The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2 No 4, October, 1862

Let us continue by singing:

'TRELAWNEY.'

Shall Freedom droop and dieAnd we stand idle by,When countless millions yet unbornWill ask the reason why?If for her flag on high,You bravely fight and die,Be sure that God on his great rollWill mark the reason why.But should you basely fly.Scared by the battle-cry,Then down through all eternityYou'll hear the reason why.

'Great Onion victory!' cried a little newsboy, lately, through the streets of a certain village, wherein we were 'over-nighting,' as the Germans say. He had not well learned orthoëpy, and held that u-n, un, was to be pronounced as in 'unctuous.' Still there are some droll sounds to be extracted from the word—witness the following song in which by a slight modulation of sound the word Union is made a war-cry to advance:

DE-CAMPING SONG

U-ni-on—you an' I on!It's time that you and I were gone;Gone to fight with all our might,And drive the rebels left and right;There is Uncle Sam, and I am Sam's Son,And we'll crush the Philistines with you an' I on.

CHORUS.

U-ni-on—you an' I on!It's time that you an' I were gone.U-ni-on, are you nigh on?It's time we were there, and the fight were won;O Old Samson! you never knewWhat this Sam's son, when he tries, can do;Your jaw-bone made the enemy flee—They shall walk jaw-bone from Tennessee.U-ni-on—you an' I on!It's time that you an' I were gone.

Reader, if the great call should come, drafting the whole North, why, pack up your blankets and travel, light of heart, remembering that when you are there, the secession-pool of rebellion must 'dry up' in a hurry.

Much has been said as to the degree of complicity in which the confederates were guilty in stirring up savages against us. In a 'Secesh' poem which 'De Bow' declares to be among the best which belong to the war, we find the following, which seems to have been written in the Indian interest:

'Our women have hung their harps away,And they scowl on your brutal bands,While the nimble poignard dares the dayIn their dear defiant hands;They will strip their tresses to string our bowsEre the Northern sun is set;There's faith in their unrelenting woes,There's life in the old land yet.'

Now it is very evident that if the author of the lyric was not describing Indian squaws when he alluded to the 'scowling' females whose 'nimble poignards dare the day,' he certainly ought to have been. But the allusion to 'the bows,' settles the matter. Bows and arrows are not used in the confederate army, though they are by Albert Pike's Indians—enough said.

But if the secessionists will come North, and hemp should give out, we may find a new application, with a slight alteration to the verse in question. For then our women of the North may

'Strip their tresses to string your beaux.'

And serve 'em right, too. That's all. But really, if this be, in the opinion of the first magazine of the South, one of the best of Southern poems, what must the 'common sort' be?'

GONE

BY H. L. SPENCERGone! the South winds come again,Sweeping over bill and plain,Murmuring through the sombre pines,Singing o'er the budding vines,Bringing with them birds that singAll the glories of the spring;But they bring not back to meThe boy without whose smile earth's smilesI never see.His bed the wood-nymphs strowWith all the flowers that blow,And the sweet tones of their minim harpsHis quiet slumbers lull;For Nature was his joy,And he was Nature's toy:Where sleeps the peerless boy,She scatters with a lavish handThe bright, the beautiful.He reigns, though lost to sight!Through the long day and nightIs his sweet influence shedAround the paths I tread:He is not lost—ah! no—he is not dead.Not dead! his voice I hearWhen South winds murmur near;I feel, when stars arise,His soft and loving eyes,And from the forest flowerHis face at evening hourSmiles on me as of old,And dreamily my neck his tiny arms enfold.Not lost to joy, but lost to pain,Which never shall he feel again;Earth's acrid fruits he shall not taste,And wrong it were to chide the hasteWith which he left this barren field,That with its flowers so few, so many thorns doth yield.I can not mourn my king, for hisStill, still the kingdom is,And the cares which earth-bred kings annoy,No more disturb my king—my boy.

Do you smoke? If so, read the following:

IS SMOKING BENEFICIAL?

Leaning from the balcony of the old hotel at Stresa, on the Lago Maggiore, the old hotel kept by Papa Bolangaro, and watching the sunset over Isola Bella and the lake, my friend Blome knocked away the ashes from his Vevay segar—wretched segars those—and dreamily gazed at the beautiful scene before him.

