Book: Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. VI, June, 1862

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. VI, June, 1862




He knew that if any thing would soften their mutual asperities and
cultivate mutual good feeling, such a measure would. Would it not
be well for modern times to take a hint here? Had I been appointed
architect of the Capitol, I think I could have saved the feuds
which long ago sprang up, and which have resulted in, and will yet
bring about, alas! we know not how much bloodshed. I would have
constructed a couple of immense dining-rooms, with all the
necessary appurtenances. Just to think how different would have
been the aspect of things in the chamber where Sumner once lay
bleeding, and in the hall where a gentleman, in a melee, '_stubbed
his toe and fell_!' There would have been Mr. Breckinridge, in a
canopied seat at the head of one of the tables, rapping the Senate
to order with his knife-handle, and Mr. Orr at the head of the
other, uncovering an immense tureen, with the remark that '_the
House will now proceed to business_!' How strange it would be to
hear any angry debate at such a time! Imagine a Congressman helping
himself to a batter-cake and at the same time calling his
brother-member a liar! or throwing down his napkin, by way of
challenge to '_the gentleman on the opposite side of the table_!'
Think of Keitt politely handing Grow the cream-pitcher, and
attempting to knock him down before the meal was dispatched. Had
the discussion of the Lecompton Constitution been carried on
simultaneously with that of a couple of dozen roast turkeys, I
sometimes think we might have avoided this war.

Not only in public but in private rejoicings, is the table the
scene of chief enjoyment. When was it that the fatted calf was
killed? On what occasion was the water turned into wine? What
better way to rejoice over the return of a long-absent one than to
meet him around the hospitable table? Ye gods! let your mouths
water! There's a feast ahead for our brave soldiers, when they come
home from this war, that will make your tables look beggarly. I
refer to that auspicious moment when the patriot now baring his
bosom to the bloody brunt of war, shall sit down once more to the
table, in his own dear home, however humble, and partake of the
cheerful meal in peace, with his wife and his little ones about
him. Oh! for the luxury of that first meal! I almost feel as if I
could endure the hardships of the fierce campaign that precedes it.

There is no memory so pleasant to me as that of the annual reuenion
of my aunts and uncles, with their respective troops of cousins, at
the house of my dear grandmother of blessed memory. It was pleasant
to watch the conveyances one by one coming in, laden with friends
who had traveled many a weary mile to be present on the great
occasion. It was pleasant to witness the mutual recognitions of
brothers and sisters with their respective wives and husbands; to
observe the transports of the little fellows, in their hearty
greetings, after a twelve months' separation, and to hear their
expressions of mingled surprise and delight on being introduced to
the strange _little_ cousins, whose presence increased the number
considerably above the preceding census. But the culminating point
was yet to come. That was attained when all the brothers and
sisters had gathered around the great long table, just as they did
when they were children, with their dear mother at the head,
surveying the scene in quiet enjoyment, and one of the 'older boys'
at the foot, to ask a blessing. There were the waffle-cakes, baked
in the irons which had furnished every cake for that table for the
last quarter of a century. There was the roast-turkey, which
grandma had been putting through a generous system of dietetics for
weeks, preparatory to this occasion. It rested on the same old
turkey-plate, with its two great birds sitting on a rose-bush, and
by its side was the great old carving-knife, which had from time
immemorial been the instrument of dissection on such occasions. And
there was maple-molasses from Uncle D----'s 'sugar-camp,' and
cheese from Aunt N----'s press, and honey from Uncle T----'s hives,
and oranges which Aunt I----, who lived in the city, had provided,
and all contained in the old-fashioned plates and dishes of a
preceding generation.

