Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. V, May, 1862 by Various

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. I, No. V, May, 1862

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

'There is no one better known in the country as a scholar, a
politician, and a wit, than Wm. H. Polk, of Tennessee. He has a
plantation some forty miles from Nashville, lives comfortably, has
a joke for every one, and is, withal, a resolute man in his
opinions. He was the opponent of the evanescent Harris, who has
disappeared mysteriously, and voted for by the cooeperationists in
the election for Governor of that State. About a month ago notice
came to him that he must leave the State: a notice which, however,
he did not obey. His description of the terror of the rebels on
the taking of Nashville is said to be supremely rich. Among other
incidents, is one of peculiar interest to us Kentuckians,
concerning the fate of the late Provisional Government.

'Colonel Polk, a few days before the arrival of our army at
Nashville, and, indeed, before he heard of the fall of Fort
Donelson, in going down the road from his farm, descried a fat,
ragged, bushy-headed, tangled-mustached, dilapidated-looking
creature, (something like an Italian organ-grinder in distress,)
so disguised in mud as to be scarcely recognizable. What was his
surprise, on a nearer approach, to see that it was the redoubtable
George N. Sanders.

'George had met the enemy, and he was theirs--not in person, but
in feeling. His heart was lost, his breeches were ragged, and his
boots showed a set of fat, gouty toes protruding from them. The
better part of him was gone, and gone a good distance.

''In the name of God, George, is that you?' said the
ex-Congressman.

''Me!' said the immortal George; 'I wish it wasn't; I wish I was
any thing but me. But what is the news here? is there any one
running? They are all running back there,' (pointing over his
shoulder with his thumb.)

''No,' said Mr. Polk; 'not that I know of. You needn't mind
pulling up the seat of your pantaloons; I'm not noticing. What in
the ---- are you doing here, looking like a muddy Lazarus in the
painted cloth?'

''Bill,' said George to the Tennesseean confidentially, and his
tones would have moved a heart of stone: 'Bill, you always was a
friend of mine. I know'd you a long while ago, and honored
you--cuss me, if I didn't. I said you was a man bound to rise. I
told Jimmy Polk so--me and Jimmy was familiar friends. I intended
to get up a biographical notice of you in the _Democratic Review_,
but that ---- Corby stopped it I'm glad to see you; I'll swear I
am.'

''Of course, old fellow,' said the charitable Tennesseean, more in
pity of his tones than even of the flattering eloquence: 'but what
is the matter?'

''Matter!' said George; 'the d----d Lincolnites have seized
Bowling-Green, Fort Donelson, and have by this time taken
Nashville. Why,' continued he, in a burst of confidence, 'when I
left, hacks was worth a hundred dollars an hour, and, Polk, (in a
whisper,) I didn't have a d----d cent.'

'The touching pathos of this last remark was added to by the
sincere vehemence with which it was uttered, and the mute
eloquence with which he lifted up a ragged flap in the rear of his
person that some envious rail or brier had torn from its position
of covering a glorious retreat.

''Not a d----d cent,' repeated he; 'and, Polk, I walked that
hard-hearted town up and down, all day, with bomb-shells dropping
on the street at every lamp-post--I'll swear I did--trying to
borrow some money; and Polk, do you think, there wasn't a
scoundrel there would lend any thing, not even Harris, and he got
the money out of the banks, too?'

''No?' said Polk, who dropped in a word occasionally, as a sort of
encourager.

''Bill,' repeated Sanders: 'Bill, I said you was a friend of
mine--and a talented one--always said so, Bill. I didn't have a
red, and I've walked forty-five miles in the last day, by the
mile-stones, and I haven't had any thing to buy a bit to eat;
and,' he added with impassioned eloquence, 'what is a cursed sight
worse, not a single drop to drink.'

'This is complete. It is unnecessary to tell how the gallant and
clever Tenneseean took the wayfarer home, gave him numerous, if
not innumerable, drinks, and filled him with fruits of fields and
flesh of flocks. When George was filled, however, he signified by
numerous signs, and finally by words, that he wished the servants
to leave the room. 'Polk,' said he, 'I knew you were a man with a
heart in your bosom; I told 'em so. I said no better man than Bill
Polk could be found. I told 'em so.'