Vino Barbera, as they wrote its name in the bill, was not a bad wine; a bottle of it assisted imagination as a percussion-cap does the powder in your rifle. In the present ease it also brought on an explosion, for as Blome knocked off the segar-ashes for the second time, he heard a loud exclamation from a balcony on the primo piano below him. He looked down. You have seen, I have seen, all the world has seen the Italian woman of paintings and engravings—black eyes, black hair, golden and red-peach complexion—there she was.

My friend passed down apologies for his oversight; an oversight—bowing preux-chevalier-ly—he was afraid unpardonable, when he saw the object he had overlooked. The beautiful Italian received the apology most charmingly. It proved the overture to a brilliant adventure culminating in Milan.

'You observe,' said Blome to me, 'what real benefits can be derived from smoking. Here have I formed the acquaintance of a very pretty woman, who will fall desperately in love with me, who will call me by my first name within two days, all through segar-ashes. I had a friend in Jena once, the university-town–'

'Where you got that sword-cut over the cheek?'

'Where I received it. Good! My friend in Jena was a theological student, a very steady young man. While others would come reeling home from the beer-kneips, he would be careful always to keep steady and under gentle sail; but he had one weakness, a want of confidence while in the presence of woman—one strong point, pipe-smoking.

'One afternoon he was smoking a pipe at his chamber-window, and regarding the passers-by in the street below. When his pipe was smoked out, he emptied its ashes in the street; as he did so, he looked down, Himmel! The ashes fell on the head of Fräulein Baumann, who dwelt in the same house in the story below him, and who was at that time knitting a pair of stockings and also looking at the passengers in the street.

'The theological student drew his head in from the window with the quickness of a turtle. He sat down and meditated.

'Now Fräulein Baumann was a good-hearted blonde, very well calculated to make a good wife to somebody, and her mother, the widow Baumann, determined that this calculation should become a mathematical certainty the first time there was any opportunity of its becoming a fixed fact. She had for some time regarded our student as the coming man. When he flung ashes at her daughter's head, the mother said to her daughter:

"Angelika, thou must find time to make a potato-salad, and see that the smoked goose is well cooked on thy wedding-day.'

"Ma, when am I going to be married, and who to?'

"Stille! here comes thy husband.'

'With great trembling the student summoned up force enough to descend the stairs, in order to make a humble apology to the Fräulein for the ashes accident. He knocked at the Frau Baumann's door, and asked to see the Fräulein; but lo! her mother stood before him with a very affable air.

"Mad-dad-ame, I have called in—in, in relation to your d—d-daughter. I–'

"Are you not the theological student, Herr Müller, who lives overhead?' asked Frau Baumann.

"I am, Mad-dame. I–'

"Be seated, I pray you, and O mein Herr! I am so glad to learn from your own lips the declaration of your love for my dearest, best, kindest daughter, Angelika. She will make you the best of wives; a nurse in affliction, a companion in distress, a soother in sorrow, a housekeeper in tribulation, a—but here she is! Angelika, my daughter, behold the Herr Müller, who has sought thy hand; give him the betrothal kiss.' Here Frau Baumann bursting into tears, left the room and the young people together.

'I draw a curtain over the thunderstruck theological student. He went in about ashes and was coming out with hymeneal torches! Before he knew where he was, he had given the betrothal kiss, and one year afterward married the blonde Angelika. If you ever meet an old lady who says smoking is beneficial, you may be sure her name is Frau Baumann, mother-in-law of our theological student.'

Shoddy is not so much heard of now. But he still lives—especially in memory and in poetry—videlicet.

'SHODDY.'