I discover I am treating my subject in a very desultory manner.
Perhaps I should have stated that under the head of the complete
genus, _meal_, there are three distinct species, public, social,
and private. That the grand banquet, celebrating some great man's
birth, or the success of some noble public enterprise, with its
assemblages of the great and the good from every part of the
country; the Fourth of July festival, in honor of our nation's
independence, with its speeches, its drums, its toasts, and its
cannon; the '_table d'hote_,' or in plain English, the hotel
dinner-table, so remarkable for the multitude of its dishes and the
meagreness of their contents; the harvest-feast, the exact opposite
of the last-named, even to the mellow thirds and fifths that come
floating over the valleys from the old-fashioned dinner-horn,
calling in the tired laborers; its musical invitation in such
striking contrast with the unimagined horrors of the gong that
bellows its expectant victims to their meals; the family repast,
where one so often feels gratified with the delicate compliment of
a mother, a sister, or a wife, in placing some favorite dish or
flower near his plate; the annual gatherings of jolly alumni; the
delightful concourse of relatives and friends; the gleesome picnic
lunch, with its grassy carpet and log seats; the luxurious
oyster-supper, with its temptations 'to carry the thing too far;'
the festival at the donation-party, which, in common parlance,
would be called a dish of 'all sorts;' the self-boarding student's
desolate corn-cake, baked in a pan of multifarious use: all these
are so many modifications under their respective species.

Let me remark, in conclusion, that there are some meals from which
I pray to be delivered. There is the noisy dinner of the
country-town _tavern_ or railroad station, where each individual
seems particularly anxious that number _one_ should be provided
for, and where, in truth, he is obliged often to make pretty
vigorous efforts, if he succeeds. Again, have you ever observed how
gloomy is the look of those who for the first time gather around
the table, after the departure of a friend? The breakfast was
earlier than usual, and the dishes were suffered to stand and the
beds to go unmade, and housemaid, chamber-maid, cook, and
seamstress, all engaged in the _melee_ of packing up, and of course
came in for their share of 'good-bys.' After the guests were fairly
off, 'things took a stand-still' for a while. All hands sat down
and rested, and looked very blank, and didn't know just where to
begin. Slowly, confusion began to relax _his_ hold, and order, by
degrees, resumed _her_ sway; (for the life of me, I can't bring
myself to determine the genders in any other way.) But when, at
last, the dinner-hour came, how strangely silent were the eaters!
Ah! if the departed one have gone to his long home, how _solemn_ is
this first meeting of the family, after their return to their
lonely home! It may be the sire whose place at the head of the
table is now vacant, and whose silvery voice we no longer hear
humbly invoking the divine blessing; or perhaps the mother, and how
studiously we keep our eye away from the seat where her generous
hand was wont to pour our tea. Perhaps the little one, the idol of
the household, whose chirruping voice was wont to set us all
laughing with droll remarks, expressed in baby dialect. How we miss
the little high-chair that was always drawn up 'close by papa!' How
our eyes will swim and our hearts swell up and choke us when we see
it pushed back into the corner, now silent and vacant! Hast thou
not wept thus? Be grateful. Thou hast been spared one of life's
keenest pangs.

Thou speakest well. Dr. Doran has pleased us with his _Table Traits_,
but a great book yet remains to be written on the social power of meals.
The immortals were never so lordly as when assembled at the celestial
table, where inextinguishable laughter went the rounds with the nectar.
The heroes of Valhalla were most glorious over the ever-growing
roast-boar and never-failing mead. Heine suggests a millennial banquet
of all nations, where the French are to have the place of honor, for
their improvements in freedom and in cookery, and Master Rabelais could
imagine nothing more genial than when in the _Moyen de Parvenir_, he
placed all the gay, gallant, wise, brave, genial, joyous dames and
demoiselles, knights, and scholars of all ages at one eternal supper.
Ah! yes; it matters but little what is 'gatherounded,' as a quaint
Americanism hath it, so that the wit, and smiles, and good-fellowship be
there.

* * * * *

It is stated in the newspapers--we know not on what authority--that
Charles A. Dana, late of the New-York _Tribune_, will probably receive
an important appointment in the army. A man of iron will, of indomitable
energy, undoubted courage, and of an inexhaustible genius, which
displays itself by mastering every subject as by intuition, Dana is one
whom, of all others, we would wish to see actively employed in the war.
We have described him in by-gone days as one who was 'an editor by
destiny and a soldier by nature,' and sincerely trust that his career
will yet happily confer upon him military honors. No man in America--we
speak advisedly--has labored more assiduously, or with more sterling
honest conviction in politics, than Charles A. Dana. The influence which
he has exerted has been immense, and it is fit that it be recognized.
Men who, like him, combine stern integrity with vigorous practical
talent, have a claim to lead.

