Continental Monthly, Vol. I., No. IV., April, 1862 by Various

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There are millions and millions on the planet to-day,
Of all sorts, and all sizes, all ranks we may say;
There's a rabble of pots, with the dregs and the scum,
And a peerage of pots, above finger and thumb.

Look round in this pottery, look down to the ground,
Where bottle and mug, jug and pottle abound;
From the plebeian throng see the graded array;
There is shelf above shelf of brittle display,
As rank above rank the poor mortals arise,
From menial purpose to princely disguise.

See vessels of honor, emblazoned with cash,
Of standing uncertain, preparing to dash.
See some to dishonor, in common clay-bake,
Figure high where the fire and the flint do partake.

There's the bottle of earth by glittering glass,
As by blood of the gentlest excelling its class,
Becoming instanter
A portly decanter!

There's the lowly bowl, or the basin broad,
By double refinement a punch-bowl lord!
There's the beggarly jug, ignoble and base,
By adornment of art the Portland vase!

But call them, title them, what you will,
They're bound to break, they are brittle still;
No saving pieces, or repairing,
No Spaulding's glue for human erring;
All alike they will go together,
And lie in Potter's field forever.

At length the whole secret of life is told:
'Tis because we're earth, and not of gold,
'Tis because we're ware that beware we must,
Lest we crack, and break, and crumble to dust.

What wonder that men so clash together,
And in the clash so break with each other!
Or that households are full of family jars,
And boys are such pickles in spite of papas!
That the cup of ill-luck is drained to the dregs,
When a man's in his cups and not on his legs!
That meaning should be in that word for a sot,
He's ruined forever--he's going to pot!

So goes the world and its generations,
So go its tribes, and its tribulations;
Crowding together on the stream of time,
It almost destroys the chime of my rhyme,
While they strike, and they grind, and rub and dash,
And are sure to go to eternal smash.
Lamentable sight to be seen here below!
Man after man sinking,--blow after blow,--
A bubble, a choke,--each blow is a knell,--
Broken forever! There's no more to tell.

* * * * *

There _is_ more to tell, of a promise foretold;
Though now 'tis a vessel of homeliest mold,
Yet 'tis that which will prove a crock of gold,
When the crack of doom shall the truth unfold.

'Tis hard to believe, for so seemeth life,
A cruse full of oil, with nothing more rife;
Yet what saith the prophet? It never shall fail:
Life is perennial, of immortal avail.

'Tis hard to believe, for to dust we return,
To lie like the ashes in a burial urn;
But look at the skies! see the heavenly bowers!
The urn is a vase--the ashes are flowers!

'Tis hard to believe; like a jar full of tears,
Life is filled with humanity's griefs and fears;
'Tis a tear-jar o'erflowing, close by the urn,
Even weeping for those in that gloomy sojourn.
And yet, when with time it has crumbled away,
The omnipotent Potter will in that day
Turn again to the pattern of Paradise,
Will fashion it anew and bid it arise,
A jar full adorned and with richest designs,
With tracery covered, and heavenly signs,
With jewels deep-set, and with fine gold inlaid,
Enamel of love,--yes, a nature new made.
And then from the deep bottom, as from a cup
Of blessing, there ever will come welling up
The living waters of a pellucid soul,
A gush of the spirit, from a heart made whole.

So, like the water-pots rough, by the door at the East,
Our purpose will change, and our power be increased,
When we stand in the gate of the Heavenly Feast:
The word will be spoken: we'll flow out with wine
The blood of the true Life, pressed from the true Vine,
Perpetual chalice, inexhaustible bowl,
Of pleasures immortal, overflowing the soul!

Dust we are and to dust we must return--but, as the old epitaph said of
Catherine Gray, who sold pottery,--

'In some tall pitcher or broad pan
She in life's shop may live again,'--

so, in a higher sphere we may all become vases unbreakable, filled with
the wine of life.

* * * * *

Were the enemy in their senses they would probably admit that the
annexed proposal is far from being deficient in common-sense:--

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

I see that it is proposed by the Southern press that the rebels, as they
retreat, shall burn all their tobacco.

I have a proposition to make.

Let General McCLELLAN send a flag of truce and inform them that if they
need any assistance in that work, nothing will give me greater pleasure
than to assist in the consummation.