BY J. IVES PEASEOld Shoddy sits in his easy-chair,And cracks his jokes and drinks his ale,Dumb to the shivering soldier's prayer,Deaf to the widows' and orphans' wail.His coat is warm as the fleece unshorn;Of a 'golden fleece' he is dreaming still:And the music that lulls him, night and morn,Is the hum-hum-hum of the shoddy-mill.Clashing cylinders, whizzing wheels,Rend and ravel and tear and pick;What can resist these hooks of steel,Sharp as the claws of the ancient Nick?Cast-off mantle of millionaire,Pestilent vagrant's vesture chill,Rags of miser or beggar bare,All are 'grist' for the shoddy-mill.Worthless waste and worn-out wool,Flung together—a specious sham!With just enough of the 'fleece' to pullOver the eyes of poor 'Uncle Sam.'Cunningly twisted through web and woof,Not 'shirt of Nessus' such power to kill.Look! how the prints of his hideous hoofTrack the fiend of the shoddy-mill!A soldier lies on the frozen ground,While crack his joints with aches and ails;A 'shoddy' blanket wraps him round,His 'shoddy' garments the wind assails.His coat is 'shoddy,' well 'stuffed' with 'flocks';He dreams of the flocks on his native hill,His feverish sense the demon mocks—The demon that drives the shoddy-mill.Ay! pierce his tissues with shooting pains,Tear the muscles and rend the hone,Fire with frenzy the heart and brain;Old Rough-Shoddy! your work is done!Never again shall the bugle-blastWaken the sleeper that lies so still;His dream of home and glory's past:Fatal's the 'work' of the shoddy-mill.Struck by 'shoddy,' and not by 'shells,'And not by shot, our brave ones fall.Greed of gold the story tells.Drop the mantle and spread the pall.Out! on the vampires! out! on thoseWho of our life-blood take their fill.No meaner 'traitor' the nation knows,Than the greedy ghoul of the shoddy-mill!

Some years ago, a German writer informed his astonished readers: 'Thieves are so rare in America, that I observe, from reading their journals, that those who are curious in such studies are obliged to offer a reward to find them.' To judge from a recent attempt at imposition in New-York, one might suppose that negroes were so rare in this country that we are obliged to imitate them, by way of keeping up the supply. Not long ago, a young woman, named Perry, and a Dr. Perkins, of Oneida county, engaged with a broker of the curb-stone persuasion to show off the lady as a case of gradual external carbonization; it being asserted that for four years her body had gradually been turning to charcoal! Examination by Dr. Mott and others revealed the fact that 'the supposed epidermis was made of woven cotton, into which charcoal mixed with gum had been worked.' This was tightly gummed to the fair dame, who was to have been exhibited 'in style' in a stylish house in Fourth street; but who was taken to Bellevue Hospital, to be 'ungummed,' as the French say of people who are turned out of place and lose their chances—as this damsel did. The incident will doubtless, at a future day, find a conspicuous place in the history of remarkable impostures. As it is, we conclude with the remark of a friend, to the effect that the lady, by putting the Coal On, had brought herself to a Full Stop!

We are indebted to the Amsterdam (N. Y.) Weekly Dispatch for remarks to the effect that The Continental Magazine is reaching a point in American literature seldom gained at so early a period by any young magazine. 'We hail its independence of thought as the development of a new era in the literature of our land. Its matter is high-toned and interesting, it is the most outspoken print we know of, and its outspokenness is the result of a fresh and vigorous life that is not warped by petty conventionalities.'

We thank our editorial friend for his compliment, and sincerely trust that those who have followed us in our career will not disagree with him. We honestly and earnestly believe that we are outspoken and independent, and accountable in no earthly way to any one, or aught save our conscience and the public. We can imagine no measure for the good of the people, which we would not urge heart and soul, and we most certainly know of no public official, in any capacity, whom we should feel bound to spare in the event of his unworthiness becoming patent. We are neither Radical nor Conservative, neither anti-capital nor anti-poor-man's rights, but hold to the great and glorious creed of Labor and Intelligence hand in hand with Capital, and the harmony of their interests. We believe in constantly enlarging the area of human freedom, holding that the freer and more responsible you make a man, the more, as a rule, will you stimulate him to improve himself. And we detest from our very soul the Southern-planter and Northern-democratic-conservative doctrine that society should consist of two grades, the first being the mudsill poor, to whom certain protections and privileges should be granted, and are due by the second or the 'higher classes;' holding that a free American, beyond a good education (to which every tax-payer contributes) should claim 'nothing from any body,' and that the less use is made of such phrases as 'lower orders,' 'aristocracy,' and 'social nobility,' the more creditable will it be for man or woman, let their 'position' be what it will.