* * * * *

Among the most striking songs which the war has brought forth, we must
class that grim Puritanical lyric, 'The Kansas John Brown,' which
appeared originally in the Kansas _Herald_, and which is, as we are
informed, extensively sung in the army. The words are as follows:

THE KANSAS JOHN BROWN SONG.

Old John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
While the bondmen all are weeping whom he ventured for to save;
But though he lost his life a-fighting for the slave,
His soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.

John Brown was a hero undaunted, true and brave,
And Kansas knew his valor when he fought her rights to save;
And now, though the grass grows green above his grave,
His soul is marching on.

He captured Harper's Ferry with his nineteen men so few,
And frightened Old Virginia till she trembled through and through;
They hung him for a traitor--themselves a traitor crew,
But his soul is marching on.

John Brown was John the Baptist of the Christ we are to see;
CHRIST, who of the bondmen shall the Liberator be;
And soon through all the South the slaves shall all be free,
For his soul goes marching on.

John Brown he was a soldier--a soldier of the LORD;
John Brown he was a martyr--a martyr to the WORD;
And he made the gallows holy when he perished by the cord,
For his soul goes marching on.

The battle that John Brown begun, he looks from heaven to view,
On the army of the Union with its flag, red, white and blue;
_And the angels shall sing hymns o'er the deeds we mean to do_,
_As we go marching on!_

Ye soldiers of JESUS, then strike it while you may,
The death-blow of Oppression in a better time and way,
For the dawn of Old John Brown is a-brightening into day,
And his soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.

There! if the soldiers of Cromwell and of Ireton had any lyric to beat
_that_, we should like to see it. Among its rough and rude rhymes gleams
out a fierce fire which we supposed was long since extinct. Verily, old
Father Puritan is _not_ dead yet, neither does he sleep; and to judge from
what we have heard of the effects of this song among the soldiers, we
should say that grim Old John Brown himself, far from perishing, is even
now terribly alive. There is something fearful in the inspiration which
can inspire songs like this.

* * * * *

'GALLI VAN T' is welcome, and will be 'welcomer' when he again visits us
in another letter like _this_:

DEAR CONTINENTAL: I have a friend who is not an artful man, though
he be full of art; and yesterday evening he told me the following:

'In my early days, when I took views of burly farmers and their
bouncing daughters in oil, and painted portraits of their favorite
horses for a very moderate _honorarium_, and in short, was the
artist of a small country town--why, then, to tell the truth, I was
held to be one of the greatest painters in existence. Since
studying abroad, and settling down in New-York--'

'And getting your name up among the first,' I added.

'Never mind that--I'm not 'the greatest painter that ever lived'
here. But in Spodunk, I was. Folks 'admired to see me.' I was a man
that 'had got talent into him,' and the village damsels invited me
to tea. There were occasional drawbacks, to be sure. One day a man
who had heard that I had painted Doctor Hewls's house, called and
asked me what I would charge to paint his little 'humsted.' I
offered to do it for twenty dollars.

'He gave me a shrewd gimlet-look and said:

'Find your own paint--o' course?'

''Of course,' I replied.

''What color?'

''Why, the same color you now have,' was my astonished answer.

''Wall, I don't know. My wife kind o' thinks that turtle-color
would suit our house better than Spanish brown. You put on two
coats, of course?'

'I now saw what he meant, and roaring with laughter, explained to
him that there was a difference between a painter of houses and a
house-painter.

'One morning I was interrupted by a grim, Herculean, stern-looking
young fellow--one who was manifestly a man of facts--who, with a
brief introduction of himself, asked if I could teach 'the pictur
business.' I signified my assent, and while talking of terms,
continued painting away at a landscape. I noticed that my visitor
glanced at my work at first as if puzzled, and then with an air of
contempt. Finally he inquired:

'''S _that_ the way you make your pictures?'

''That is it,' I replied.

''Do you have to keep workin' it in, bit by bit, _slow_--like as a
gal works woosted-patterns?'

''Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.'

''How long 'll it take to learn your trade?'

''Well, if you've any genius for it, you may become a tolerable
artist in two years.'

''Two--_thunder_! Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that
time!'

