Book: The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

V >> Various >> The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862




'Gentlemen-Messieurs-Senores y meine Herrne, I've got here for
sale--a vender--a vendre zum verkaufen eine Schoene Buechse a
first-rate rifle un fusil sans pareil, muy hermosa! Do I hear fifty
pesos, cinquante Thaler ge-bid pour this here bully gun? Caballeros
mira como es aplatado--all silvered up, in tip-top style--c'est de
l'argent fin messieurs--s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott
verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fuenfzig,
fuenfzig, fifty do I hear, and a half an' a half an' a half e un
demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb'
un medio y tin medio--wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six
escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun,
good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another
with--madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos--first-rate to
kill a Greaser--womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten.
Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir--cinquante deux--Merci, Monsieur! Wer
sagt drei und fuenfzig--ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch
am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a
half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres
quartos--quelqu'un a dit fifty-three--fifty-_four_--going, going,
gone, sir--at fifty-four--America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'

It would take some time, we should think, to be able to reel it off in
such a quadruple thread.

* * * * *

Two 'after-Norse' poems are ours this month-the first from an esteemed
Philadelphia correspondent--the second from another of the same State,
but more inland. The following, we may observe, is written in the
measure which most prevails in Icelandic poems:


THE VIKINGS.

Through the brown waters
Dash the swift prows;
At the helm Valor stands,
Death at the bows:
Vainly the foeman shrinks,
Palsied in fright,
Vain are his struggles, yet
Vainer his flight.

Triple defenses--
Fire, water, and steel,
Guard the gate of the West
From the Northerner's keel.
Though defiant at midnight,
Ere morning the wrath
Of the terrible sea-kings
Has leveled a path.

Rampart and heavy gun
From o'er the bay,
Whose broad waters stretch
'Twixt the ships and their prey:
But shattered the rampart lies,
Silent the gun,
As the circle of living fire
Madly rolls on.

Wide yawn the timbers,
Wild waters rush in,
As the ship settles fast
Mid the fierce battle-din:
Yet her guns hurl defiance,
As, stern to the last,
The sea sucks her in
With her flag on the mast.

Sons of the Northman,
Whose banner of old
Spread the shadow of terror
From each grisly fold,
Of his broad heritage
Worthy are ye:
Win it and wear it well,
Kings of the sea.


The next 'Norse' is longer. We find in it a brave ring of true poetry:


1861.

'Oh! dark and true and tender is the North.'

Loud leaps the strong wind forth,
Fierce from the caves of the mighty North,
Ages untold,
O'er town and wold,
That rest 'neath a softer sky,
Swept that blast in anger by,
And in his wrathful eddies bore
The fiery song of Odin and Thor.
Then little avail,
'Gainst the Vi-king's arm,
The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail,
Or the priestman's charm.
And o'er the bright South-land
A shadow of dread was the North wind's course,
Whene'er his surging currents fanned
The raven banner of the Norse.

Years pass, and time new rays has brought,
Yet still the Northman's heart is warm;
But light on his soul a change has wrought,
And he loves the calm as he loved the storm.

Another god than the fearful Thor
In heaven's blue he saw,
And he gave to Peace his might in war--
His anger to the law.

And the strong hand holds the sickle now,
The anvil rings at morn;
And waving sunbeams tinge with gold
The hues of the ripening corn.

And the land he loves in peace has grown
To be mighty in wealth and name;
But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown,
And evil men to its councils came.

And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep,
While treason walked in her halls of state,
And good men grieve, but hopeless weep,
And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate.

'The nation must pass away.
For the Northman's blood is cold,
And little he recks of honor or name,
If his hand may clutch the gold.

'Work treason--work your will--
Divide our Fatherland;
Hearts are craven, souls are base--
'Tis fit for the traitor's hand.

'Fear no more the Northman's rage,
The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn;
No ancient mem'ry can stir him now,
To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.'

The words half-sung in silence fall,
Hushed in dread by a mightier call,

That stays the hand--that throbs the heart;
Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note--
The traitor's foot is on your flag,
His bayonet at our throat.