''Told who so?' asked Mr. Polk, rather surprised at the sudden and
mysterious language, accompanied by the removal of the servants.

''Mr. Polk,' said Sanders, 'I want your horses and carriage for a
time.'

''Certainly, Mr. Sanders, if you wish them.'

''Mr. Polk,' said George, 'I do not appear before you in any
ordinary character to-day; I am clothed with higher authority; I
am an emissary.'

'The tone and manner indicated something fearful--perhaps to
arrest his host.

''I am an emissary,' repeated Mr. Sanders, speaking in very large
capitals, 'from the State of Kentucky, and hope to be received as
such. The fact is,' continued he, coming down to the level of
familiar conversation, 'I left the Provisional Government of
Kentucky a mile or so back, on foot, finding its way southwardly,
and I demand your horses and carriage in the name of that noble
State.'

'Of course, the carriages were harnessed up at once, and Mr.
Sanders proceeded to bring the Provisional Government to Mr.
Polk's house.

'How shall we describe this part? Hon. George W. Johnson, as much
a Clay man as the sacred soil of Tennessee could afford, but still
preserving his light and active step; McKee, late of the
_Courier_, following; Walter N. Haldeman, with all his industry
and perseverance, trying to keep up with his associate; and Willis
B. Machen, vigorous, active, slightly sullen, but in earnest, with
every boot he drew out of the snowy, muddy soil giving a groan of
fatigue. Imagine them safely ensconced at Mr. Polk's, on their
road South.

''Mr. Sanders,' said the Governor with dignified suavity, after
the walnuts and wine, 'claimed to be an acquaintance of yours, and
we were very glad to send him forward.'

'The Honorable Governor maintained throughout that easy, self
possessed manner which characterizes the gentleman.

'The emissary--for he ought to be so known--shortly after
suggested to the Provisional Government that he was 'broke,' and
wished to represent the Seventh Congressional District of
Kentucky, that is, the Louisville District: 'For,' said he, in his
persuasive, confidential tones, 'that is the only way I know of
for a man without money to get to Richmond.'

'A session was at once held of the State Council, and it is our
pleasure to record that Mr. Sanders is now authorized by the
Provisional Government to proceed to Richmond and represent our
interest in the Rebel Congress, vice H.W. Bruce, removed or
resigned.

'Mr. Polk at this time addressed the new Congressman, saying that
he had a particular favor to ask.

''Bill,' said George to his host, speaking out of a full heart and
a full chest: 'Bill, you are a boy after my own heart; whatever
request you make I grant.'

''It is only a trifle,' said Mr. Polk, 'which you can easily
grant, and which will please you.'

''It is granted,' interrupted the grateful Sanders.

''I may be arrested,' continued Mr. Polk, 'within a few minutes,
for disagreeing with some measures which Governor Harris has urged
upon the people.'

''Never mind that,' said the impetuous Sanders; 'I'll stand by
you.'

''All I want,' continued Mr. Polk, 'is for you to return to
Nashville as a hostage for my wife and family.'

''Bill Polk,' said George gravely, but firmly, 'you are a man I
love; I love you, and I love your wife and family; but if ever I
go back to Nashville, may I be d----d!'

'Of course, there was no reply to this, and the redoubtable George
and the Provisional Government soon went on their way rejoicing.

'We do not pretend to give this in the language or manner of Mr.
Polk, which is said to be inimitable; neither do we claim him as a
'Union man.' He has remained quietly at home, and taken no part in
the contest; but we are indebted to him, or to some one who has
reported it as coming from him, for a genial and laughable account
of the exit of what once promised to be very injurious to our
State, and still more for his characterization of that wise,
pushing, incomprehensible character, George N. Sanders, Member of
Congress from the Seventh District of Kentucky to Richmond.'

