The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862

'Got all ready. Purty soon up comes one crow, sails round and round, then two or three more, then a few more; they begun to smell meat. Then they flew lower and lower; bime by one settles onto an old dead cedar and begins cawin' for dear life. Then down he comes, then more and more of 'em. Round they come, cawin' and flappin' their wings, clouds of 'em. Guess there was 'bout two hundred settled onto that old kaow.'

'Wish I'd bin there with my gun!' spoke the Squire, intensely excited. 'A feller could have made the most biggest kind of a shot.'

'Wal, we waited, and waited, till the old kaow was black as pitch with 'em. Then Hornblower he nudges me. We got both barrils all ready—big loads in 'em. 'Fire!' says he. I braced my leg up agin my barril; he braced his leg up agin his barril—'

'W-w-what?' said the Squire.

'We give the most all-firedest shove—and over we went, barrels, stones, dirt, and gravil, head-fo'most, spang into them crows and dead kaow! I tell you, for about five minutes I calc'late I never seed sitch fuss, feathers, dirt, and gravil, and kaow-beef flyin' as I did then. Things was mixed up most promiscussedly, you can bet yer life on it! Bime by I sort o' come to, and when I raised up I found I was sittin' onto four dead, crushed crows, Brother Hornblower, and kaow-meat gin'rally. So I dug out and lifted up the game—Brother Hornblower first off. When he cum round a little, says he:

"T-T-Tyler, I con-ceive somethin's give way 'bout these parts!'

"You air about right in your suppostishuns,' says I; 'the gravil bank's busted, and it's a marcy we an't in kingdom kum!'

"Don't talk that way,' says he; 'let's go up and fire a cupple barrels more into the blastid rebbils, fur vengenz.'

"No yer don't, this mornin', as I knows on,' said I; 'I've got enough shootin craws your fashun. Next time I go shootin' crows 'long any boddy, I'm goin' to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil. That kind o' shootin' don't suit my style o' bones—'speehally head-fo'most inter a dead kaow!"

'On-ly four crows killt!' said the Squire, with a groan. 'To think what a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self judishuslously as he came tumblin' onto 'em spang! Wal!' (looking cheeringly to young Tyler,) 'you couldn't do more'n fire both barrils into 'em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?'

THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS

In the desert of Engedi    Lies a valley deep and lone;Softly there the mild air slumbered,    Lovely there the sunlight shone.In the bosom of this valley,    By the path that leads across,Lay a modest velvet carpet    Of the finest, softest moss.But the careless traveler, passing,    Heedless of it went his way;Thus this miracle of beauty    Lone in hidden glory lay.Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter,    Him from distant mountains greet;On to that the stranger hurries,    Past the moss-bed at his feet.Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining    To the evening dew that fell;And its tufted bosom heaving,    Thus its 'plains began to tell:'Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine,    Long its rosy glow to see,Feed their eyes on luring flowers    Whilst their feet tread rude on me!'Now, when mellow rays of sunset    Lingered golden on the trees,Came a weary pilgrim slowly    From the bordering forest leas.This was Jesus, just returning    From his fast of forty days;Worn by Satan's fierce temptations,    He for rest and comfort prays.Sore his sacred feet are blistered,    Wandering o'er the desert-sands;Torn and bleeding from the briers,    Sufferings which the curse demands.When he came upon the moss-bed,    Soon he felt how cool and sweetLay the soft and velvet carpet    'Neath his wounded, bleeding feet.'Then he paused and spake this blessing:    'Gift of my kind Father's love!Fret not, little plant, thy record    Shineth in the book above.By the careless eye unheeded,    Bear thy lowly, humble lot;Thou hast eased my weary walking,    Thou art ne'er in heaven forgot.'Scarcely had he breathed this blessing    On the moss that soothed his woes,When upon its bosom gathered,    Budded, bloomed, a lovely rose!And its petals glowed with crimson    Like the clouds at close of day;And a glory on the mosses    Like the smile of cherubs lay.Then said Jesus to the flower:    'Moss-rose—this thy name shall be—Spread thou o'er all lands, the sweetest    Emblem of humility.Out of lowly mosses budding,    Which have soothed a pilgrim's pain,Thou shalt tell the world what honor    All the lowly, lovely gain.'Hear his words, ye lonely children,    By the world unseen, unknown;Wait ye for the suffering pilgrim,    Coming weary, faint, and lone.Keep your hearts still soft and tender,    Like the velvet bed of moss;God will bless the love you render,    To some bearer of the cross.

