
upon the people.'

''Never mind that,' said the impetuous Sanders; 'I'll stand by
you.'

''All I want,' continued Mr. Polk, 'is for you to return to
Nashville as a hostage for my wife and family.'

''Bill Polk,' said George gravely, but firmly, 'you are a man I
love; I love you, and I love your wife and family; but if ever I
go back to Nashville, may I be d----d!'

'Of course, there was no reply to this, and the redoubtable George
and the Provisional Government soon went on their way rejoicing.

'We do not pretend to give this in the language or manner of Mr.
Polk, which is said to be inimitable; neither do we claim him as a
'Union man.' He has remained quietly at home, and taken no part in
the contest; but we are indebted to him, or to some one who has
reported it as coming from him, for a genial and laughable account
of the exit of what once promised to be very injurious to our
State, and still more for his characterization of that wise,
pushing, incomprehensible character, George N. Sanders, Member of
Congress from the Seventh District of Kentucky to Richmond.'

We have long wondered what became of Sanders, the illustrious author of that excellent term, 'the Tobacco States,' which so exactly defines the Southern border. The last time we saw him was while talking with Arctic Dr. Hayes, a few days before his departure for the Unknown Sea. Just then Sanders went by arrayed in all the glory of a perfectly new _pareil partout_ suit of spring clothes. Days passed by, and we heard of him as frantically endeavoring to galvanize the C.S.A. at Montgomery, Alabama, into faith in his exceeding Southern proclivities. It was up-hill work, as we were told--almost as hard as several other small renegade literati and politicians found it, when they, too, went over into Dixie about a year ago. In vain did George N. Sanders utter the largest size secession words--no office rewarded him, no foreign mission fell into the fat fingers of the deserter. The change from the comfortable quarters of the New-York Hotel to hurried war-marches and wild retreats must have been indeed trying; only that so many politicians have of late fared quite as badly, that pity would seem wasted. Meanwhile we would suggest, as a good question for youthful democratic debating-societies: 'When we catch the enemy, what shall be done with George N. Sanders?'

* * * * *

Notwithstanding our war--to say nothing of our want--we have had the OPERA this winter; had it in great variety and perfection, and, as many a reader can testify, with by no means thin houses. Grau has been busy--the most courteous and indefatigable polyglot and active of impresarios, with the good-natured Gosche, heralding a troupe of all the stars, D'Angri, Hinckley, Kellogg, Brignoli, Susini, and all the rest, including divers new singing birds. Maretzek has led, and we have had a range from Mozart to Verdi, which was, on the whole, well-chosen. We have had Brignoli singing, if possible, better, and acting, if possible, worse than usual--a nightingale imprisoned in a pump; Mme. D'Angri, with her _embonpoint_ voice, pouring forth like an inexhaustible fountain of Maraschino; Miss Hinckley, pleasant and pretty as ever, steadily singing her way star-ward; and Susini, who combines German strength with Italian fire--a true _Tedesco Italiana-zato_. Something, too, we would say of Mancusi, whose clear and rapid execution, in _Figaro_, and whose real Spanish _majo_ rollicking style of acting were quite spirited enough, even for that very spirited part. Formes was indeed under the impression that he himself was the _Figaro Figarorum_, the incarnate half-Spanish ideal of that wonderful barbaresque conception; but then, the Formes _Figaro_ was 'developed from the depths of his subjective moral consciousness,' whereas the _Figaro_ of a Southern European is _the thing itself_--like Charles Mathews playing the part of Charles Mathews, or like the Greek comedian's imitation of a pig's voice, by pinching a veritable pork-let, which he bore concealed within his mantle.

Perhaps no character is so little appreciated by Anglo-Saxon audiences as this of _Figaro_. To them he is little more than a buffoon. To Southern Europe, he is the bold, prompt, shrewd, popular ideal, suiting himself by craft to every superior, regarding all things with a shoulder-shrugging, quizzical philosophy; a democratic Mephistopheles; a lurking devil, equalizing himself, and the people with him, by wit and insolence, with nobility itself. Among the Latin races, as in the East, such Figaros often rise, like Oliver le Daim, to power, and the people understand it.

Fast-Day, in Boston, was operatically fêted with 'the light and melodious _Martha_,' by that arch-thief of melodies, Flotow. Would not--considering the day in question--_I Puritani_ have been more appropriate for 'a day of fasting and prayer'? It has already been discovered (by the sagacious Ullman, we believe) that the _Huguenots_ was appropriate to sacred concerts. A friend suggests that _Masaniello_ for high mass, and _Don Giovanni_ for St. John's day would be a great advance in these dramatic unities.

* * * * *

We are indebted to a new contributor for the following sketch:

We are all familiar with Hayden's dinner-party, and the
Comptroller of Stamps, and Charles Lamb's 'Diddle diddle
dumpling,' and 'Allow me to look at the gentleman's phrenological
development.' I am always reminded by it of a circumstance which
occurred between the Rocky and Alleghany mountains. A certain
witty professor of a certain Western college, had been invited to
deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Society of Athens--not the
capital of Greece, nor the Athens of America, but a sort of
no-town, without even the advantages of an established groggery,
or mutual admiration society. The poet, not having attained that
celebrity which is incompatible with keeping one's word with small
towns, small lyceums, and small profits, and the roads not being
stopped up, in short, 'Providence permitting, and nothing
happening to prevent,' the poet made his appearance at the proper
hour, like any ordinary mortal, and acquitted himself with such
rhythmical eloquence, such keen, silvery humor, as brought the
house down, and himself _vice versa_.