And hark! the North-wind's sullen moan
Rises high to a sterner tone,
That sinks away, then bursts anew
In joy, as 'mid its surges grew
The shout, the stroke, the cannon's peal,
The tread of countless number.
For the flash of a traitor's steel
Has broken the nation's slumber;
And sighing breeze and southern gale,
Seized by the fierce wind's grasp, are torn
From gentle haunt by hill or dale,
And in the whirling vortex borne.
There murm'ring on his hollow breast,
And wond'ring at his wild unrest,
Their shrieking echoes sounding far,
Loud swelled the Northman's shout to war;
For with death's dark shadows flitting by,
And the day as dark as night,
A nation's hands are raised on high
To hold their ancient right.
And the ages are rolled from the record of time;
For the years of peace with its soft'ning beam,
That soothed in love the Northman's heart,
Are now but the mists of a warrior's dream.
And the tinsel of life is burned in the glow
That flames in his heart as in years long ago,
When Norman sea-kings swept the wave,
Who loved the night, the storm, and bloody grave.

And through all the blue of heaven's vault,
Rolls the Vala's mystic charm,
Swelled with strains of the mighty past--
Victory strikes with the Northman's arm.

F.


Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron
Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands
of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the
battle-call:

'Northmen, come out!
Forth into battle with storm and shout,
He who lives with victory's blest;
He who dies gains peaceful rest.
Living or dying, let us be
Still vowed to God and liberty!
Northmen, come out!'


* * * * *

The following poem is certainly _not_ behind the times:


PAYING THE SHOT.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin,
Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot;
Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,'
Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.'

We 'owe them _one_!' and now's the time to settle,
And finish up the business to a dot;
A half a million _men_, upon their _metal_,
Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers;
Master or slave no more shall treason plot.
We've settled _that_ account with steel and triggers,
And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil,
Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot;
We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil,
That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.'

There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books;
_That_ must be paid, each tittle and each jot;
A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks,
But _strikes his balance_ fair, and 'pays the shot.'

There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs,
We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;'
In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar,
Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.'

So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers!
Wipe out this treason _now_, nor leave one blot;
When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;'
Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'

* * * * *

War stories and war songs are in vogue--for instance:


MY JOHNNY IS GONE FOR A SOLDIER.

The accomplished, fascinating, talented, and beautiful Miss H----, as
Jinkings calls her in his last Saratoga letter, has engaged her
affections to Mr. John G----, and they are to be married some time. In
the mean time, she has done all in her power to induce her lover to go
and fight the battles of his country; so far unsuccessfully, since Mr.
John G---- deems it his duty to stay at home and keep things steady,
especially billiards, which, as we all know, is an erratic game,
requiring great watching.

The other evening, Miss H----, while assisting at a sociable at Madame
V----'s, was asked to sing. Seated at the piano, to the horror of
expectant hearers of classic music, she began, with loudest voice, to
sing:

'I'll trace these gardins o'er and o'er,
A med-i-tating on atche swate flowir,
A thinking on each bewcheous hour;
Oh! Johnny is gone for a sol-di-er.'

She then put her handkerchief to her eyes, pretended to sob bitterly,
arose from the piano-stool, and sought an arm-chair.

Solicited by her confidential friend, Miss Belrose, to confide her
affliction, she only answered:

'Oh! my Johnny G----'s gone for a soldier--to play billiards with him!
And--and I know that that fast Lieutenant Gamble will keep him there for
hours and hours.'

* * * * *

Young gentlemen, this is the time for bullets and not for balls; for
cannons and not caroms; for rifle-pits to hole yourselves in, and not
for 'pockets' wherein to hole your adversary. _Apropos_ of which, listen
to


THE WRONG KIND OF A BAND.

Colonel X---- raised a regiment in the Ri-too-lal Rural districts of
New-Jersey, including a by no means bad brass band.

Arrived in Washington with his force, he was unfortunate enough to meet
with a wag, who at once told him he was afraid that he, the Colonel,
would meet or rather come to grief shortly.

'How so?' asked Colonel X---- excitedly.

'H'm!' answered the wag, 'don't you see that those rural musicians of
yours will be regarded as country-band of war?'

The Colonel saw it!

* * * * *

Do our readers remember a beautiful poem on Gottschalk's playing--_Los
ojos Criollos_--which appeared some time since in the _Home Journal_?
They will not regret to see a lyric in our pages by the writer of the
first referred to:


THE OLD SURGEON'S STORY.