I have an enormous meerschaum and a corps of friends equally well piped.
If the seceders have no time to ignite the weed, we are quite ready, and
a great deal more willing, considering the late frightful rise in
Lynchburg, to do it for them. I can answer for burning one pound a day
myself. What do you think of it? It isn't traitorous in me, is it, to
thus desire to aid and assist the enemy?

Yours truly,

RAUCHER.

* * * * *

A CURE FOR STEALING.

Far back among the days of yore
There's many a pleasing tale in store,
Rich with the humor of the time,
That sometimes jingle well in rhyme.
Of these, the following may possess
A claim on 'hours of idleness.'
When Governor Gurdon Saltonstall,
Like Abram Lincoln, straight and tall,
Presided o'er the Nutmeg State,
A loved and honored magistrate,
His quiet humor was portrayed
In Yankee tricks he sometimes played.
The Governor had a serious air,
'Twas solemn as a funeral prayer,
But when he spoke the mirth was stirred,--
A joke leaped out at every word.
One morn, a man, alarmed and pale,
Came to him with a frightful tale;
The substance was, that Jerry Style
Had _stolen wood_ from off his pile.
The Governor started in surprise,
And on the accuser fixed his eyes.
'He steal my wood! to his regret,
Before this blessed sun shall set,
I'll put a final end to _that_.'
Then, putting on his stately hat,
All nicely cocked and trimmed with lace,
He issued forth with lofty grace,
Bade the accuser; duty mind,'
And follow him 'five steps _behind_.'
Ere they a furlong's space complete,
They meet the culprit in the street;
The Governor took him by the hand--
That lowly man! that Governor grand!--
Kindly inquired of his condition,
His present prospects and position.
The man a tale of sorrow told--
That food was dear, the winter cold,
That work was scarce, and times were hard,
And very ill at home they fared,--
And, more than this, a bounteous Heaven
To them a little babe had given,
Whose brief existence could attest
This world's a wintry world at best.
A silver crown, whose shining face
King William's head and Mary's grace,
Dropped in his hand. The Governor spoke,--
His voice was cracked--it almost broke,--'If
work is scarce, and times are hard,
There's a _large wood-pile in my yard;
Of that you may most freely use,
So go and get it when you choose_.'
Then on he walked, serenely feeling
That there he'd put an end to stealing.
The accuser's sense of duty grew
The space 'twixt him and Governor too.

* * * * *

'The Anaconda is tightening its folds,' and at every fold the South
cries aloud. The following bit of merry nonsense, which has the merit of
being 'good to sing,' may possibly enliven more than one camp-fire, ere
the last fold of the 'big sarpent' has given the final stifle to the
un-fed-eralists.

THE 'ANACONDA.'

Won't it make them stop and ponder?
Yes! 't will make them stop and ponder!
What?--The fearful Anaconda!
(All.) Yes! The fearful Anaconda!
(Chorus.) Stop and ponder!--Anaconda!
Big and fearful; big and fearful,
Big and fearful Anaconda!

Is not that the Rebel South?
Yes! that is the Rebel South.
Arn't they rather down in month?
(All.) Yes! they're rather down in mouth!
(Chorus.) Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!--Anaconda!
Big and fearful, &c, &c.

Is not that the traitor DAVIS?
Yes! that is the traitor DAVIS!
Don't he wish he could enslave us?
(All.) Yes! he wanted to enslave us!
(Chorus.) Traitor DAVIS, can't enslave us.
Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!--Anaconda!
Big and fearful, &c. &c.

Isn't that the gallows high there?
Yes! that is the gallows high there!
And JEFF DAVIS that I spy there?
(All.) 'Tis JEFF DAVIS that you spy there.
(Chorus.) Hanging high there, DAVIS spy there.
Traitor DAVIS, you enslave us!
Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!--Anaconda!
Big and fearful, big and fearful,
BIG AND FEARFUL ANACONDA!

* * * * *

Our ever-welcome New Haven friend re-appears this month, with the
following jest:--

The other day lawyer JONES, of Hartford, Conn., wrote a letter
to my friend PLOPP, whom he supposed to be in Hartford at the
time. The missive was forwarded to PLOPP, who is in Newport. It
requested him to 'step in and settle.' PLOPP replied:

My dear JONES:--

Yours of 10th is rec'd. I reply,--

1st. I can't step in, because I am not in Hartford.