This war has inaugurated a new era when earnest, honest thought, and bold straightforward speech alone can effect any thing. It is the time for fearlessness and straightforwardness if there ever was one in our history. We have a great war in hand, and great political reforms and measures of tremendous importance are crowding thickly around it, while others, not less mighty, are looming dimly behind them. The great principles of Republicanism, of man's capacity for self-government, of freedom and of progress, have been brought to 'the struggle for life,' and it depends upon our national American energy and honesty to determine whether they shall live. If they are to live, we shall be first among nations, not in the narrow, wretched sense of old-fashioned diplomacy, but in the high Christian sense of aiding all oppressed humanity in their hopes of attaining their rights. But if these principles are to perish—better would it be for this whole land to become a wilderness, and every life a death, than that we should survive the degradation. We have not yet sunk so low that there is no truth left worth dying for. There was a time when men, women, and children were martyred by countless thousands for their fidelity to the faith that extended the same religious rights to all, and now that time has come again to us, calling for fresh sacrifices to the same principle as regards earthly rights and the common happiness of mankind.

But we believe that the truth will prevail, after a sore trial, and that we shall be rewarded to the full. 'No cross, no crown.' But there is a crown after the cross, and God will give it to us. We are passing through the baptism of fire—and verily we needed it, both South and North. The South had become mad with vanity and aristocracy; the North was, is still, corrupt and rotten beyond all healthy life, with such villainy in 'politics,' and such indifference to all that was noble and honorable through the greed of gold, that honest and able men were cast aside, or at best, used as mere tools by the 'intelligent.' Now we are in the struggle for life, and rascals, whether of the Union or of the confederacy, will sooner or later be tried, tested, and rejected. The people are very patient, and they can be for a long time fooled with this or that man's reputed honesty and ability. But we have come to the time of trial, and the people will soon find who is false and what is true.

It is not to be expected that in one year, or in two, the country will be rid of all the old, corrupt politicians and demagogues who continually work every subject of public interest into the question of a 'party.' But it is gratifying to observe that, whether Radical or Conservative, such men are beginning to be regarded with contempt. In times like these, we, at least, blame no man for honestly advocating any policy which he thinks will aid the Union cause. But the country was never more disgusted than it is at present, with men who use politics as a mere trade by which to live. The infamy which has attached to the miserable and imbecile Buchanan, that type of degraded, pettifogging diplomacy, is rapidly extending to his whole tribe—and their name is legion. It is significant that a bank, whose notes bore as vignette a portrait of the ex-honorable ex-President, has been obliged to call them in, and substitute another device, since so many of the bills were marked beneath the picture with such words as 'traitor,' and 'Judas Iscariot.'

The people are 'all right' in this struggle: but they are awaking very rapidly to the fact that those in power must be honest or able. The coming year is to witness either a grand sifting or a tremendous protest, whose thunder-tones will be heard through all history. It is all very well for conservatives to lay the blame on their enemies and yell for their blood; to recommend the assassination of Charles Sumner, as has been done by one Boston journal; or the hanging of all leading Radicals, as recommended time and again by the New-York Herald; but this will not satisfy the people who can not see how the country is to be saved by holding up and aiding the enemy. Neither, on the other hand, will the people long regard with favor any persons of the opposite party, who are suspected of having managed the war for their own selfish purposes. The old hacks who can only live for personal preferment and for plunder, will be found out, and their places taken by honester and younger men, whose minds will have been shaped, not in by-gone political pettifogging, but in the great earnest needs of the times—in honor and in truth.

Even before authentic copies of General Butler's famed 'Woman Order' had reached us, it was generally understood that he had really done very little more than enforce an already existing local law; yet 'with the word' there went up a squall from the democratic press, clamoring for his instant removal; so angry were the 'Conservatives' that any thing should be said or done which would in any way injure the 'susceptibilities' of their beloved rebel friends.