BY ELEANOR C. DONELLY.

'Twas in a Southern hospital, a week ago or more,
(God save us! how the days drag on, these weary times of war!)
They brought me, in the sultry noon, a youth whom they had found
Deserted by his regiment upon the battle-ground,
And bleeding his young life away through many a gaping wound.

'Dark-haired and slender as a girl, a handsome lad was he,
Despite the pallor of his wounds, each one an agony.
A ball had carried off his arm, and zig-zag passage frayed
Into his chest--so wild a rent that, when it was displayed,
I, veteran surgeon that I was, turned white as any maid.

''There is no hope?' he slowly said, noting my changing cheek;
I only shook my head: I dare not trust myself to speak;
But in that wordless negative, the boy had read his doom,
And turned about, as best he could, and lay in silent gloom,
Watching the summer sunlight make a glory of the room.

''My little hero!' said a voice, and then a woman's hand
Lay like a lily on his curls: 'God give you self-command!'
'Mother!'--how full that thrilling word of pity and alarm--
'You here? my sweetest mother here?' and with his one poor arm
He got about her neck and drew her down with kisses warm.

''All the long, sultry night, when out--'(He shuddered as he said)--
'On yonder field I lay among the festering heaps of dead;
With awful faces close to mine, and clots of bloody hair,
And dead eyes gleaming through the dusk with such a rigid stare;
Through all my pain, O mother mine! I only prayed one prayer.

''Through all my pain--(and ne'er I knew what suffering was before!)--
I only prayed to see your face, to hear your voice once more;
The cold moon shone into my eyes--my prayer seemed all in vain.'
'My poor deluded boy!' she sobbed; her mother-fount of pain
O'erflowing down her gentle cheeks in drops like thunder-rain.

''Accursed be he whose cruel hand has wrought my son such ill!'
The boy sprang upright at the word, and shrieked aloud, 'Be still!
You know not what you say. O God! how shall I tell the tale!
How shall I smite her as she stands!' and with a moaning wail
He prone among the pillows dropped, his visage ashen pale.

''It was a bloody field,' he said, at last, like one who dozed;
'I know not how the day began--I know not how it closed;
I only know we fought like fiends, begrimed with blood and dust,
And did our duty to a man, as every soldier must,
And gave the rebels ball for ball, and paid them thrust for thrust.

'But when our gallant General rode up and down the line,
The sunlight striking on his sword until it flashed like wine,
And cried aloud (God bless his lips!) with such a cheery laugh,
'Charge bayonets, boys! Pitch into them, and scatter them like chaff!'
One half our men were drunk with blood, and mad the other half.

''My veins ran fire. O Heaven! hide the horrors of that plain!
We charged upon the rebel ranks and cut them down like grain.
One bright-haired man ran on my steel--I pierced him through and through;
The blood upspirted from his wound and sprinkled me like dew.
'Twas strange, but as I looked I thought of Cain and him he slew.

''Some impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell,
I turned him o'er--I saw his face--the sight was worse than hell!
_There lay my brother_--Curse me not!--pierced by _my_ bayonet!'
O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget--
Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet.

'And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she,
Dropped down among us, in a swoon, from very sympathy.
'I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had died
In those old days of innocence!) was ever by my side,
At bed or board, at school or play, so fresh and merry-eyed!

''And now to see it white and set--to know the deed was mine!
A madness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine.
I did not heed the balls which fell around us thick as rain,
I did not know my arm was gone;
I felt nor wound nor pain,
I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again.

''O Louis!' (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside,)
'O Louis! brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide!
By the bright heaven where thou stand'st--by thy big-hearted faith--
By these the tears our mother sheds--by this my failing breath--
Forgive me for that murd'rous thrust which wounded thee to death.

''Forgive me! I would yield my life to give thee thine, my brother!
What's this? Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother.
The air blows sweet from yonder field!
Dear Lou, put up your sword.
Let's weave a little daisy-chain
upon this pleasant sward--'
And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.'

Such are the tragedies of civil war, the fearful probability of such
events. But who has not heard of families with sons in either army,
especially on the border, in Philadelphia, and Baltimore? We have heard
_seven_ such instances enumerated by one lady of the former city. Let us
turn from tragedy to comedy:

* * * * *

CAPPED THE CLIMAX.