In our May number we spoke old Englishly of the Boston demoiselle. In the present number we have:

YE PHILADELPHIA YOUNGE LADYE

Ye Philadelphia young ladye 1s not evir of ruddie milke and blonde hew, like unto hir cosyn of Boston, natheless is shee not browne as a chinkapinn or persymon like unto ye damosylles of Baltimore. Even and clere is hir complexioun, seldom paling, and not often bloshing, whyeh is a good thynge for those who bee fonde of kissing, sith that if ther mothers come in sodanely ther checkes wyll not be sinful tell-tayles of swete and secrete deeds. Of whych matter of blushing itt is gretely to the credyt of the Philadelphienne that shee blosheth not muche, sith that Aldrovandus, and as methynketh also, Mizaldus in his Mirabile Centuries, doe affirme thatt not to bloshe is a sign of noble bloods and gentyl lineage—for itt may bee planely seene that every base-borne churle's daughter blosheth, if thatt yee give hir a poke under ye chinn, whereas ye countesse of highe degre only smileth sweetlie and sayth merily, 'Aha! messire—tu voys que mon joly couer est endormy!' for shee well knoweth that a gentyllman, like ye kynge, can doe noe wronge.

The Philadelphienne dressyth not in garments like unto Joseph, his cote of manie colors, nethir dothe shee put on clothes whych look from afar off like geographie-mapps, where the hues are as well assortyd as iff a paint-mill had bursten and scattered the piggments all pele-mele into everlastynge miscellayneous scatteratioun. For shee doth greately go inn for subdued ratt-color, milde mouse-tints, temperate tea-caddy tones, moderate mode—dyes, gentyll gray—shades, tranquill drabb—tinges, temperate tawny, calm graye, sober ashie, pacifyed slate, mitigated dun, lenientlie dingie, and blandlie cinereous chromattics, since shee hadd a Quakir grandmother on the one syde, ande is too superblie proude on the other, 'to make a pecocke of hirselfe,' as shee wyll telle you whann thatt yee be spattered with the water whych is jetted from hose over ye pavementes. Hee thatt woulde see manye of these swete beeings, shoulde walke in Chestnutt strete whyles thatt shee goeth to shopp, or promenade in Walnutt strete, on Sundaye. And if he can telle mee of a citie on earthe where one can see more prettye, tiny feete, in neater shoos or gaytered bootes, thann hee may then beholde, I wolde fayne knowe where itt is, thatt I maye go there too.

Muche loveth shee little tea-parties where onlie girles bee; and to have ye gentylmen come, aske: 'Damsylle, wherefore walke ye nott in gayer garmentes?' Soe thatt itt often comes to passe thatt whenn walkyng in ye Broade Waye of New-Yorke, yee can tell a Philadelphienne by hir sober yet rich garbe, so that ye Cosmopolite sayth: 'Per ma fe! thatt is a ladye, I know shee is, by the waye shee lookes.' And trulie, as Dan Chaucer sayeth, shee is one:

'Well seemed by her apparaile,She is not wont to great travaile,And whan she kempt is fetously,    And well arraied and richely.Then hath shee done all her journée,Gentyll and faire indede is shee!'

Ye Philadelphia younge ladye loveth to ryde of pleasaunte afternoones out untoe Pointe Breeze, adown ye Necke, in ye Parke, or along ye wynding Wissahickon. Peradventure shee goeth whyles with a beau who speaketh unto hir of love, to whych shee listeneth wyth tendir grace, and replyeth with art, untill thatt they have builded upp betwene them a flirtacioun. From tyme to tyme hee makyth a punn, and shee cryeth, 'Shame!' but itt shames him never a whitt or jott—nay, hee goeth on and maketh yett anothir—ofttimes untill ye horse takyth frighte and runneth awaie. Yett for all this she liketh hym still, so grete is ye love of woman and so enduring hir constancye.

Att other tymes shee ridoth farr and wyde in ye hors-carrs, since in her natyve towne shee can go manye miles for five cents, and two pence whenn shee takes ye other carr. Specially doth shee do this on Saturday forenoons, else weare her neat clothes all in ye evenyng. Then they speke of the newes of ye daye, and praise General! Mac Lellan, and gossipp of ye laste greate partie, where Dorsey dyd serve so well ye terrapines and steamed oysters, and howe thatt itt is verament and trewe thatt Miss Porridge is to live, after hir marriage, in a howse in Locust strete, or peradventure in Spruce, or in Pyne, for in this towne all the stretes are of woode, albeit ye houses are all of bricke.

