Continental Monthly Volume 1 Issue 3 by Various
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Various >> Continental Monthly Volume 1 Issue 3
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FALLEN.
BY EDWARD S. RAND.
Blow gently, Oh ye winter winds,
Along the ferny reaches,
Nor whirl the yellow leaves which cling
Upon the saddened beeches;
And gently breathe upon the hills
Where spring's first violets perished,--
Died like the budding summer hopes
Our hearts too fondly cherished.
Oh memory, bring not back the past,
To brim our cup of sorrow;
The drear to-day creeps on to bring
A drearier to-morrow.
Can streaming eyes and aching hearts
Glow at the battle's story,
Or they who stake their all and lose
Exult in fame and glory?
Oh, lay them tenderly to rest,
Those for their country dying,--
Let breaking hearts and trembling lips
Pour the sad dirge of sighing.
Yet louder than the requiem raise
The song of exultation,
That the great heritage is ours
_To die to save the nation_.
In patience wait, nor think that yet
Shall Right and Freedom perish,
Nor yet Oppression trample down
The heritage we cherish!
For still remember, precious things
Are won by stern endeavor,--
Though in the strife our heart-strings break,
The Right lives on forever.
* * * * *
When you write let your chirography be legible. Strive not overmuch
after beauty of finish, make not your _a_'s like unto _u_'s or your
_o_'s like _v_'s; let not your heart be seduced by the loveliness of
flourishes, and be not tempted of long-tailed letters. Above all, write
your own name distinctly,--which is more than many do, and much more
than was done by the gentleman described in the following letter from a
kindly correspondent:--
MADISON, WIS.
DEAR CONTINENTAL:
The holder of any considerable quantity of Wisconsin currency is
liable not only to the occasional loss consequent upon the
absquatulation of a tricksy wild-cat, but also to great perplexity
as to the name of the gentleman who countersigns the bills. These
inscrutable counter-signatures are accomplished by ROBERT MENZIES,
our excellent Deputy Bank Comptroller. His cabalistic 'R. Menzies'
does not greatly resemble a well-executed specimen of copperplate
engraving. The initial 'R' is always plain enough, but the
'Menzies' is sometimes read Moses, and sometimes Muggins, and is
always liable to be translated Meazles.
Mr. MENZIES is a Scotchman, brimful of Caledonian lore and
enthusiasm. His penmanship is not always so sublimely obscure as
his performances on bank-paper would indicate; but in its best
estate it is capable of sometimes more than one reading. Witness
the following instance: In the winter of 1858 and '9, Mr. MENZIES
delivered a very interesting lecture, before a literary society,
in Prairie du Chien; subject, THE SONG-WRITERS OF SCOTLAND. Mr. M.
not residing at Prairie du Chien, the lecture was, of course, the
subject of a preliminary correspondence. At the meeting of the
society next previous to the one when the lecture was delivered,
Elder BRUNSON, the president, announced that he had received a
letter from Mr. MENZIES, accepting the invitation to lecture
before the society, and naming as the subject of his lecture 'THE
LONG WINTERS or SCOTLAND.'
* * * * *
Readers who are afflicted with the isothermal doctrine may experience
some benefit from the perusal of a letter for which we are indebted to a
friend not very far 'out West:'--
SPRINGFIELD, MASS.
DEAR CONTINENTAL:
I have a friend who would be sound on the goose, as I verily
believe, and a patriotic anti-Jeff Davis platform Emancipator, if
he hadn't unfortunately picked up a fine learned word. That word
is
ISOTHERMAL.
And that word he carries about as a hen carries a boiled
potato--something too big to swallow but nice to peck at. And he
pecks at it continually.
'I could admit that the slaves should be free,' he says, 'but then
nature, you know, has fixed an isothermal line. She has
isothermally deemed that south of that line the black is
isothermally fitted to isothermalize or labor according to the
climate as a slave.'
'Good,' I replied. 'So you admit that all anthropological
characteristics as developed by climate are quite right?'
[He liked that word 'anthropological,' and assented.]
'Good again. Well, then, you must admit that to judge by
statistics there is an isothermal line of unchastity, or "what
gods call gallantry," and further north, one of drunkenness? How
much morality is there in a tropical climate? How many temperate
men to the dozen in Scandinavia or Russia?'