We have long wondered what became of Sanders, the illustrious author of
that excellent term, 'the Tobacco States,' which so exactly defines the
Southern border. The last time we saw him was while talking with Arctic
Dr. Hayes, a few days before his departure for the Unknown Sea. Just
then Sanders went by arrayed in all the glory of a perfectly new _pareil
partout_ suit of spring clothes. Days passed by, and we heard of him as
frantically endeavoring to galvanize the C.S.A. at Montgomery, Alabama,
into faith in his exceeding Southern proclivities. It was up-hill work,
as we were told--almost as hard as several other small renegade literati
and politicians found it, when they, too, went over into Dixie about a
year ago. In vain did George N. Sanders utter the largest size secession
words--no office rewarded him, no foreign mission fell into the fat
fingers of the deserter. The change from the comfortable quarters of the
New-York Hotel to hurried war-marches and wild retreats must have been
indeed trying; only that so many politicians have of late fared quite as
badly, that pity would seem wasted. Meanwhile we would suggest, as a
good question for youthful democratic debating-societies: 'When we catch
the enemy, what shall be done with George N. Sanders?'

* * * * *

Notwithstanding our war--to say nothing of our want--we have had the
OPERA this winter; had it in great variety and perfection, and, as many
a reader can testify, with by no means thin houses. Grau has been
busy--the most courteous and indefatigable polyglot and active of
impresarios, with the good-natured Gosche, heralding a troupe of all the
stars, D'Angri, Hinckley, Kellogg, Brignoli, Susini, and all the rest,
including divers new singing birds. Maretzek has led, and we have had a
range from Mozart to Verdi, which was, on the whole, well-chosen. We
have had Brignoli singing, if possible, better, and acting, if possible,
worse than usual--a nightingale imprisoned in a pump; Mme. D'Angri, with
her _embonpoint_ voice, pouring forth like an inexhaustible fountain of
Maraschino; Miss Hinckley, pleasant and pretty as ever, steadily singing
her way star-ward; and Susini, who combines German strength with Italian
fire--a true _Tedesco Italiana-zato_. Something, too, we would say of
Mancusi, whose clear and rapid execution, in _Figaro_, and whose real
Spanish _majo_ rollicking style of acting were quite spirited enough,
even for that very spirited part. Formes was indeed under the impression
that he himself was the _Figaro Figarorum_, the incarnate half-Spanish
ideal of that wonderful barbaresque conception; but then, the Formes
_Figaro_ was 'developed from the depths of his subjective moral
consciousness,' whereas the _Figaro_ of a Southern European is _the
thing itself_--like Charles Mathews playing the part of Charles Mathews,
or like the Greek comedian's imitation of a pig's voice, by pinching a
veritable pork-let, which he bore concealed within his mantle.

Perhaps no character is so little appreciated by Anglo-Saxon audiences
as this of _Figaro_. To them he is little more than a buffoon. To
Southern Europe, he is the bold, prompt, shrewd, popular ideal, suiting
himself by craft to every superior, regarding all things with a
shoulder-shrugging, quizzical philosophy; a democratic Mephistopheles; a
lurking devil, equalizing himself, and the people with him, by wit and
insolence, with nobility itself. Among the Latin races, as in the East,
such Figaros often rise, like Oliver le Daim, to power, and the people
understand it.

Fast-Day, in Boston, was operatically feted with 'the light and
melodious _Martha_,' by that arch-thief of melodies, Flotow. Would
not--considering the day in question--_I Puritani_ have been more
appropriate for 'a day of fasting and prayer'? It has already been
discovered (by the sagacious Ullman, we believe) that the _Huguenots_
was appropriate to sacred concerts. A friend suggests that _Masaniello_
for high mass, and _Don Giovanni_ for St. John's day would be a great
advance in these dramatic unities.

* * * * *

We are indebted to a new contributor for the following sketch:

We are all familiar with Hayden's dinner-party, and the
Comptroller of Stamps, and Charles Lamb's 'Diddle diddle
dumpling,' and 'Allow me to look at the gentleman's phrenological
development.' I am always reminded by it of a circumstance which
occurred between the Rocky and Alleghany mountains. A certain
witty professor of a certain Western college, had been invited to
deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Society of Athens--not the
capital of Greece, nor the Athens of America, but a sort of
no-town, without even the advantages of an established groggery,
or mutual admiration society. The poet, not having attained that
celebrity which is incompatible with keeping one's word with small
towns, small lyceums, and small profits, and the roads not being
stopped up, in short, 'Providence permitting, and nothing
happening to prevent,' the poet made his appearance at the proper
hour, like any ordinary mortal, and acquitted himself with such
rhythmical eloquence, such keen, silvery humor, as brought the
house down, and himself _vice versa_.