Ye Philadelphienne spekythe more slowlie in hir speeche than dothe ye New-Yorkere, and ever callyth a calf a cäff, and a laugh a läff, which soundeth far more sweetlie, even like the lingua Toscana in bocca Romana. Shee loveth ye opera even as shee loveth ye ice-creme, whych shee buyeth at Mrs. Burns's, or old Auntie Jackson's, where shee often goeth of warm sumer-nightes. Shee is graceful in hir miene, and gracious in hir manner—trulie, in all ye worlde I know of none sweeter in this laste itemm. And thatt shee may ever keepe up hir pleasante fame for beinge ladyly, gentyll, and fayre, is the herte's prayere of

Clerke Nicholas.

Galli Van T is again active in setting forth the rural trials and troubles of artists—which it seems are many. Listen!

Dear Continental: 'Twas in the merry summer-tide, some seven years since, when I went with a friend catching trout and sketching scenery in the valley of the Connecticut.

We thought we knew the value of a lovely view.

We didn't.

True, we could appreciate it to a dollar, when transferred to canvas. Otherwise we had much to learn.

C. Pia, Esq., and myself were hard at it one morning—making such beautiful sketches, and doing it all with nothing but just a lead-pencil and some paper—as a young admirer of our works was wont to assure her friends. Suddenly appeared a man of great muscle, with pie dish shirt-collar, and a canister-shot-eyed bull-terrier, gifted with seven-tiger power of biting.

'Stop that are!' was his courteous salutation.

'Stop what?'

'Stop making them are d—d picters. I don't have no such doings reound here!'

I looked at C. Pia—he was venomous and unterrified, and I felt encouraged. So I firmly asked the intruder what he meant.

'I mean what I say. There's property there that I'm a goin' to buy. I know what you're arter. You're makin picters of the place for that are in-fernal Kernal Smith who owns the land, so's he can show 'em round and pint out the buildin' lots. And I'll jest lick you like – if you dror another line!'

'See here, young man,' quoth I, 'I've something to say to you. In the first place you're a scamp who would keep a gentleman from getting a fair price for his own property. Secondly, you're an ignorant fellow and don't know what you're talking about. I never heard of your Colonel Smith—I'm not drawing up real estate lots or plots of any kind. Thirdly, I solemnly swear by Minos, Alianthus, Rhododendron, Nebuchadnezzar, and all the infernal gods, that if you touch a hair of our heads I'll see Colonel Smith—I'll map the whole property and advertise it in every newspaper in New-York and Boston till it brings ten thousand dollars an acre. Now sail in—dog or no dog—we'll settle you, any how.'

The glare of fury in our visitor's eyes died away as he listened to this oration.

'Thunder!' he exclaimed; 'what a lot you city fellers with l'arnin' into you do know! Ten thousand dollars an acre! Ad-ver-ti-sin'! What an idee! I guess I'll buy the land on a morgidge right away. Hee, hee, hee—it's a first-rate notion—and I a-dopt it. Mister, if you want a drink o' cider, you can get it at that are red house you see down yander. Good-mornin'!'

And off he went.

'You've made that fellow's fortune—when you ought to have caved his head in,' remarked C. Pia as the two brutes disappeared.

'It is the mission of the artist to benefit every body except himself,' I rejoined. And refilling my pipe I went on with my 'picter.'

Yours truly,Galli Van T.

Truly 'Art is—well—a—it's a great thing, and hath its many lights and shadows,' as Phoenix or some body once ascertained. And we trust that Galli Van T. will continue to depict the same in his peculiarly affecting style.

Among the curiosities of literature which the war has brought forth, one of the most piquant is a little pamphlet entitled, Southern Hatred of the American Government, the People of the North, and Free Institutions, recently published by R.F. Wallcut, of Number 221 Washington street, Boston. It consists entirely of selections from the columns of Southern newspapers—all of them rabid, and we may very truly add, ridiculous; especially since the fortunes of war have made so much of their Bobadil bluster appear like the veriest folly. Many of them are old acquaintances—who, for instance, can have forgotten the following, from the Richmond Whig?