My isothermalist attempted a weak parry, but failed. When he
recovers I will inform you.
YOURS TRULY.
P.S. I am preparing a series of tables by which I hope to prove
the existence of the following isothermalities:
A Lager-beer line.
A Tobacco-chewing line.
A reading of TUPPER and COVENTRY PATMORE line.
A CREAM CHEESE line.
A Doughface line.
And a Clothes line.
* * * * *
We are indebted to R. WOLCOTT for the following sketch of War Life:--
'TAKEN PRISONER.'
It was a terrible battle. Amid the rattle of musketry and
whistling of bullets, the clashing of sabres, the unearthly cries
of wounded horses and the wild shouting of men, the clear voice of
Lieutenant Hugh Gregory rang out: 'Rally! my brave boys, rally,
and avenge the Captain's death!'
'Not quite so fast, sir,' quietly remarked a rebel officer,
bringing his sword to a salute; 'you observe that your men are
retreating and you are my prisoner.'
Hugh saw that it was so, and with a heavy heart gave himself up.
'Hurrah for the stars and stripes!' shouted a brave young soldier,
attempting to raise himself upon his elbow, but falling back,
exhausted from the loss of blood.
'Damn you, I'll stripe you!' exclaimed a brutal fellow, rising in
his stirrups and aiming a blow at the wounded man.
'Dare to strike a helpless man!' shouted his commander; and he
warded off the blow with a stroke that sent the fellow's sabre
spinning into the air. 'Now dismount, and help him if you can.'
But it was too late; the brave soul had gone out with those last
words.
'Lieutenant,' said the rebel officer, whom we will know as Captain
Dumars, 'I see that you are wounded. Let me assist you upon this
horse, and one of my sergeants will show you the surgeon's
quarters.' And he bound up the wounded arm as well as he could,
helped him upon the horse, and, with a playful _Au revoir_, rode
on.
Hugh's wound was too painful, and he was too weak and tired, to
wonder or to think clearly of anything; he only felt grateful that
his captor was a gentleman, and quietly submitted himself to the
sergeant's guidance.
The battle was ended,--in whose favor it does not matter, so far
as this story is concerned,--and Captain Dumars obtained
permission to take Lieutenant Gregory to his mother's house until
he should recover from his wound or be exchanged.
When Hugh found himself established in a pleasant little chamber
with windows looking out upon the flower-garden and the woods
beyond, fading away into his own loved North land, he thought
that, after all, it was not so terrible to be a prisoner of war.
He was decidedly confirmed in this opinion when he occasionally
caught a glimpse of the lithe form of Annie Dumars flitting about
among the flowers; and being somewhat of a philosopher, in his
way, he determined to take it easy.
The presence of one of the 'Hessians' at Mrs. Dumars' house gave
it much the same attraction that is attached to a menagerie.
Feminine curiosity is an article that the blockade can not keep
out of Dixie, and many were the morning calls that Annie received,
and many and various were the methods of pumping adopted to learn
something of the prisoner,--how he looked, how he acted, how he
was dressed, and so forth.
'Impertinence!' he heard Annie exclaim, as one of these gossips
passed through the gate, after putting her through a more minute
inquisition than usual. And he heard dainty shoe-heels impatiently
tapping along the hall, and when she brought in a bouquet of fresh
flowers he saw in her face traces of vexation.
'I seem to be quite a "What-is-it?"'
'Shame!'--and she broke off a stem and threw it out of the window
with altogether unnecessary vehemence.
'Splendid girl!' thought Hugh; 'where have I seen her?'
And he turned his thoughts back through the years that were past,
calling up the old scenes; the balls, with their mazy, passionate
waltzes, and their promenades on the balcony in the moonlight's
mild glow, when sweet lips recited choice selections from Moore,
and white hands swayed dainty sandal-wood fans with the potency of
the most despotic sceptres; the sleigh-rides, with their wild
rollicking fun, keeping time to the merry music of the bells and
culminating in the inevitable upset; the closing exercises of the
seminary, when blooming girls, in the full efflorescence of
hot-house culture, make a brief but brilliant display before
retiring to the domestic sphere--Oh, yes--
'Miss Dumars, were you not at the ---- Institute last year?'
'Yes.'
'Then you know my cousin,--Jennie Gregory?'