''Very likely. There is not one man in a hundred, who can make
shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.'

''_Darn_ paintin'!' was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his
club to depart--his hat had not been removed during the whole of
the visit. 'Darn paintin'! I thought you did the thing with
stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper. Mister, I
don't want to hurt your feeling--but 'cordin' to _my_ way o'
thinkin', paintin' as _you_ do it, an't a trade at all--it's
nothin' but a darned despisable _fine art!_'

'And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned
to go. I burst out laughing. He turned around squarely, and
presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired
abruptly, as he glared at me:

''Maybe you'd like to paint my portrit?'

'I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my
spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and
answered:

''I don't paint animals.

'He gave me a parting look, and 'abscondulated.' When I saw him
last, he was among the City Fathers! GALLI VAN T.'

* * * * *

_A SONG OF THE PRESENT._

BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR.

Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie,
Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed,
Not to the moments that have hurried by,
Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.

Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwell
Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near,
Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel,
A land whose hopes find no fruition here.

But to the Present: be it dark or bright,
Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good;
Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light;
Its ills are blessings, rightly understood.

Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers;
Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays,
Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours;
A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise.

Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine;
Grief can not always last, joy's hour will come;
Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine,
And make thy heart the sunshine's constant home.

Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smile
Carries a magic nothing can withstand;
A cheerful look may many a care beguile,
And to the weary be a helping hand.

Be brave--clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms;
Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest,
The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms,
Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.

* * * * *

_A STRANGE STORY--ITS SEQUEL._

PREFACE.

The often expressed wish of the American Press for an explanation of the
meaning of 'A Strange Story,' shall be complied with. It is purely and
simply this: Many novels, most of them, in fact, treat of the World; the
rest may be divided into those vaguely attempting to describe the works
of the Flesh and the Devil. This division of subjects is fatal to their
force; there was need to write a novel embracing them all; therefore 'A
Strange Story' was penned. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz personated the World,
Doctor Fenwick the Flesh, and Margrave, _alias_ Louis Grayle, certainly,
I may be allowed to say, played the Devil with marked ability. To give a
fitting _morale_ to all, the character of Lilian Ashleigh was thrown in;
the good genius, the conqueror of darkness, the positive of the
electrical battery meeting the negative and eliciting sparks of
triumphant light--such was the heroine.

Man, conscious of a future life, and endowed with imagination, is not
content with things material, especially if his brain is crowded with
the thoughts of the brains of ten thousand dead authors, and his nervous
system is over-tasked and over-excited. In this condition he rushes
away--away from cool, pure, and lovely feature--burying himself in the
hot, spicy, and gorgeous dreams of Art. He would adore Cagliostro, while
he mocked Doctor Watts! Infatuated dreamer! Returning at last, by good
chance--or, rather, let me say, by the directing hand of
Providence--from his evil search of things tabooed, to admiration of the
Real, the Tangible, and the True; he will show himself as Doctor Fenwick
does in this sequel, a strong, sensible, family-man, with a clear head
and no-nonsense about him.


CHAPTER I.

'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go
to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that
Egyptian woman bore the last--positively the last--remains of Margrave,
or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'

'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.

'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked
it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:

'FABER, No. 4.'

I believe it may belong to one of my family--lost, perhaps, in the ocean
of commerce.'

'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung;
let us enter the house.'


CHAPTER II.

'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in
this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the
way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us
how that cold chicken should be carved.'

Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout
in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now
weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket.
Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was
bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.

'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.

'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a
side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in
earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and
romantic dreams.'

'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs.
Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal
more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken
to filling her duties as housewife?'

'To be sure I do.'

The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a
brown one, remarking:

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat
half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would
buy three or four more barrels of pale ale--we are nearly out.'


CHAPTER III.

'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap--on-ly thrippence
a tab-let--takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there
air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'

'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one
as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation
is reported above.

'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle,
Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to
work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand
ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from
growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin'
soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben
wurkin this lay long enough, I _ham_ thinkin'.

Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw
him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed
on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven
that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor
in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum
cocktails--two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange
Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too
glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to
profitable account--the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that
Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from
habits.


CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to
even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been
quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having
failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and
reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were
circulated as filling the air she ruled.


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.

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