The audience having dispersed in a state like the afflatus of
laughing-gas, the poet and a privileged clique proceeded to the
house of the Baptist elder, to prolong the night with metaphysical
wassail. From the froth of poetry, they rose to a contemplation of
the old classics; Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Virgil, rising
grandly from their dust, ensphered in vibratory eloquence.

The elder, whose, education had been accomplished simply by a New
Testament and three-inch rope, sat, or rather twisted through the
rhapsody, as a dunce twists through his Greek roots, and at the
first pause, drawing himself erect with the self-complacent air of
a man who applies the clincher, ejaculated, with the Western
twang: 'What do you think of Hi-awa_thy_?' The professor, giving
him one look, to be sure of his sanity, and a second to be sure of
his obtusity, answered gravely, above a convulsion of laughter:
'Hi-awathy was a genius!'

Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy
composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being
the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has
immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style,
on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my
Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _élite_ of
the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the
Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in
possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to
her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he
seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by
a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense
crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream
ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription
beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her
Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he
should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now
zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are
respectfully invited to observe.

The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic
eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a
burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this
glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American
Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the
shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his
tail?'

One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an
appreciative public.

The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin
hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of
the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet
lost their _freshness_.'

Exit Athens and fresh salt.

* * * * *

YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE.

A veray parfit gentil knight,
Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
One day yridden forth;
But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
He went on errants of his trade,
To fight or filch ye North.

He was a wight of grisly fronte,
And muckle berd ther was upon 't,
His lockes farre down did laye:
Ful wel he setten on his hors,
Thatte fony felaws calléd Mors,
For len it was and grai.

Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on,
His busynes were then undone,
All time was for attack;
More than, he hadde ne mail, either,
But arméd with a revolvér,
He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.

He sayde his was a mightie hond,
Ne better in ye Southron lond
To yearn anly battail:
Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
And put his foe alway to rout,
Withouten ony fail.

Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'
Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!'
The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'

Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
Ye glasse of chivalrie;
But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
As well as mote his sorry hors,
Farre to the North countrée.

And thus in darkesse all yclad,
He hied him, gif he weren mad,
O'er feld and eke through thicket;
When 'Stop, by God!' some one began,
'You'er mine--'or any other man!''
Jesu! a Yankee picket!

'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle!
Why in the devil don't one dirk all?
Where now's your chivalrie?'
'Goode sir,' quod he, 'twas ne for fight
I hied me out ilk murkie night,
It was for poulterie!'

'Wal, damn your 'poulterie'--and you!
Such deed no generous knight would do!
So I mote thee deter!
I'll show thee, though, the _coop_, sir knight,
Where _chickens_ such as thee are blight--
You are my prisoner!'

Mony maydens weren grieved--
Cleopatras, slouchy-sleeved--
Darksome maydes of work all;
And mony felaws of much might
Ydrink the hades of ye Knight
Of ye grete Golden Cyrcle.

We much fear that it may be said of the chief cavalier of the Golden Circle, what the old German _lanzknecht_, in Rabelais, said of the Gascon adventurer: 'The knight pretends that he wants to fight, but is much more inclined to steal; therefore, good people, look out for your property.'

* * * * *

The following story, it is averred, can be vouched for, to any reasonable extent, by a large crowd of witnesses.

DEAR CONTINENTAL: Possibly you would not give 'a Continental dime'
for that which I am about to pen. Possibly, too, you may damn it
into the waste-basket. I have often _heard_ of a 'Continental
damn'--it never occurred to me before what the article really was.
Dante has, I know, provided a corner for those who were
_in_-continentally condemned; but it was reserved for you to
abridge the word, and so _make a vice of a virtue_!

I once lived in a village: to that village came an itinerant
dramatic company; and that company advertised to play a grand
moral temperance drama, entitled _Down the Hill_.

The principal actor called himself Eglantine Mowbray. I believe
that the latter syllable of the last name was the only portion
thereof to which he was really entitled. He _did_ bray.

The bills appeared, with the following heading:

UNPARALLELED ATTRACTION.

On Monday Evening,

THE YOUTHFUL ROSCUSS!

EGLANTINE MOWBRAY!!

Will appear in his great rôle,

DOWN THE HILL.

Our simple villagers _had_ seen circuses; but youthful Roscusses
were entirely beyond their experience. Quite as unfamiliar was the
word _rôle_, which, to their badly-lettered fancy, stood for
movement, by 'turning on the surface, or with a circular motion,
in which all parts of the surface are successively applied to a
plane, 'as to roll a barrel or puncheon.' [You use Webster?]

So, when the 'show' opened, there was a large attendance, and in
that vast multitude of two hundred and thirty men, women, and
children, there was not one who did not anticipate an acrobatic
performance.