2d. I can't settle, because I am not in the least riled.

3d. I notice you spell Hartford without a _t._ This is an error.
Allow me, as per example, to suggest the correct orthography, to
wit, Hartford.

I shall always he glad to hear from you.

Yours,

I. PLOPP.

* * * * *

The present aspect of the great question is well set forth by a
correspondent, 'LEILA LEE,' in the following sketch:--

OUR OLD PUMP.

The writer was once placed in circumstances of peculiar
interest, where a word in season was greatly needed, and that
word was not spoken, because it would have been thought unseemly
that it should fall from the lips of a woman. Our supply of
water had failed. The well was deep, and, like Jacob's well,
many had been in the habit of coming thither to draw. My father
had called in advisers, men of experience, and they decided that
the lower part of the pump was rotten, and must be removed. It
had probably stood there more than fifty years, and had been so
useful in its day, that it was like an old and familiar friend.

The work was commenced, and all the family stood by the closed
window, the children's faces pressed close to the glass, as
with eager eyes we all watched the heavy machinery erected over
the old well. A mother came out of a neighboring house, and
stood with a babe in her arms to see the work. A large rope was
firmly placed around the pump, and made fast to the derrick.
Then came the tug of war, and with a long pull, a strong pull,
and a pull all together, the wooden pump rose up gradually from
its hiding-place of years.

'Oh, mother! mother!' I exclaimed; 'see, the derrick is not long
enough to raise the pump out of the well! Why don't they saw it
off, and take out the old pump in two or three pieces?'

Just then papa screamed to Mrs. Rice, 'Run out of the way,
quick, with your baby!'

There stood all the workmen in dismay. What was to be done? My
father had no idea that he had undertaken such a tremendous job,
and now he was in great perplexity. Who, indeed, could have
believed that the well was deep enough to hold a pump of such
immense size as this, that had become so old and rotten? Oh, for
ropes longer and stronger! Oh, for muscle and nerve! Oh, for men
of herculean strength to meet this terrible crisis! At that
moment, a timely suggestion, from any quarter, would have been
welcome. But, even then, it might have been too late; for the
pump fell with a tremendous crash, carrying with it all the
machinery. Papa fell upon the ground, but the derrick had safely
passed over him, prostrating the fences, and endangering the
lives of the workmen.

This scene, which was soon almost forgotten, is recalled by the
fearful crisis that is now upon us. While we rejoice in our
recent victories, and believe that this wicked rebellion will
soon be subdued, we must rejoice with trembling, so long as
SLAVERY, the acknowledged _casus belli_, still remains. The
unsightly monster, in all its rottenness and deformity, is drawn
up from the hiding-place of ages, and it can no more be restored
to its former _status_, than, at the will of the workmen, our
old pump could be thrust back, when, suspended in the air, it
threatened their destruction. God forbid that our rulers should
desire it! What, then, is to be done? No giant mind has yet been
found to grapple successfully with this great evil--no body of
men who can concentrate a moral power sufficient to remove this
worn-out system, without endangering some interest of vital
importance to our beloved country.

Zion must now lengthen her cords and strengthen her stakes, for
the wisdom of the wise has become foolishness, that God alone
may be exalted. He will surely bring down every high thought,
and every vain imagination, and his own people must learn what
it is 'to receive the kingdom of God as little children.' How
shall liberty be proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of
the land, to all the inhabitants thereof, and, in obedience to
the will of God, this year become a year of jubilee to the poor
and oppressed of our nation? How shall the emancipation of
slavery conduce to the best interest of the master, no less than
to the happiness of the slave?

Probably some very simple solution will be given to this
question, in answer to the earnest cry of God's people. Should
it please him to hide this thought for the crisis from the wise
and prudent, and reveal it unto babes, God grant that it may be
in our hearts to respond, 'Even so, Father, for so it seemeth
good in thy sight.'