'This war will test the physical virtues of mere numbers. Southern soldiers ask no better odds than one to three Western and one to six of the Eastern Yankees. Some go so far as to say that, with equal weapons, and on equal grounds, they would not hesitate to encounter twenty times their number of the last.'

As regards those who go so far, it may be remarked that by this time they have illustrated Father O'Leary's remark of the people who, not 'belaving in Purgathory, wint further and fared worse.' But there is more of this 'chivalric' spirit in the same article. For instance, it doubts 'whether any society since that of Sodom and Gomorrah' [Paris is entirely too mild an example] 'has been more thoroughly steeped in every species of vice than that of the Yankees.' Infanticide is hinted at as prevailing as extensively as in China. The Yankees 'pursue with envy and malignity every excellence that shows itself among them unconnected with money; and a gentleman there stands no more chance of existence than a dog does in the Grotto del Cano!'

The elegance and refinement of the same editorial from the Whig, appears from the following. A portion, which we omit, is too foully indecent for republication:

' … The Yankee women, scraggy, scrawny, and hard as whip-cord, breed like Norway rats, and they fill all the brothels of the continent.... But they multiply—the only scriptural precept they obey—and boast their millions. So do the Chinese; so do the Apisdæ, and all other pests of the animal kingdom. Pull the bark from a decayed log, and you will see a mass of maggots full of vitality, in constant motion and eternal gyration, one crawling over one, and another creeping under another, all precisely alike, all intently engaged in preying upon one another, and you have an apt illustration of Yankee numbers, Yankee equality, and Yankee greatness.

'We must bring these unfranchised slaves—the Yankees—back to their true condition. They have long, very probably, looked upon themselves as our social inferiors—as our serfs; their mean, niggardly lives—their low, vulgar, and sordid occupations, have ground this conviction into them. But of a sudden, they have come to imagine that their numerical strength gives them power—and they have burst the bonds of servitude, and are running riot with more than the brutal passions of a liberated wild beast. Their uprising has all the characteristics of a ferocious, fertile insurrection.... They have suggested to us the invasion of their territory, and the robbery of their banks and jewelry-stores. We may profit by the suggestion, so far as the invasion goes—for that will enable us to restore them to their normal condition of vassalage, and teach them that cap in hand is the proper attitude of a servant before his master.'

These extracts are from the Richmond Whig—a paper beyond all comparison the most respectable and moderate in the whole South, and by no means of so little weight or character that its remarks can be passed by as mere Southern vaunt and idle bluster signifying nothing. It speaks the deep-seated belief and heartfelt conviction of even the most intelligent secessionists—for the editor of the Whig is not only one of these, but one of the most honest and upright men to be found in Dixie.

'But,' the reader may ask, 'if the man really believes that Yankees are serfs, slaves, vassals of the South, where are his eyes, ears, and common-sense?' Gently, dear reader. When we reflect on the toadying to the South by Northern doughface Democrats in by-gone years—when we recall the abominable and incredible servility with which every thing Southern has been hymned, homaged and exalted—when we remember how vulgar, arrogant, ignorant Southrons have been adored in doughface society where gentlemen whom they were not worthy of waiting on were of but secondary account—when we think of the shallow, pitiful meanness which induces Northern men to rant in favor of that 'institution' which they, at least, know is a curse to the whole country—when we see even now, how, with a baseness and vileness beyond belief, 'democratic' editors continue to lick the hands which smite them, we do not wonder that the Southerner, taking the doughface for a type of the whole North, characterizes all Yankees as serf-like, servile cap-in-hand crawlers and beggars for patronage. For if we were all of the pro-slavery Democracy, and especially of those who even now continue to yelp for Southern rights and grinningly assure patriots that 'under the Constitution they can do nothing to the South,' we should richly deserve all the scorn heaped on us by the 'chivalry.'