The play pleased them, however. Temperance was rife among us in
those days; it was 'in our midst,' as people ought _not_ to say,
and the drunken disgraces of John the Inebriate were appreciated.
Still, there was an evident feeling of unsatisfied anticipation,
which grew with every act, and in all the house there was not a
soul who did not murmur to his or her neighbor, 'I wonder when
he's goin' to roll down-hill.'

The play terminated. The Inebriate died, under a strong pressure
of delirium tremens, groaning and braying loud enough to scare
away the fiends which gathered around. But, to the amazement of
all parties upon the stage and behind the scenes, the fall of the
curtain was accompanied by a thunder-roar of disgust, and the
rain-like sound of numerous hisses.

The audience voted the play a humbug. The village was disgusted.
Eglantine Mowbray stock went down to nothing.

But the manager was a shrewd fellow. He found out what was
wanting, and resolved to remedy it. So, the next morning's posters
announced that on that evening Mr. Eglantine Mowbray would
perform, at the conclusion, his terrific and unparalleled feat of
_rolling_ down the hill!

And he did. At the last moment, the Inebriate appeared, bottle in
hand, agonizing and howling on the summit of a high rock, from
which a slope, at an angle of forty-five degrees, went down to a
mysterious craggy pit, thickly grown around with briers and
shrubs, all bearing spiky thorns of the most fish-hooky and
ten-penny nail description imaginable. The _flat_ or back-scene,
suddenly lighted up from behind, presented, as a transparency,
that terrible collection of devils which you may have witnessed in
a popular engraving entitled, 'Delirium Tremens.' The Inebriate,
taking one parting drink, staggered--fell--rolled over and over
_down the hill_ into the abyss, from which flames burst forth,
red, green, and blue, and the audience were wild with delight.
Three times was Eglantine Mowbray compelled, by the rapturous
encores, to roll down that hill into the fiery pit. No wonder
that, at the last trial, there rose from the abyss a wild cry of
'I'll be _blessed_ if I do it again.'

MORAL.--When in country villages, don't talk about rôle-ing,
unless you mean to do it!

* * * * *

Since the _gilet de matin_ has superseded the _robe de châmbre_, or dressing-gown, it is marvelous to see with what wrath the fast men, club-men, and other highly civilized forms of humanity, pursue the ancient garment. One of the most vigorous assaults on the gabardine in question, comes to us as

A FLING AT DRESSING-GOWNS.

My name is Albert Fling. I am an active, business, married man,
that is, wedded to Mrs. Fling, and married to business. I had the
misfortune, some time since, to break a leg; and before it was
mended Madame Fling, hoping to soothe my hours of convalescence,
caused to be made for me a dressing-gown, which, on due
reflection, I believe was modeled after the latest style of
strait-jacket. This belief is confirmed by the fact that when I
put it on, I am at once confined to the house, 'get mad,' and am
soberly convinced that if any of my friends were to see me
walking in the street, clad in this apparel, they would instantly
entertain ideas of my insanity.

In the hours of torture endured while wearing it, I have appealed
to my dear wife to truly tell me where she first conceived the
thought that there was a grain of comfort to be found in bearing
it on my back? She has candidly answered that she first read about
it in divers English novels and sundry American novels, the latter
invariably a rehash of the first. In both of these varieties of
the same species of books, the hero is represented as being very
comfortable the instant he dons this garment, puts his feet in
slippers, picks up a paper and--goes to sleep.

A friend of mine who has discovered that Shakspeare knew all about
steam-engines, electric telegraphs, cotton-gins, the present
rebellion, and gas-lights, assures me that dressing-gowns are
distinctly alluded to in _The Tempest_:

'TRINCULO: O King Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for
thee!

CALIBAN: Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

Having thus proved its age, let us next prove that it is in its
dotage, and is as much out of place in this nineteenth century as
a monkey in a bed of tulips.

We find in the Egyptian temples paintings of priests dressed in
these gowns: proof that they are antiquely heathenish. And as we
always associate a man who wears one with Mr. Mantilini, this
proves that they are foolish. _Ergo_, as they are old and foolish,
they are in their dotage.

I have three several times, while wearing this gown, been mistaken
for Madame Fling by people coming to the house. The first time I
was shaving in my chamber: in bounced Miss X----, who believed, as
it was rather late, that I had gone down-town. She threw up her
hands, exclaiming:

'Good gracious, Fanny! do you shave?'

N.B.--Fanny is my wife's first name.

The second time I had brought the woodsaw and horse up from the
cellar, and was exercising myself sawing up my winter's wood, in
the summer-kitchen, according to Doctor Howl's advice, when the
Irishman from the grocery entered, bearing a bundle. My back was
to him, and only seeing the gay and flowery gown, he exclaimed, in
an awfully audible whisper to the cook:

'Shure yer mistriss has the power in her arms, jist!'

Think of my wife, my gentle Fanny, having it shouted around the
neighborhood that her brute of a husband made her saw all their
winter's wood--yes! and split it, and pile it too, and make all
the fires, and so on and cetera, and oh! I _am_ glad my husband
isn't such a monster!'

I turned on the Irishman, and when he saw my whiskers, he quailed!