'Yes, indeed:--and you are her cousin. How stupid in me not to
recollect it.'
And she told him how that 'Jennie' was her dearest friend, and
how in their intimacy of confidence she had told her all about
him, and shown her his picture, and--in short, Hugh and Annie
began to feel much better acquainted.
It was a few days after this that Hugh sat by the open window,
listening to Annie reading from the virtuous and veracious
_Richmond Enquirer_. Distressed by what he heard, not knowing
whether it was true or not, he begged her to cease torturing him.
She laid aside the paper with an emphatic 'I don't believe it!'
that could not but attract his attention, and he looked up in
surprise.
'I must tell you, Mr. Gregory--I have been tortured long enough by
this forced secrecy--_I am a rebel!_'
'That is the name we know you by,' he replied, smiling.
'But I am a _rebellious_ rebel. Yes,' she added, rising, 'I detest
with all my heart this wicked, causeless rebellion. I detest the
very names of the leaders of it. And yet I am compelled to go
about with lies upon my lips, and to act lies, till I detest
myself more than all else! I have consoled myself somewhat by
making a flag and worshiping it in secret. I will get it and show
it to you.'
'This,' she continued, returning with a miniature specimen of the
dear old flag, 'a _real_ flag, the emblem of a real living nation,
must be kept hidden, its glorious lustre fading away in the dark,
while that,' pointing to where the 'stars and bars' were
fluttering in the breeze, 'that miserable abortion is insolently
flaunted before our eyes, nothing about it original or
suggestive--except its stolen colors, reminding us of the
financial operations of Floyd! Oh, if hope could be prophecy--if a
life that is an unceasing prayer for the success of the federal
arms could avail, it would not be long before this bright banner
would wave in triumph over all the land, its starry folds gleaming
with a purer, more glorious light than ever!'
And as she stood there, with eyes uplifted as in mute prayer, and
fervently kissed the silken folds of the flag, Hugh wished that
his station in life had been that of an American flag.
Time passed on, and the prisoner was to be exchanged for a rebel
officer of equal rank. Captain Dumars brought him the
intelligence, and was surprised at the seeming indifference with
which he received it.
'You don't seern particularly elated by the prospect of getting
among the Yankees again.'
'I am eager to take my sword again; but my stay here has been far
from unpleasant. You, Captain, have been away so much that I have
not been able to thank you for making my imprisonment so pleasant.
I am at a loss to know why you have shown such favor to me
especially.'
'This is the cause,' replied the Captain, laying his finger upon a
breast-pin that Hugh always wore upon his coat, at the same time
unbuttoning his own; 'you see that I wear the same.'
It was a simple jewel, embellished only by a few Greek characters,
but it was the emblem of one of those college societies, in which
secrecy and mystery add a charm to the ties of brotherhood. And it
was this fraternal tie, stronger than that of Free-Masonry,
because more exclusive, that made Hugh's a pleasant imprisonment,
and made him happy in the love of one faithful among the
faithless, loyal among many traitors. For of course the reader has
surmised--for poetic justice demands it--that Hugh fell
desperately in love with Annie, and Annie _ditto_ Hugh. How he
told the tender tale, and how she answered him,--whether with the
conventional quantity of blushes and sighs, or not,--is none of
your business, reader, or mine; so don't ask me any questions.
It was the evening of the day before Hugh's departure. They, Annie
and Hugh, sat in the little porch, silent and sad, watching the
shadows slowly creeping up the mountain side towards its
sun-kissed summit, like a sombre pall of sorrow shrouding a bright
hope.
'And to-morrow you are free.'
'No, Annie, not free. My sword will be free, but my heart will
still linger here, a prisoner. But when the war is over, and the
old flag restored--'
'Then,' and here her eyes were filled with the glorious light of
prophetic hope, '_I_ will be _your_ prisoner.'
And still Hugh is fighting for the dear old flag; and still Annie
is praying for it, and waiting for the sweet imprisonment.
There has been many as sweet a romance as this, reader, acted ere this,
during the war. Would that all captivity were as pleasant!
* * * * *
'I would not live alway,' says the hymn, and the sentiment has, like
every great truth, been set forth in a thousand forms. One of the most
truly beautiful which we have ever met is that of
THE CITY OF THE LIVING.