The audience having dispersed in a state like the afflatus of
laughing-gas, the poet and a privileged clique proceeded to the
house of the Baptist elder, to prolong the night with metaphysical
wassail. From the froth of poetry, they rose to a contemplation of
the old classics; Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Virgil, rising
grandly from their dust, ensphered in vibratory eloquence.

The elder, whose, education had been accomplished simply by a New
Testament and three-inch rope, sat, or rather twisted through the
rhapsody, as a dunce twists through his Greek roots, and at the
first pause, drawing himself erect with the self-complacent air of
a man who applies the clincher, ejaculated, with the Western
twang: 'What do you think of Hi-awa_thy_?' The professor, giving
him one look, to be sure of his sanity, and a second to be sure of
his obtusity, answered gravely, above a convulsion of laughter:
'Hi-awathy was a genius!'

Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy
composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being
the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has
immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style,
on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my
Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _elite_ of
the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the
Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in
possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to
her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he
seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by
a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense
crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream
ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription
beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her
Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he
should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now
zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are
respectfully invited to observe.

The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic
eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a
burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this
glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American
Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the
shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his
tail?'

One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an
appreciative public.

The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin
hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of
the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet
lost their _freshness_.'

Exit Athens and fresh salt.

* * * * *

YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE.

A veray parfit gentil knight,
Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
One day yridden forth;
But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
He went on errants of his trade,
To fight or filch ye North.

He was a wight of grisly fronte,
And muckle berd ther was upon 't,
His lockes farre down did laye:
Ful wel he setten on his hors,
Thatte fony felaws called Mors,
For len it was and grai.

Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on,
His busynes were then undone,
All time was for attack;
More than, he hadde ne mail, either,
But armed with a revolver,
He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.

He sayde his was a mightie hond,
Ne better in ye Southron lond
To yearn anly battail:
Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
And put his foe alway to rout,
Withouten ony fail.

Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'
Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!'
The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'

Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
Ye glasse of chivalrie;
But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
As well as mote his sorry hors,
Farre to the North countree.

And thus in darkesse all yclad,
He hied him, gif he weren mad,
O'er feld and eke through thicket;
When 'Stop, by God!' some one began,
'You'er mine--'or any other man!''
Jesu! a Yankee picket!

'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle!
Why in the devil don't one dirk all?
Where now's your chivalrie?'
'Goode sir,' quod he, 'twas ne for fight
I hied me out ilk murkie night,
It was for poulterie!'

'Wal, damn your 'poulterie'--and you!
Such deed no generous knight would do!
So I mote thee deter!
I'll show thee, though, the _coop_, sir knight,
Where _chickens_ such as thee are blight--
You are my prisoner!'

Mony maydens weren grieved--
Cleopatras, slouchy-sleeved--
Darksome maydes of work all;
And mony felaws of much might
Ydrink the hades of ye Knight
Of ye grete Golden Cyrcle.

We much fear that it may be said of the chief cavalier of the Golden
Circle, what the old German _lanzknecht_, in Rabelais, said of the
Gascon adventurer: 'The knight pretends that he wants to fight, but is
much more inclined to steal; therefore, good people, look out for your
property.'

* * * * *

The following story, it is averred, can be vouched for, to any
reasonable extent, by a large crowd of witnesses.

DEAR CONTINENTAL: Possibly you would not give 'a Continental dime'
for that which I am about to pen. Possibly, too, you may damn it
into the waste-basket. I have often _heard_ of a 'Continental
damn'--it never occurred to me before what the article really was.
Dante has, I know, provided a corner for those who were
_in_-continentally condemned; but it was reserved for you to
abridge the word, and so _make a vice of a virtue_!