The third time, I was blacking my boots, according to Dr. Howl's
advice, 'expands the deltoid muscles, is of benefit to the
metacarpis, stretches the larynx, opens the oilsophagers, and
facilitates expectoration!' I had chosen what Fanny calls her
conservatory for my field of operation--the conservatory has two
dried fish-geraniums, and a dead dog-rose, in it, besides a
bad-smelling cat-nip bush; when, who should come running in but
the identical Miss X---- who caught me shaving.

'Poor Fanny,' said she, before I could turn round; 'do you have to
black the boots of that odious brute?'

'Miss X----,' said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my
dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm
and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike
a position and awe at the same time; 'Miss X----, I am that odious
brute himself!'

If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!

My wife went to the sea-shore last summer. I kept the house open,
and staid in town; cause, business. When she returned, Miss X----,
who lives opposite, called to see her. In less than five minutes,
my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate,
afflicted, etcet. woman.

'How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?' she ejaculated,
flooding every word as it came out with tears.

'Do what?'

'Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!'

Miss X---- here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a
small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to
say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)

Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me. Miss X----, through
the Venetian blinds, had seen a--_gown_ in my room, late at night.

'It is too true,' said I, 'too, too true.'

'Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart. I c-could tear the
d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!'

'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace.
You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I
am tired of the blasted thing.'

I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There,
against the wall.'

'It is--'said she.

'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on
my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the
back to the neck.

'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.'

'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as
this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell
it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd.
_Vamos_!'

The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening to decay!

* * * * *

He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_ lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the following characteristic of

YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE.

The Boston belle is a reader, and knoweth what hath lately
appearyd in ye worlde of bookes as welle as in that of bonetts.
Shee whispereth of Signore Brignoli and of Hinkley, and of ye
Philharmonic, or of Zerrahn his concertes, and eftsoones of
aeriall pleasures att parties and concertes, and anon flitteth to
Robertus Browning his poetrie, or to Emerson hys laste discourse
att ye Musicke Halle. Whan so be itt that twentie of ye sisterhode
be gatheren together, lo! seven thereof wyll haue blonde tresses
and nineteen be of fayre ruddie complexion, whych a man wolde gife
hys lyfe to kisse--yea, and itt oftwhyles passeth that ye
twentieth also hath more whyte and rudd in hir sweete face thann
ye wolde see in other landes.

Ye Boston demoisselle weareth an waterproof guyascutus, [for so
methinketh I haue hearde them calld,] and whan that itt rayneth or
snoweth, shee rusheth forth as to a carnavall, and heedeth not yf
ye powderie snowe-flakes falle on hir daintie littyl nose, or pile
up like untoe a chancellor's wigg on hir hed. Arounde hir whyte
necke shee ever bindeth a scarlett scarfe, to shewe thatt she ys
an well-redd woman; and whan shee turneth homewardes, she aye
beareth in one hande a pamflet, whyle the other holdeth a bouquet
of flowres or a pacquette of sugirplummes or confitures. Whyles
that she is yett younge and reckeless, and gif shee bee faste, and
hathe naughte to beare homewards, lo! shee stiketh bothe tinie
fistes intoe hir small syde-pockets, and propelleth onward
mightilie independente, caring naught for nobodie. I haue herd
from dyvers graue and reuerend menn, who oughte to know, [sith
that ther wyves hadd tolde them,] that manie of these demoiselles
do wear verie longe bootes, but howe long they may bee I knowe
not.

Hee who walketh in Beacon streete on Sundaye, whan thatt the skies
be fayre, seeth, after church out-letting, manie of these sweete
maydens walking wyth ther cavalleros up and doune hille, talkyng
of manie thynges. For ye Boston demoiselle is a notable talker,
and doth itt welle, knowing manie thynges whereof ye firste is _de
omnibus rebus_, ye seconde _et quibusdam aliis_, and ye third
_alterum tantum_. He who complayneth thatt women know nothinge,
and haue noe witte, hathe nott mett ye Boston Yonge Lady; if that
he dothe, and telleth hir soe, he wyll probablie remember for
manie dayes what shee saide in answere. For shee holdeth _dixi et
solvavi animam meam_ to bee a goode rule, and thatt it is nott a
goode thinge to goe away with wrathe pente up in ye boosum.

She worketh harde for ye armie; yea, she knitteth stockyngs and
maketh shertes for ye contrabandes, whereof I haue scene one
whiche a contrabande with his wyfe and children didde all were at
once, so nobly greate was it. And shee belyveth in ye warre with
alle hir braue little hearte and soule, for shee is Uncle Samuel
hys oune daughter, if there ever was one, having greate loue for
ye Union, alwaies hoping firstly for ye Union politicall, and
secondlie for ye wedding union of hertes and ye union of handes,
whych is nedeful, that ye countrie shall not perishe for lacke of
sturdie urchins to growe upp into soldieres. And thatt theye aye
all thus become goode wives and brave mothers, and bee bleste and
happie in alle thynges, is ye heartes prayer of

CLERKE NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

The following extract from the Washington correspondence of the Philadelphia _Press_ is significant:

'As pertinent to these questions, let me ask if you have ever gone
back to the time when most of the Breckinridge papers in the free
States were in danger of being mobbed and torn out after the fall
of Fort Sumter?