We doubt not that, during this bitter war, many incidents have occurred, or will occur, quite like that described in the following simple but life-true ballad:

FRANK WILSON

'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun    Shot his last red arrow up in the west;Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth,    And chased the flush from the mountain's crest.Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire    Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold,And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost,    As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold.The chores were finished; and farmer West,    As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug,Toasted his feet in calm content,    And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug.Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms,    And softly humming a love refrain;With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose,    Washed and warbled his daughter Jane.She was the gift that his dear wife left,    When she died, some nineteen Mays before;The light and the warmth of the old farm-home,    And cherished by him to his great heart's core.A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much    The fashion of feature that made her so;'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes,    And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow.Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms    Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed;Then from the mantle she took some work,    'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed.Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts    Than ever were bodied in word or sound,Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes,    As she knit in the dark yarn round and round.A neighbor's rap at the outer door    Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!'And he came, with stamping of heavy boots,    Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin.Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night.    What news do you get from the village to-day?Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged.    What news do you get from our Company K?''Bad news!—bad news!' He slowly unwinds    His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes.'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night,    And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.'O God! give strength to that writhing heart!    Fling the life back to that whitening cheek!Let not the pent breath forever stay    From the lips, too white and dumb to speak!'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad—too bad,    The finest young man, by far, in this town;Such are the offerings we give to war,    Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.'Neither did notice her faltering step;    Neither gave heed to her quivering hand,That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door,    And spilled the cider upon the stand.But the father dreamed, as he slept that night,    That his darling had met some fearful woe;And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans,    And her slow steps pacing to and fro.II'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring,    The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep,The windows were open to sun and breeze,    The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves    Softly over the old brown roof,And the sunshine, red with savory smoke,    Fell graciously through their emerald woof.Sounds—spring sounds—which the country yields:    Voices of laborers, lowing of herds,The caw of the crow, the swollen brook's roar,    The sportsman's gun, and the twitter of birds,Melted like dim dreams into the air;    'Twas the azure shadow of summer,Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood,    And brought new gladness to eye and ear.But a face looks out to the purple hills,    A wasted face that is full of woe,Wan yet calm, like a summer moon    That has lost the round of its fullest glow.The smooth brown braids still wreathe her head;    Her simple garments are full of grace,As if, with color and taste, she fain    Would ward off eyes from her paling face.'Tis a morning hour, but the work is done;    The house so peacefully bright within,And the wild-wood leaves on the mantel-shelf    Tell how busy her feet have been.She sits by the window and watches a cloud    Fading away in the hazy sky;And 'Like that cloud,' she says in heart,    'When summer is over, I too shall die.'The door-yard gate swings to with a clang,    She must not sadden her father so;She springs to her feet with a merrier air,    And pinches her face to make it glow.But ah! no need; for a ruddier red    Than pinches can bring floods brow and cheek;She stands transfixed by a mighty joy;    For millions of worlds she can not speak.Frank Wilson gathers her close to his heart,    With brightening glance, he reads that glow,And draws from the wells of her joy-lit eyes    The secret he long has yearned to know.'Frank Wilson! living and strong and well;    Were you not killed by the rebels? say!''Thank God! I was not. 'Twas another man—    There were two Frank Wilsons in Company K.'The one church-bell in the distant town    Chimes softly forth for twelve o'clock;Another clang of the door-yard gate,    A sudden hush in the tender talk.She flies to meet him—the transformed child!—    Her heart keeps time to her ringing tread;'O father! he's come!' and she needs no more    To pinch her cheeks to make them red.Marie Mignonette.

A friend who doth such things has kindly jotted down for us the following 'authentics':

Sometimes I have thought that the reply our Irish girl gave the other day, was of the nature of her usual blunders, and again that it meant a good deal. On her return from a funeral, where a man, who had previously lost his wife, had buried his only child, an infant a few weeks old, I asked her how the father appeared?

'Oh! he was a dale sorry; but I guess he's glad to get rid of it!'

It was only a way he had.—Whiggles, on being told that a boy down-town, only sixteen years old, weighed six hundred and fifty pounds, was further enlightened by the information that he weighed that amount of coal on a platform Fairbanks.

The Southern press has proposed that, even in case of defeat, the wealthy class shall retire to their plantations, 'live comfortably' on what they can raise, let cotton go for two years, and thereby starve Europe and the North into a conviction that Cotton is King.

But how will the poor whites of the South like this? What is to become of them? Or what, indeed, is to become of us, if no cotton be forthcoming? The truth is, and every day makes it more apparent, the raising of cotton must pass into other hands. The army has its rights—the right to land-grants—and the only effectual means of putting an end to our dependence on the South will be found in settling soldiers in the cotton country. Texas would be, perhaps, best suited for the purpose, and other regions may be selected as opportunity may suggest. With this course fully determined on, it would hardly be necessary to further agitate Emancipation, it would come of itself, and slave-labor would yield to the energy of the free Northern farmer.