If we are really at war, it is neither fit nor proper that such expressions of sympathy for the enemy should continually appear, to keep alive in the heart of the foe continual hopes of Northern aid. What does the reader think, for instance, of such a paragraph as the following from the Washington correspondence of the New-York Herald—which has been copied with commendation by its colleagues:

'All conservative men here are shocked at the sweeping measures of confiscation proposed by the radicals. They provide substantially for the abolition of slavery, because slaveholders, for the most part, are considered as rebels by these bills. There are a quarter of a million of slaveholders, and a quarter of a million of other property-holders in the South, that would be made beggars by the execution of this programme. It is pretended that this wholesale confiscation is for the purpose of compensating for the expenses of the war; but none will dare to go into the Africanized South among an infuriated people to purchase estates. It is proposed, also, to arm the negroes, and in effect make them superior to the million of whites, who are to be deprived of their property. Of course, under such circumstances, there will be no cotton or other crops, nor any demand for Northern manufactures from the South.'

Really! and so legislation at Washington is to be conducted with special reference to protecting the property of the rebels! No confiscation, forsooth, because the half million of rebels who have plunged us into this iniquitous and horrible war, in the hope of utterly ruining us, might thereby be reduced to poverty! Northern men may pay a million a day in taxes, but the select slaveholding few who caused the taxation are to be exempted. How shallow is the concluding 'of course, under such circumstances there will be no demand for Northern manufactures from the South.' Will there not? Wait until the South has been well subdued, thoroughly Butlered and vigorously Northed; wait till the Yankee is at home there, and then see if there will be 'no demand for Northern manufactures.' Quite as tender to the rebels is the spirit of the following from the Boston Post of May 31st:

'Senator Sumner,' a correspondent writes, 'in an argument against the proposed tax on cotton, not only opposed it as an act of injustice to the unrepresented South—for grain, hemp, and flax are left untouched—but as oppressive on manufacturers.' Mr. Sumner's sense of justice is called into exercise only when it suits its owner's convenience. He has no thought of 'injustice to the unrepresented South,' when he wishes to tax negroes, emancipate slaves, and confiscate Southern property.'

Such remarks require no comment. If a rebel in arms, disgraced by every infamy of treason, is only to be treated as his representatives would like, then it is indeed time for the honest friends of the Union to inquire what safeguard we have in the future against national ruin?

MY MOCKING-BIRD

With wings a-quiver, eyes irate,He watched me coming near,Each plume upon his panting breastAstir with kindling fear.My hand, though always kindly stretched,He would not think it good;And as I placed some sugar in,He pecked, and drew my blood.So have I seen the souls caged here,To learn celestial speechFrom angels chanting love so nearThey seemed within arm reach;When closer to them drew God's power,In wrath or terror stand;And while he dropped the sweet, dart upAnd rend His dear, warm hand.

The London Times is becoming malignantly consistent, and has declared that there should be at present nothing more said of intervention in American affairs, because it would have the effect to immediately strengthen the Federal army.

'If we wish to give the Civil War a new impetus, to recruit for the North with a vigor with which they never can again recruit for themselves, we have only to take some step, we do not say what step, but any step which can be represented as being an interference on our part in the quarrel. The spirit of conquest is worn out, but we know the Americans too well to doubt that the spirit of national independence is as strong as ever. If we interfere at all, we assist Mr. Lincoln to raise his three hundred thousand men, we give a new impetus to the war, and postpone indefinitely the chances of peace, which will never come till the North has been convinced that it is useless to prosecute the war any further. To do nothing is often the wisest, but generally the most difficult policy. We hope that, unless some complete change in the conditions of the problem take place, our government will on no account allow itself to be tempted out of its present policy of expressive silence and masterly inaction.'

The Times speaks too late. One year ago it did not express the sentiments of all England—now unfortunately we find that it has not only poisoned all Great Britain, but is rapidly stirring up Europe against us. The steady stream of falsehood; the reports of Federal defeats which never occurred, and of confederate victories more unfounded, are gradually weakening the faith even of Americans abroad in the great cause of freedom. Let our people arm and out, in all their strength. England and France are only waiting for reverses to our Government to attack us right and left.