'I will not ask why these demonstrations occurred, but I will ask
if you can point to any one of these journals that is not _now_
filled with strong denunciations of the Administration and its
friends, and timid reproaches of the rebels in arms? Are they not
all clamorous for the reörganization of the Democratic party? Are
they not all against any combination of patriotic men under the
name of a Union party? Their object is as plain as their early
treason was notorious, and the end of their victory will be the
recognition of the armed rebels, or their full forgiveness. The
armed rebels are watching their movements with eagerness and joy.'

That they are doing so, is amply evidenced by the recent 'democratic' and treasonable movements in Washington. In time of war, and especially of such a war as this, there can be, as Mr. Douglas said, 'but patriots and traitors.' Away with all parties--till the enemy are ours, the only parties should be those of the North and South.

* * * * *

The municipal authorities at Nashville met Governor Johnson's appeal, urging them to take the oath of allegiance, by a prompt refusal--falling back 'for reasons' on State rights. There should be, in these times, but one way of dealing with all such State rights gentlemen--arrest as traitors, and trial under military law. This is no day for dilly-dallying and quibbling about 'State rights.' There is only one right in such cases--the right of the Union, and fidelity to it. This rebuff is generally spoken of by the press as 'the Nashville Snag.' There be such things as snag-extractors, and we trust that our Government is free enough from red-tape do-nothingism and circumlocution, to make short work of these insolent rebels, whatever they be.

_Boston, April 1st._

DEAR EDITOR: I jot down the following as one of the most
melancholy results of this wicked and cruel war:

The Captain at our house believes in General Butler. The Lawyer
don't. Such is the state of parties at our table. As I said
before, the hand of brother is uplifted against brother, and
either may become a fratri-cider--as the fellow did when he
squeezed his brother to death in the press, among the apples.

The captain said, the other day, that Butler had a great deal of
dash.

'U--m!' growled the lawyer; 'one kind of dash he certainly has--to
perfection.'

'And what is that?'

'Balder-dash!' was the annihilating reply.

I report this for the special consideration of Governor Andrew.

Nor less illustrative of the terrible tendencies of civil war, is
the following:

'We have a whole navy of gun-boats at Island Number Ten,' said the
Colonel, reflectively.

'Yes,' was the unwary reply.

'Then how comes it that if the knave can take the Ten, a navy
can't?'

Yours in grief,

CONSTANT READER.

* * * * *

The Legislature of Kentucky has, probably, by this time, made it a criminal offence for any person to join the K.G.C. As soon as the lists shall have been published of all those Northern men who have belonged to the order, the traitors will find themselves in quite as enviable a situation as though 'escaped convict' were branded on their foreheads.

* * * * * From one now far away in the South--albeit not on the Southern side--we have an ornithological reminiscence which may be of interest to those who endeavor to solve the problem, whether animals ever rise to reasoning.

I have amused myself the past year raising a brood of chickens in
my little backyard. Being 'tenderly brought up,' they are, of
course, very tame, particularly a little brown pullet, that lays
an egg in the cellar every morning. A few days ago, as I was
leaving the house after breakfast, my wife cried out for me to
come into the kitchen. I did so, and found the little brown hen
standing quietly by the door at the head of the cellar-stairs,
evidently waiting for it to be opened. Going outside, I found the
servant had neglected to open the 'bulkhead' door, as usual, and
my wise little biddy had concluded to go down-cellar through the
kitchen. When I drove her out and opened the outer-door, she went
down and laid, as usual. She was never in the house before, to my
knowledge, and has not been since. This is a fact, and is only one
more instance added to many I could adduce, which go to show that
the 'dumb creatures' think and reason.

* * * * *

Poetry on bells is divisible into two kinds, the _tintinnabulistic_, which refers to little hand-tinklers, sleigh-bells, and the kind which oriental mothers were wont, of old, to sew to the hems of their daughters' garments, [that they might tell by the sound whether the young ladies were at mischief or no,] and the _campanologistic_, descriptive solely of large church ringers, Big Toms of Oxford, and the regular _vivos voco, fulgura frango_ giants, such as Mr. Meneely makes and sends all over the country, to factories, churches, dépôts, and steamboats. The sleigh-bell song, according to this classification, is tintinnabulistic; so, too, is the Russian _troika_,

'I kolokolchick dor voltaia,'

as is also the immortal line which speaks of

That tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.'

But Schiller's great ringing poem is superbly _campanologistic_; so is Southey's 'Inch Cope Bell,' and to this division belong all tollings, fire-alarms, and knells in verse whatever.

The following lyric is, however, far above either, as it ambitiously embraces the whole subject, and therefore, so far as comprehensiveness is concerned, must of course take precedence even of Tennyson's 'Ring Out!'

ABOUT BELLS.

I was sitting, one night, in my easy-chair,
When a bell's clear notes rung out on the air;
And a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
Came into my mind, about sundry bells:

About church-going bells, whose solemn chime
Calls, far and near, 'It's time! _it's time!_'
While the worshiper goes, with a faith that is strong,
For he knows he can trust their clear '_Ding-dong!_'

Of deified bells, like Bel of old,
With silver tongues and a ring of gold;
While the many who run at their silvery call,
Never reach the goal--d; but tire and fall!