* * * * *

The simple solution has already been begun by our Executive, in
recognizing the _principle_--its extraordinary advance among all classes
will soon fully develop it. In illustration of this we quote a letter
which the editor of the New Haven _Journal and Courier_ vouches to come
from an officer in the navy, known to him:--

From what we see and know of the operations of the rebels in
this part of the South (the Southern coast, where he has been
stationed), and from what we see perfidious Englishmen doing for
the rebels, we are fast becoming strong abolitionists. We feel
that _now_ Slavery must receive its death-blow, and be destroyed
forever from the country. You would be surprised to see the
change going on in the minds of officers in our service, who
have been great haters of abolitionists; and the Southerners in
our navy are the most bitter toward those who have made slavery
the great cause of war. They freely express the opinion that the
whole system must be abolished, and even our old captain, who is
a native of Tennessee, and who has hitherto insisted that the
abolitionists of the North brought on this war, said last night,
'If England continues to countenance the _institution_, I hope
our government will put arms in the hands of the slaves, and
that slavery will now be the destruction of the whole South, or
of the rebels in the South.' He further said, 'The slave-holder
has, by the tacit consent and aid of England, brought on the
most unjustifiable, iniquitous and barbarous war ever known in
the history of the world.'

Too far and too fast--it is not Abolition, or the good of the black, but
Emancipation, or the benefit of the _white_ man, which is really
progressing so rapidly with the American people. But whatever causes of
agitation are at work, whether on limited or general principles of
philanthropy and political economy, one thing is at least certain--the
day of the triumph of free labor is dawning, while the cause of progress

'Careers with thunder speed along!'

* * * * *

It is almost a wonder that the late offer of the king of Siam to stock
this land with elephants was not jumped at, when one remembers the
American national fondness for the animal, and how copiously our popular
orators and poets allude to a sight of the monster. Among the latest
elephantine tales which we have encountered is the following, from our
New Haven correspondent:--

Dr. H., of this pleasant city of Elms, has been noted for many
years for always driving the gentlest and most sober, but at the
same time the most fearfully 'homely' of horses. His steeds will
always stand wherever he pleases to leave them, but they have
rather a venerable and woful aspect, that renders them anything
but pleasant objects to the casual observer. A few years ago
there came a caravan to town, and several horses were badly
frightened by the elephants, so that quite a number of accidents
took place. A day or two after, old Dr. Knight met Dr. H., and
speaking of the accidents, Dr. Knight remarked that he had not
dared to take his horse out while the procession was passing
through the streets. 'Oh, ho!' said Dr. H., 'why, I took my mare
and drove right up alongside of them, and she wasn't the least
bit scared!'

'Hum--yes,' says Dr. K., '_but how did the elephant stand it_?'

* * * * *

By particular request we find room for the following:--

Hon. ---- then read his Poem entitled the 'Boulder,' which must
be heard before we can form an idea of the genius of the poet.
First we are reminded of the style of the sweet songs of
Pherimorz as his enchanting strains fell upon the enraptured
soul of the fair Lady of the Lake. Then away, on painted wings
of gratified imagination, is the mind carried to the zephyr
wooings of the dying sunset, over the elevated brow of the dark
Maid of the Forest, as she reclines upon her couch of eagles'
feathers, and down from angles wings, hearing the last whisper
of the falling echo from the world of sound.

Whether the wild chaos of storm and whirlwind which madly raged
over the benighted earth before 'light was,' rushed to the dark
caverns where the fettered earthquake lay, when order was
demanded by the Father of Lights, we can not tell; but surely it
is a pleasing thought for the mind engulfed in the unfathomed
darkness of uncreated light, to be brought out and suffered to
rest on the peaceful bosom of the new creation. Whether 'the
world that then was' was overflown and perished by the causes
set forth, we can not tell. We regret that we can not now give a
more extended and particular notice of this poem; let us hope
that ere long we may enjoy the delight of reading its printed
form.

That must indeed have been a poem which could inspire _such_ poetry in
others.

* * * * *

The Boston _Courier_ published, over the signature of 'MIDDLESEX,'
during the months of February and March, a number of articles entitled,
_Through the Gulf States_. So far as we have examined and compared the
series, it appears to be a literal reprint, with a few trivial
alterations of dates and statistics, of the _Letters from the Gulf
States_, originally published in the _Knickerbocker New York Monthly
Magazine_, in 1847.

* * * * *

THE KNICKERBOCKER

FOR 1862.

