Chapter V

Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!

Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.

THE END.

* * * * *

_WHAT THEN?_

BY J. HAL. ELLIOT.

God's pity on them! Human souls, I mean,
Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt,
And bodies which no common sore can hurt;
All this between
Those souls, and life--corrupt, defiled, unclean.

And more--hard faces, pinched by starving years.
Cold, stolid, grimy faces--vacant eyes,
Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies;
But never tears!
Tears would not help them--battling constant jeers.

Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first,
Crouching through life forever in the dark,
Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark;
And no one durst
Deny their horrid dream, that they are curst.

And life for them! dare we call life its name?
O God! an arid sea of burning sand,
Eternal blackness! death on every hand!
A smothered flame,
Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.

And death! we shudder when we speak the word;
'Tis all the same to them--or life, or death;
They breathe them both with every fevered breath;
When have they heard,
That cool Bethesda's waters might be stirred!

They live among us--live and die to-day;
We brush them with our garments on the street,
And track their footsteps with our dainty feet;
'Poor common clay!'
We curl our lips--and that is what we say.

God's pity on them! and on us as well:
They live and die like brutes, and we like men:
Both go alone into the dark--what then?
Or heaven, or hell?
They suffered in this life! Stop! Who can tell?

* * * * *

The last stranger who visited Washington Irving, before his death, was Theodore Tilton, who published shortly afterward an account of the interview. Mr. Tilton wrote also a private letter to a friend, giving an interesting reminiscence, which he did not mention in his published account. The following is an extract from this letter, now first made public:

As I was about parting from Mr. Irving, at the door-step, he held
my hand a few moments, and said:

'You know Henry Ward Beecher?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'he is an intimate friend.'

'I have never seen him,' said he, 'tell me how he looks.'

I described, in a few words, Mr. Beecher's personal appearance;
when Mr. Irving remarked:

'I take him to be a man always in fine health and cheery spirits.'

I replied that he was hale, vigorous, and full of life; that every
drop of his blood bubbled with good humor.

'His writings,' said Knickerbocker, 'are full of human kindness. I
think he must have a great power of enjoyment.'

'Yes,' I added, 'to hear him laugh is as if one had spilt over you
a pitcher of wine.'

'It is a good thing for a man to laugh well,' returned the old
gentleman, smiling. He then observed:

'I have read many of your friend's writings; he draws charming
pictures; he inspires and elevates one's mind; I wish I could once
take him by the hand.'

At which I instantly said:

'I will ask him to make you a visit.'

'Tell him I will give him a Scotch welcome; tell him that I love
him, though I never have seen his face.'

These words were spoken with such evident sincerity, that
Sunnyside will always have a sunnier place in my memory, because
of the old man's genial tribute to my dear friend.

I am ever yours,
THEODORE TILTON.

* * * * *

The following paragraph from the _Boston Traveller,_ contains a few facts well worth noting:

'The secession sympathizers in the North have two favorite dodges
for the service of their friends, the enemy. The first is, to
magnify the numbers of the rebel forces, placing them at 500,000
men, whereas they never have had above half as many men in the
field, all told, and counting negroes as well as white men. The
other is, to magnify the cost of the war on the side of the
Federalists. They tell us that our public war-debt, by the close of
the current fiscal year, June 30, 1862, will be $1,200,000,000,
(twelve hundred million dollars.) They know better than this, for
that debt will, at the date named, be not much above $620,000,000,
which would be no greater burden on the country than was that which
it owed in 1815, perhaps not so great a burden as that was. People
should not allow themselves to be frightened by the prophecies of
men who, if they could be sure of preserving slavery in all its
force, would care for nothing else.'

It is always easy to make up a gloomy statement, and this has been done of late to perfection by the demo-secessionists among us. It is an easy matter to assume, as has been done, the maximum war expenditure for one single day, and say that it is the average. It is easy, too, to say that 'You can never whip the South,' and point to Richmond 'bounce' in confirmation. It will all avail nothing. Slavery is going--of _that_ rest assured--and the South is to be thoroughly Northed with new blood. _Delenda est Dixie._

Our 'private' readers in the army--of whom we have enough, we are proud to say, to constitute a pretty large-sized public--may rest assured that accounts will not be settled with the South without very serious consideration of what is due to the soldier for his services 'in snatching the common-weal from the jaws of hell,' as the Latin memorial to Pitt, on the Dedham stone hath it. It has been said that republics are ungrateful; but in this instance the adage must fall to the ground. The soldier will be as much needed after the war, to settle the South, 'North it,' and preserve the Union by his intellect and his industry, as he now is to reestablish it by his bravery.

We find the following in the Boston _Courier_ of March 29th:

'Our attention has been called to a statement in the
_CONTINENTAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE_, to the effect, that certain
interesting 'Notes on the Gulf States,' which have recently
appeared in this paper were reproductions, with certain
alterations, of letters which were printed in the _Knickerbocker
Magazine_ several years ago. The statement made is not positive,
but made with such qualifications as might lead to the inference
that the comparison was not very carefully made. We can only
say, that we have had no opportunity to confer with our distant
correspondent, who handed us the whole series of 'Notes'
together, in manuscript, for publication; nor had we any reason
to believe that they were ever printed before, either in whole
or in part. We can say nothing further, until we know more about
the grounds for the intimation of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.'

We were guarded in our statement, not having at hand, when we wrote the paragraph referred to, more than three or four numbers of the Courier containing the Gulf States articles, and not desiring to give the accusation a needlessly harsh expression, knowing well that the best informed editor may have at times old literary notes passed upon him for new ones. What we _do_ say, is simply that several columns of the articles which appeared as original in the Boston _Courier,_ were _literal reprints_ from a series which appeared in the _Knickerbocker_ Magazine in 1847.

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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 this number is commenced a new Serial by Richard D. 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. This work which will excel the previous brilliant productions of this author.

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