Of modest bells, by the river's side,
As they meekly hang o'er the liquid tide;
But are tongueless all, and their changes few,
For they ever appear in a dress of blue.

Of modern Belles, which the world well knows,
Go all the ways that the fashion goes;
And ring their chimes through an endless range,
As they change their rattle, and rattle their '_change_.'

Of divers' bells, which are made to go,
With their living freight, to the depths below;
And are quiet quite, on their water ways,
Save hen they are trying to 'make a raise.'

Of door-bells, which our callers ring
By a kind of a sort of a wire of a string;
Answered oft, as wire-pullers ought to be--
'_Not at home!_' meaning, '_Not in order to see!_'

About John Bells, _one_ of whom, we know,
Politicians rung not long ago;
An unlucky Bell, and to-day a wreck,
But fit, even _now_, to be wrung--_by the neck!_

About Isabelles, so diverse in kind,
That the one you prefer isn't hard to find;
Yet hard 'tis to be in _this_ all agreed--
Isabelle by name _is_ a belle in-deed!

And thus, as I sat in my easy-chair,
While the bell's clear notes rung through the air,
Did a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
Come into my mind, about sundry bells.

* * * * *

'Is this 'dreadful bad'?' inquires a correspondent. Gentle writer, it is not dreadful, neither is it bad; and we appeal to the reader to decide. To our thought, it is as brave and wild a love-poem as we have seen for many a day:

TO THE KING.

A Health to the King--my king!
But not in the ruby wine,
Too pale for the name I sing;
Too weak for such love as mine!

How shall I pledge thee, my king?
What nectar shall fill the bowl?
Hope herself can not bring
A wine--like that in my soul!

Then take for a pledge, my king!
A life--it is wholly thine;
And quaff from the cup, O king!
A soul--not the ruby wine!

Happy the gentleman who is crowned king with the garland of song and consecrated with the wine of life and of love.

* * * * *

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY J.L. RAND.

The sentinel sounds the dread note that alarms,
Each man springs up from his sleep to arms!
There's an onward dash
And a sudden flash;
There's a sigh and a groan,
And the quick feet have flown--
A picket is dying alone.
For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And who can stop to reckon?

The newspaper tells what the President thought,
What Stanton did or Seward taught,
In columns long,
With capitals strong;
And the paper is filled
As the editor willed:
'SLIGHT SKIRMISH!--one man killed.'
But men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And who can stop to reckon?

A wife sits sad in her fireside chair,
And thinks of the husband so brave to dare,
And dreams once more
That the war is o'er;
While the South-birds trill
Near the picket-camp still,
And the picket lies dead on the hill.
For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And God stands by to reckon.

But the account is kept in eternity--there are none lost, no, not one--and the time will come when all shall be found and known who were brave in this world's battles.

* * * * *

We gladly find a corner for the following, by one known to us of old, as no indifferent poet:

EMANCIPATION.

All oupôs ama pánta Theoi dosan anthrôpoisin.--Iliad.

Lift up your faces to the golden dawn
That ushers in your year of Jubilee,
Ye who to unrequited toil have gone
In this great land, in this proud century.
The clock of time has beat its seconds slow,
But lo the hour of your release has come;
Ay, strikes, and thrills the world with every blow
That rings Oppression out, and Freedom home.

Not, not in vain, 'How long, O Lord: how long?'
Have ye inquired of Him who knew your needs;
For those who prospered by your ancient wrong,
Invoked the vengeance that upon their heads
Is raining ruin. Lo! the Lord is just:
Through the Red Sea of War ye, ye alone
Come up unharmed; while all the oppressor's host
In their mid-passage shall be overthrown.

* * * * *

For the benefit of those desiring to obtain the celebrated K.G.C. pamphlet, we may state that it is published by the National Union Club, communications for which may be addressed to Post-office Box No. 1079, Louisville, Ky.

* * * * *

Owing to our enlarged edition obliging us to send this number of the Magazine to press at an earlier date than usual, we are unable to give this month the commencement of Mr. Kimball's new novel, and the continuation of 'Among the Pines.' Both articles will appear in the next issue.

* * * * *

PROSPECTUS

OF THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

There are periods in the world's history marked by extraordinary and violent crises sudden as the breaking forth of a volcano, or the bursting of a storm on the ocean. These crises sweep away in a moment the landmarks of generations. They call out fresh talent, and give to the old a new direction. It is then that new ideas are born, new theories developed. Such periods demand fresh exponents, and new men for expounders.

This Continent has lately been convulsed by an upheaving so sudden and terrible that the relations of all men and all classes to each other are violently disturbed, and people look about for the elements with which to sway the storm direct the whirlwind. Just at present, we do not know, what all this is to bring forth; but we do know that great results MUST flow from such extraordinary commotions.

At a juncture so solemn and so important, there is a special need that the intellectual force of the country should be active and efficient. It is a time for great minds to speak their thoughts boldly, and to take position as the advance guard. To this end, there is a special want unsupplied, it is that of an Independent Magazine, which shall be open to the first intellects of the land, and which shall treat the issues presented, and to be presented to the country, in a tome no way tempered by partisanship, or influences be fear, favor or the hope of reward; which shall seize and grapple with the momentous subjects that the present disturbed state of affairs heave to the surface, and which CAN NOT be laid aside or neglected.