I once lived in a village: to that village came an itinerant
dramatic company; and that company advertised to play a grand
moral temperance drama, entitled _Down the Hill_.

The principal actor called himself Eglantine Mowbray. I believe
that the latter syllable of the last name was the only portion
thereof to which he was really entitled. He _did_ bray.

The bills appeared, with the following heading:

UNPARALLELED ATTRACTION.

On Monday Evening,

THE YOUTHFUL ROSCUSS!

EGLANTINE MOWBRAY!!

Will appear in his great role,

DOWN THE HILL.

Our simple villagers _had_ seen circuses; but youthful Roscusses
were entirely beyond their experience. Quite as unfamiliar was the
word _role_, which, to their badly-lettered fancy, stood for
movement, by 'turning on the surface, or with a circular motion,
in which all parts of the surface are successively applied to a
plane, 'as to roll a barrel or puncheon.' [You use Webster?]

So, when the 'show' opened, there was a large attendance, and in
that vast multitude of two hundred and thirty men, women, and
children, there was not one who did not anticipate an acrobatic
performance.

The play pleased them, however. Temperance was rife among us in
those days; it was 'in our midst,' as people ought _not_ to say,
and the drunken disgraces of John the Inebriate were appreciated.
Still, there was an evident feeling of unsatisfied anticipation,
which grew with every act, and in all the house there was not a
soul who did not murmur to his or her neighbor, 'I wonder when
he's goin' to roll down-hill.'

The play terminated. The Inebriate died, under a strong pressure
of delirium tremens, groaning and braying loud enough to scare
away the fiends which gathered around. But, to the amazement of
all parties upon the stage and behind the scenes, the fall of the
curtain was accompanied by a thunder-roar of disgust, and the
rain-like sound of numerous hisses.

The audience voted the play a humbug. The village was disgusted.
Eglantine Mowbray stock went down to nothing.

But the manager was a shrewd fellow. He found out what was
wanting, and resolved to remedy it. So, the next morning's posters
announced that on that evening Mr. Eglantine Mowbray would
perform, at the conclusion, his terrific and unparalleled feat of
_rolling_ down the hill!

And he did. At the last moment, the Inebriate appeared, bottle in
hand, agonizing and howling on the summit of a high rock, from
which a slope, at an angle of forty-five degrees, went down to a
mysterious craggy pit, thickly grown around with briers and
shrubs, all bearing spiky thorns of the most fish-hooky and
ten-penny nail description imaginable. The _flat_ or back-scene,
suddenly lighted up from behind, presented, as a transparency,
that terrible collection of devils which you may have witnessed in
a popular engraving entitled, 'Delirium Tremens.' The Inebriate,
taking one parting drink, staggered--fell--rolled over and over
_down the hill_ into the abyss, from which flames burst forth,
red, green, and blue, and the audience were wild with delight.
Three times was Eglantine Mowbray compelled, by the rapturous
encores, to roll down that hill into the fiery pit. No wonder
that, at the last trial, there rose from the abyss a wild cry of
'I'll be _blessed_ if I do it again.'

MORAL.--When in country villages, don't talk about role-ing,
unless you mean to do it!

* * * * *

Since the _gilet de matin_ has superseded the _robe de chambre_, or
dressing-gown, it is marvelous to see with what wrath the fast men,
club-men, and other highly civilized forms of humanity, pursue the
ancient garment. One of the most vigorous assaults on the gabardine in
question, comes to us as

A FLING AT DRESSING-GOWNS.

My name is Albert Fling. I am an active, business, married man,
that is, wedded to Mrs. Fling, and married to business. I had the
misfortune, some time since, to break a leg; and before it was
mended Madame Fling, hoping to soothe my hours of convalescence,
caused to be made for me a dressing-gown, which, on due
reflection, I believe was modeled after the latest style of
strait-jacket. This belief is confirmed by the fact that when I
put it on, I am at once confined to the house, 'get mad,' and am
soberly convinced that if any of my friends were to see me
walking in the street, clad in this apparel, they would instantly
entertain ideas of my insanity.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20