In a long-vanished age, whose varied story
No record has to-day,
So long ago expired its grief and glory--
There flourished, far away,
In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all measure
A city fair and wide,
Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and pleasure
And never any died.
Disease and pain and death, those stern marauders,
Which mar our world's fair face,
Never encroached upon the pleasant borders
Of that bright dwelling-place.
No fear of parting and no dread of dying
Could ever enter there--
No mourning for the lost, no anguished crying
Made any face less fair.
Without the city's walls, death reigned as ever,
And graves rose side by side--
Within, the dwellers laughed at his endeavor,
And never any died.
O, happiest of all earth's favored places!
O, bliss, to dwell therein--
To live in the sweet light of loving faces
And fear no grave between!
To feel no death-damp, gathering cold and colder,
Disputing life's warm truth--
To live on, never lonelier or older,
Radiant in deathless youth!
And hurrying from the world's remotest quarters
A tide of pilgrims flowed
Across broad plains and over mighty waters,
To find that blest abode,
Where never death should come between, and sever
Them from their loved apart--
Where they might work, and will, and live forever,
Still holding heart to heart.
And so they lived, in happiness and pleasure,
And grew in power and pride,
And did great deeds, and laid up stores of treasure,
And never any died.
And many yers rolled on, and saw them striving
With unabated breath,
And other years still found and left them living,
And gave no hope of death.
Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity,
Craving a boon like this--
Mark how the dwellers in the wondrous city
Grew weary of their bliss.
One and another, who had been concealing
The pain of life's long thrall,
Forsook their pleasant places, and came stealing
Outside the city wall,
Craving, with wish that brooked no more denying,
So long had it been crossed,
The blessed possibility of dying,--
The treasure they had lost.
Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals
Swelled to a broader tide,
Till none were left within the city's portals,
And graves grew green outside.
Would it be worth the having or the giving,
The boon of endless breath?
Ah, for the weariness that comes of living
There is no cure but death!
Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity,
Were that sweet rest denied;
And few, methinks, would care to find the city
Where never any died!
* * * * *
Does the reader recall DEAN SWIFT'S account of the immortal Strudlbrugs
and their undying miseries--it is in the City of Laputu, we believe.
Their life was passed as if in such a city. Ah, death! it is, after all,
only birth in another form. And to step to the ridiculous, we are
reminded of an
EPITAPH IN A DEDHAM CHURCHYARD.
I've paid the debt which all must pay,
Though awful to my view,
On frightful rocks where billows poured,
And broken buildings flew.
The cruel Death has conquered me;
The victory is but small,
For I shall rise and live again,--
And Death himself shall fall.
* * * * *
There are not many of those who 'read the papers,' who have not met from
time to time with the quaint experiences of THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR,--a
gentleman who, in the columns of the _Buffalo Republican_, and more
recently in the spicy _Cleveland Plain Dealer_, has often wished that
his too, too solid flesh would melt. It is with pleasure that we welcome
him to our pages in the following original sketch:--
THE 'FAT CONTRIBUTOR' AS A GYMNAST.
'But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks.'
RICHARD III.
Says the cardinal in the play--'In the bright lexicon of youth
there's no such word as fail.' Without stopping to discuss the
reliability of a lexicon that omits words in that careless manner,
I must say that in the dictionary of fat men who aspire to
gymnastics that word distinctly occurs. I had my misgivings, but
was over-persuaded by my friends. They said gymnastics would
develop muscular strength, thus enabling me to _hold_ my flesh in
case it attempted to run away. They added, as an additional
incentive, that the spectacle of a man who weighs nearly three
hundred pounds, doing the horizontal ladder, climbing a slack-rope
hand over hand, or suspending his weight by his little finger,
would be a 'big thing.' I asked them how I was to attain that end.
'By practice,' was the reply; 'practice makes perfect.' It
did;--it made a perfect fool of me, as you shall see.
I never had much taste for feats requiring physical effort, except
lifting--lifting with my teeth. The amount of beef, pork, mutton
and vegetables that I have lifted in that way is immense. After
hearing Dr. WINSHIP lecture, I practiced lifting a flour barrel
with a man inside of it, and finally succeeded in holding it out
at arm's length. [I may remark incidentally that the barrel _had
no heads in it_.]