To meet this want, the undersigned has commenced, under the editorial charge of CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, the publication of a new Magazine, devoted to Literature and National Policy.

In POLITICS, it will advocate, with all the force at its command, measures best adapted to preserve the oneness and integrity of these Unites States. It will never yield to the idea of any disruption of this Republic peaceably or otherwise; and it will discuss with honesty and impartiality what must be done to save it. In this department, some of the most eminent statesmen of the time will contribute regularly to its pages.

In LITERATURE, it will be sustained by the best writers and ablest thinkers of this country.

Among its attractions will be presented, in the June Number, a NEW SERIAL of American Life, by RICHARD B. KIMBALL, Esq., the very popular author 'The Revelations of Wall-Street,' 'St. Leger,' etc. A series of papers by Hon. HORACE GREELEY, embodying the distinguished author's observations on the growth and development of the Great West. A series of articles by the author of 'Through the Cotton States,' containing the result of an extended tour in the seaboard Slave States, just prior to the breaking out of the war, and presenting a startling and truthful picture of the real condition of that region. No pains will be spared to render the literary attractions of the CONTINENTAL both brilliant and substantial. The lyrical or descriptive talents of the most eminent _literati_ have been promised to it; and nothing will be admitted which will not be distinguished by marked energy, originality, and solid strength. Avoiding every influence or association partaking of clique or coterie, it will be open to all contributions of real merit, even from writers differing materially in their views; the only limitation required being that of devotion to the Union, and the only standard of acceptance that of intrinsic excellence.

The EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT will embrace, in addition to vigorous and fearless comments on the events of the times, genial gossip with the reader on all current topics, and also devote abundant space to those racy specimens of American wit and humor, without which there can be no perfect exposition of our national character. Among those who will contribute regularly to this department may be mentioned the name of CHARLES F. BROWNE, ('Artemus Ward.') from whom we have promised an entirely new and original series of SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE.

The CONTINENTAL will he liberal and progressive, without yielding to chimeras and hopes beyond the grasp of the age; and it will endeavor to reflect the feelings and interests of the American people, and to illustrate both their serious and humorous peculiarities. In short, no pains will spared to make it the REPRESENTATIVE MAGAZINE of the time.

TERMS.--Three Dollars per year, in advance, (postage paid by the Publishers;) Two Copies for Five Dollars; Three Copies for Six Dollars, (postage unpaid;) Eleven Copies for Twenty Dollars, (postage unpaid.) Single numbers can be procured of any News-dealer in the United States. The KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE and the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY will be furnished for one year at FOUR DOLLARS.

Appreciating the importance of literature to the soldier on duty, the Publisher will send the CONTINENTAL _gratis_, to any regiment in active service, on application being made by its COLONEL or Chaplain; he will also receive subscriptions from those desiring to furnish it to soldiers in the ranks at half the regular price; but in such cases it must be mailed from the office of publication.

J.R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York,
and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

CHARLES T. EVANS, at G.P. PUTNAM'S, 532 Broadway, New-York,
is authorized to receive Subscriptions.

N.B.--Newspapers publishing this Prospectus, and giving CONTINENTAL monthly notices, will be entitled to an exchange.

* * * * *

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY

* * * * *

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY has passed its experimental ordeal, and stands firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period when any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine. Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation, for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has found favor in quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where opposition only was looked for. While holding firmly to its _own opinions_, it has opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERS _of widely different views_, and has made a feature of employing the literary labors of the younger race of American writers. How much has been gained by thus giving, practically, the fullest freedom to the expression of opinion, and by the infusion of fresh blood into literature, has been felt from month to month in its constantly increasing circulation.

The most eminent of our Statesmen have furnished THE CONTINENTAL many of its political articles, and the result is, it has not given labored essays fit only for a place in ponderous encyclopedias, but fresh, vigorous, and practical contributions on men and things as they exist.

It will be our effort to go on in the path we have entered, and as a guarantee of the future, we may point to the array of live and brilliant talent which has brought so many encomiums on our Magazine. The able political articles which have given it so much reputation will be continued in each issue, and in the next number will be commenced a New Serial by Richard B. Kimball, the eminent author of the 'Under-Currents of Wall-Street,' 'St. Leger,' etc., entitled,

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money.

A work which will excel the previous brilliant productions of this author.

The UNION--The Union of ALL THE STATES--that indicates our politics. To be content with no ground lower than the highest--that is the standard of our literary character.

We hope all who are friendly to the spread of our political views, and all who are favorable to the diffusion of a live, fresh, and energetic literature, will lend us their aid to increase our circulation. There is not one of our readers who may not influence one or two more, and there is in every town in the loyal States some active person whose time might be profitably employed in procuring subscribers to our work. To encourage such to act for us we offer the following very liberal

TERMS TO CLUBS.

Two copies for one year, Five dollars.
Three copies for one year, Six dollars.
Six copies for one year, Eleven dollars.
Eleven copies for one year, Twenty dollars.
Twenty copies for one year, Thirty-six dollars.

PAID IN ADVANCE.

_Postage, Thirty-six Cents a year_, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three Dollars a year, IN ADVANCE.--_Postage paid by the Publisher_.