The ladies of Christopher's Church, Philadelphia, have worked like
true-hearted women for the wounded soldiers. Many a poor fellow has
blessed them for their contributions to alleviate his pain and make the
old hospital comfortable for him. In the congregation, one elderly
maiden lady, who had so far given nothing, was called on by one of her
energetic sisters in the church, and implored to do something for the
poor soldiers. She was told that any thing that would render their
sufferings less would be gratefully received.

She promised to send a donation. Nothing more was heard from her for a
couple of weeks, when one morning the ladies assembled in the
vestry-room of the church received a large basket from the elderly
maiden lady. On opening it, they found three dozen starched muslin,
night-cape, with frills all round them, bows and long strings.

'Did you ever?' asked Miss G----. 'I declare Miss---- has set her Caps
for the soldiers in earnest this time.

* * * * *

We select the following as the best proposed completion of the
unfinished poem by Fitz-James O'Brien, published in our July number:

_Detroit, Mich., June 22d, 1862._

EDITORS OF CONTINENTAL: As you do not give the conclusion
of that 'Watching the Stag,' I propose to finish it in this wise:

'Watching my face with half-closed eyes,'
As I lean my head on the dappled stag
That stiffens beneath a windward crag.

His flanks are black with the hardened sweat,
And a film has clouded his eye of jet;
While a round, red wound that oozes still,'
Tells of his fate and my marksman's skill.

Oh! the granite crags shall no longer feel
His fleet hoofs ringing like steel on steel,
And shepherd shall never again espy
His antlers painted against the sky!

The mountain tarn, so lone and cold,
The delicate shadow no more shall hold;
The fleetness has died in each rigid limb,
And never shall dun hound follow him!

Stanch Hela blinks as she half recalls
That savage chase through the mountain-walls,
And growls as she dreams how her white teeth sank
With a thirsty grip in his shuddering flank.

Dream on, good dog! through the night so chill,
Till sunrise surges over the hill,
Till the heather glows and the peaks are gay,
And then for our mountain-home hurra!



* * * * *

We are indebted to L. H. Brook, of Cambridge for a version of

* * * * *

MARGARET'S SONG.

FROM 'FAUST.'

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone;
Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore;
Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never
Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Wo ich ihn nicht hab', Where him I crave,
Ist mir das Grab; To me's the grave;
Die gauze Welt The world and all
Ist mir vergaellt. Seems turned to gall.

Mein armer Kopf My wretched head
Ist mir verrueckt, Seems going mad;
Mein armer Sinn My wretched mind
Ist mir zerstueckt. Is torn and sad.

Nach ihm nur schau' ich For him I look
Zum Fenster hinaus, The casement out;
Nach ihm nur geh' ich Him only seek
Aus dem Haus. The town about.

Sein hoher Gang, His lofty step,
Sein' edle Gestalt. His noble form;
Seines Mundes Laecheln, The smile of his mouth,
Seiner Augen Gewalt. His eye's strong charm.

Und seiner Rede And in his voice
Zauberfluss, The magic bliss,
Sein Haendedruck, His clasping hand,
Und ach! sein Kuss. And ah! his kiss.

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone;
Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore;
Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never
Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Mein Busen draengt My bosom swells
Sich nach ihm hin; Toward him when near
Ach! duerft' ich fassen Ah! might I fold
Und halten ihn! And hold him there!

Und kuessen ihn And could I kiss him
So wie ich wollt', While I may,
An seinen Kuessen Upon his kiss
Vergehen sollt'! I'd die away!



THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

* * * * *

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, together with the new Novel 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. This work
excels the previous brilliant productions of this author. In the present
number is also commenced a new Serial by the author of 'Among the
Pines,' entitled,

A MERCHANT'S STORY,

which will depict Southern _white_ society, and be a truthful history of
some eminent Northern merchants who are largely in 'the cotton trade and
sugar line.'

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_.



[Illustration: THE FINEST FARMING LANDS _WHEAT CORN COTTON FRUITS &
VEGETABLES_]

EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of
Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in
ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

* * * * *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the
beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their
Railroad, 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for
enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for
themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call
THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666, and
a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the
Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of
Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of
climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great
staples, CORN and WHEAT.

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