To return to the case in hand (and a case in hand is worth two in
the bush): I was deluded into purchasing a season ticket in the
gymnasium, and one afternoon I sought the locality. A number were
exercising in various ways, and I laid off my coat preparatory to
'going in.' As I bent down to adjust a pair of slippers, I heard
some rapid steps behind me, and the next instant a pair, of hands
and a man's head fell squarely on my back, a pair of heels smote
together in the air, and with a somersault the gymnast regained
the ground several feet in advance of me. I assumed an indignant
perpendicular, when the fellow turned with well-feigned amazement
and stammered forth an apology. Bent over as I was, he had
mistaken me for a heavily padded 'wooden horse,' which formed a
portion of the apparatus.
Desiring to be weighed from time to time, in order that I might
note the effect of gymnastics upon my tonnage, I asked one, who
was resting after prodigious efforts to wrench his arms off at a
lifting machine, if there were scales convenient. He surveyed me
for a moment--looked puzzled--and finally replied
hesitatingly,--'Y-e-s, I think we can manage it.' He led the way
to a window overlooking the Ohio canal. 'Do you see that
building?' said he, pointing to a low structure on the heel path
side, extending partly over the canal. I intimated that the fabric
in question produced a distinct impression on the optic nerves,
and inquired its use. '_Weigh-lock_' he shrieked; '_go and be
weighed!_'
'_Go and be d----d!_' I yelled, furious at being thus victimized;
but my angry and profane rejoinder was lost in the shout of
laughter that went up from the assembled athletes.
Natural abhorrence of jokes, practical or otherwise, is a trait
among my people; it runs in the family, like wooden legs. I
immediately sought the boss gymnaster and related the manner in
which I had been introduced to his elevating establishment. I told
him I had come there neither to be made a horse of by one nor an
ass of by another. He pledged his word that the like should not
occur again, and I was appeased.
I first attempted the parallel bars, but they were never intended
for men of my breadth. My hands giving way, I became so firmly
wedged between the bars that it was necessary to cut one of them
away in order to release me. A wag pronounced it a feat without a
parallel.
The horizontal bar next claimed my attention. I had seen others
hang with their heads down, suspended by their legs alone, and the
trick appeared quite easy of execution. I succeeded in suspending
myself in the manner indicated, but--_revocare gradum_--when I
attempted to regain the bar with my hands, it was no go. I was in
a perspiration of alarm at once; my legs grew weak; my head swam
from the rush of blood; twist and squirm as I would, I couldn't
reach the bar with the tip end of a finger even. My head was four
or five feet from the ground, so that a fall was likely to break
my neck, and when my frantic efforts to clutch the bar with my
hands failed, I shrieked in very desperation. Men came running to
my aid. They raked the tan bark, with which the ground was strewn,
in a pile beneath me, to break my fall as much as possible, and,
relaxing my hold of the bar, I came down in a heap, rolled up like
a gigantic caterpillar, and dived head and shoulders into the tan
bark, where I was nearly smothered before I could be extracted. It
was a terrible fright, but I escaped with a few bruises.
My brief career as a gymnast terminated with the 'ladder act.' I
felt unequal to the task of drawing myself up the ladder (which
was slightly inclined from the perpendicular), as I had seen
others do, but once at the top I believed I could lower myself
down. A purchase was rigged in the roof, by which I was hoisted to
the top of the ladder, some thirty feet from the ground, when,
grasping a round firmly with my hands, the purchase was
disconnected from my waist belt, and I began the descent. It was
very severe on the arms, and I desired to rest myself by placing
my feet on a round, but my protuberant paunch would not permit it.
When I had accomplished about half the distance in safety, a round
snapped suddenly with the unusual weight. I remember clutching
frantically at the next, which broke as did the other; then
followed a sensation of falling, succeeded by a collision as
between two express trains at full speed, and I knew no more. When
I recovered consciousness, I was in my own bed, and four surgeons
were endeavoring to set my broken leg with a stump extractor.
Gymnastics are a little out of my line.
FAT CONTRIBUTOR.
Unlike BRUMMEL, _we_ know who our fat friend is, and shall be happy to
see him again.
* * * * *
'Talbot,' of Washington, one of those who keep the many chronicles of
government, gives us the following from his repertoire:--
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