J.R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York,
and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

CHARLES T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New-York, _GENERAL AGENT._

Number 6.--25 Cents.

The Continental Monthly

Devoted to Literature and National Policy.

JUNE, 1862.

NEW-YORK AND BOSTON:

J.R. GILMORE, 532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK,

AND 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON.

NEW-YORK: HENRY DEXTER AND ROSS & TOUSEY.

PHILADELPHIA: T.B. CALLENDER AND A. WINCH.

CONTENTS.--No. VI.

* * * * *

The Constitution and Slavery. Rev. C.E. Lord

A Story of Mexican Life

The Red, White, and Blue

Maccaroni and Canvas

En Evant

Desperation and Colonization. Charles G. Leland

The Education to be. Levi Reuben, M.D.

Travel-Pictures. Henry T. Lee

The Huguenots of Staten Island. Hon. G.P. Disosway

Recollections of Washington Irving. By one of his early Friends

New-England's Advance. Augusta C. Kimball

Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball

Monroe to Farragut. Charles G. Leland

Among the Pines. Edmund Kirke

Literary Notices

Editor's Table

* * * * *

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

This new serial, by the very popular author of "Undercurrents of Wall-Street," "St. Leger," etc., which is commenced in this number of THE CONTINENTAL, will greatly add to the reputation of Mr. Kimball as one of the most graphic delineators of American life and character now living. It will be continued throughout the year.

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF WASHINGTON IRVING,

By one of his early friends, will be found to embody many very interesting facts in regard to that eminent man, which have not before been made public.

AMONG THE PINES.

This serial, which is pronounced by the Press a perfect daguerreotype of Southern Life and Manners, is continued in this number, with increasing interest. It will be completed in the July or August issue of THE CONTINENTAL, when it will be followed by other contributions from the same writer.

* * * * *

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 New York.

* * * * *

JOHN A. GRAY, PRINTER

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: By the Seventh Census, (that of 1850,) it appears that 2,210,828 of our then population, were of foreign birth. We have not at hand the means of saying how that appears in the Census of 1860.]

[Footnote B: Some of the contrasts which the census shows are startling. While South-Carolina has, in seventy years, only about doubled her free population, New-York, in the same period, has increased hers nearly ten-fold. Ohio, in ten years less time, has increased hers fifty-two fold, Indiana, in the same period, increased hers two hundred and eighty fold! and Illinois, in fifty years, increased hers one hundred and forty fold!]

[Footnote C: Chance threw in our way, many years ago, in Philadelphia, a man whose life boasted one event. While a boy, he had for some time been sent every morning by his employer to inquire after the health of 'Mr. TALLEYRAND.' When a few years shall have passed, there will only be here and there one who can remember having met in New York or Philadelphia JOSEPH BONAPARTE or LOUIS NAPOLEON.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

[Footnote D: Vide _Gems and Jewels._ By Madame de Barrera.]

[Footnote E: Jahresbenennung.]

[Footnote F: King-tscheu is the sixth of the nine provinces which are described in the tax-roll of Ju, (which contains the sixth of the included divisions of the Annal-book.) It extended from the north side of the hill Hong. Compare Hongingta, the celebrated expounder of King in the times of Tang, with the already mentioned extracts from the Annal-book.]

[Footnote G: In the Leang-schu we find an error in the writing, (a very frequent occurrence in Chinese transcriptions.) Instead of the character Tong (4233 Bas) we have Tang, (11,444 B.) which signifies _copper_, and according to which we must read, 'Their leaves resemble copper,' which is evidently an error.]

[Footnote H: This is also the case in China with the bamboo sprouts, on which account they are termed _Sun_, (7449 B.) that is, the buds of the first ten days, since they only keep for that time.]

[Footnote I: The year-books of Leans have a variation; instead of the character Kin, (11,492 B.) 'embroidered stuff,' (meaning, of course, embroidered or ornamented stuff in general,) we have Mien, which signifies 'fine silk.']

[Footnote J: Montesinos, _Mem. Antiguas_, MS. lib. 2, cap. 7. _Vide Prescott's Conquest of Peru_, Book I. p. 128.]

[Footnote K: The narrative of these early voyages is preserved in Hakluyt's great _History of the Voyages and Discoveries of the English Nation_, and this and the following extracts are taken from Vol. III., published in 1600. Americana are under great obligations to this faithful old chronicler.]

[Footnote L: Lane often refers to the Chesapeans, a tribe who dwelt on the Elizabeth River, probably at about the present site of Norfolk, and down to Old Point Comfort. The word Chesapeake is compounded from _Che_, great, _sepe_ or _sepo_, river, and _peak_, a white shell, meaning 'great river of shells,' and probably referred to the mouth of James River. _Roanoak_ means a black shell.]

[Footnote M: This was no doubt what is now known as 'Old Point Comfort.' The position would have been well chosen for defense against his enemies. The Indians knew no difference between an island and a peninsula, and Old Point has but a very narrow connection with the main land.]

[Footnote N: This was undoubtedly Wampum or Wampeage.]

[Footnote O: A celebrated traveler asserts that tobacco, now extended over both hemispheres, is an evidence of civilization.]