In the beginning of the last year, when its present proprietors assumed
control of the Knickerbocker, they announced their determination to
spare no pains to place it in its true position as the leading
_literary_ Monthly in America. When rebellion had raised a successful
front, and its armies threatened the very existence of the Republic, it
was impossible to permit a magazine, which in its circulation reached
the best intellects in the land, to remain insensible or indifferent to
the dangers which threatened the Union. The proprietors accordingly gave
notice, that it would present in its pages, forcible expositions with
regard to the great question of the times,--_how to preserve the_ UNITED
STATUS OF AMERICA _in their integrity and unity_. How far this pledge
has been redeemed the public must judge. It would, however, be mere
affectation to ignore the seal of approbation which has been placed on
these efforts. The proprietors gratefully acknowledge this, and it has
led them to embark in a fresh undertaking, as already announced,--the
publication of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, devoted to Literature and
National Policy; in which magazine, those who have sympathized with the
political opinions recently set forth in the KNICKERBOCKER, will find
the same views more fully enforced and maintained by the ablest and most
energetic minds in America.

The KNICKERBOCKER, while it will continue firmly pledged to the cause of
the Union, will henceforth be more earnestly devoted to literature, and
will leave no effort untried to attain the highest excellence in those
departments of letters which it has adopted as specialties.

The January number commences its thirtieth year. With such antecedents
as it possesses, it seems unnecessary to make any especial pledges as to
its future, but it may not be amiss to say that it will be the aim of
its conductors to make it more and more deserving of the liberal support
it has hitherto received. The same eminent writers who have contributed
to it during the past year will continue to enrich its pages, and in
addition, contributions will appear from others of the highest
reputation, as well as from many rising authors. While it will, as
heretofore, cultivate the genial and humorous, it will also pay
assiduous attention to the higher departments of art and letters, and
give fresh and spirited articles on such biographical, historical,
scientific, and general subjects as are of especial interest to the
public.

In the January issue will commence a series of papers by CHARLES GODFREY
LELAND, entitled "SUNSHINE IN LETTERS," which will be found interesting
to scholars as well as to the general reader, and in an early number
will appear the first chapters of a NEW and INTERESTING NOVEL,
descriptive of American life and character.

According to the unanimous opinion of the American press, the
KNICKERBOCKER has been greatly improved during the past year, _and it is
certain that at no period of its long career did it ever attract more
attention or approbation_. Confident of their enterprise and ability,
the proprietors are determined that it shall be still more eminent in
excellence, containing all that is best of the old, and being
continually enlivened by what is most brilliant of the new.

TERMS.--Three dollars a year, in advance. Two copies for Four Dollars
and fifty cents. Three copies for Six dollars. Subscribers remitting
Three Dollars will receive as a premium, (post-paid,) a copy of Richard
B. Kimball's great work, "THE REVELATIONS OF WALL STREET," to be
published by G.P. Putnam, early in February next, (price $1.)
Subscribers remitting Four Dollars will receive the KNICKERBOCKER and
the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY for one year. As but one edition of each number
of the Knickerbocker is printed, those desirous of commencing with the
volume should subscribe at once.

The publisher, appreciating the importance of literature to the soldier
on duty, will send a copy _gratis_, during the continuance of the war,
to any regiment in active service, on application being made by its
Colonel or Chaplain. Subscriptions will also be received from those
desiring it sent to soldiers in the ranks at _half price_, but in such
cases it must be mailed from the office of publication.

J.R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New York.

C.T. EVANS, General Agent, 532 Broadway, New York.

All communications and contributions, intended for the Editorial
department, should be addressed to CHARLES G. LELAND, Editor of the
"Knickerbocker," care of C.T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New York.

Newspapers copying the above and giving the Magazine monthly notices,
will be entitled to an exchange.

* * * * *

PROSPECTUS

OF

The Continental Monthly.

There are periods in the world's history marked by extraordinary and
violent crises, sudden as the breaking forth of a volcano, or the
bursting of a storm on the ocean. These crises sweep away in a moment
the landmarks of generations. They call out fresh talent, and give to
the old a new direction. It is then that new ideas are born, new
theories developed. Such periods demand fresh exponents, and new men for
expounders.

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