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

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

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In the hours of torture endured while wearing it, I have appealed
to my dear wife to truly tell me where she first conceived the
thought that there was a grain of comfort to be found in bearing
it on my back? She has candidly answered that she first read about
it in divers English novels and sundry American novels, the latter
invariably a rehash of the first. In both of these varieties of
the same species of books, the hero is represented as being very
comfortable the instant he dons this garment, puts his feet in
slippers, picks up a paper and--goes to sleep.

A friend of mine who has discovered that Shakspeare knew all about
steam-engines, electric telegraphs, cotton-gins, the present
rebellion, and gas-lights, assures me that dressing-gowns are
distinctly alluded to in _The Tempest_:

'TRINCULO: O King Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for
thee!

CALIBAN: Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

Having thus proved its age, let us next prove that it is in its
dotage, and is as much out of place in this nineteenth century as
a monkey in a bed of tulips.

We find in the Egyptian temples paintings of priests dressed in
these gowns: proof that they are antiquely heathenish. And as we
always associate a man who wears one with Mr. Mantilini, this
proves that they are foolish. _Ergo_, as they are old and foolish,
they are in their dotage.

I have three several times, while wearing this gown, been mistaken
for Madame Fling by people coming to the house. The first time I
was shaving in my chamber: in bounced Miss X----, who believed, as
it was rather late, that I had gone down-town. She threw up her
hands, exclaiming:

'Good gracious, Fanny! do you shave?'

N.B.--Fanny is my wife's first name.

The second time I had brought the woodsaw and horse up from the
cellar, and was exercising myself sawing up my winter's wood, in
the summer-kitchen, according to Doctor Howl's advice, when the
Irishman from the grocery entered, bearing a bundle. My back was
to him, and only seeing the gay and flowery gown, he exclaimed, in
an awfully audible whisper to the cook:

'Shure yer mistriss has the power in her arms, jist!'

Think of my wife, my gentle Fanny, having it shouted around the
neighborhood that her brute of a husband made her saw all their
winter's wood--yes! and split it, and pile it too, and make all
the fires, and so on and cetera, and oh! I _am_ glad my husband
isn't such a monster!'

I turned on the Irishman, and when he saw my whiskers, he quailed!

The third time, I was blacking my boots, according to Dr. Howl's
advice, 'expands the deltoid muscles, is of benefit to the
metacarpis, stretches the larynx, opens the oilsophagers, and
facilitates expectoration!' I had chosen what Fanny calls her
conservatory for my field of operation--the conservatory has two
dried fish-geraniums, and a dead dog-rose, in it, besides a
bad-smelling cat-nip bush; when, who should come running in but
the identical Miss X---- who caught me shaving.

'Poor Fanny,' said she, before I could turn round; 'do you have to
black the boots of that odious brute?'

'Miss X----,' said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my
dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm
and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike
a position and awe at the same time; 'Miss X----, I am that odious
brute himself!'

If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!

My wife went to the sea-shore last summer. I kept the house open,
and staid in town; cause, business. When she returned, Miss X----,
who lives opposite, called to see her. In less than five minutes,
my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate,
afflicted, etcet. woman.

'How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?' she ejaculated,
flooding every word as it came out with tears.

'Do what?'

'Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!'

Miss X---- here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a
small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to
say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)

Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me. Miss X----, through
the Venetian blinds, had seen a--_gown_ in my room, late at night.

'It is too true,' said I, 'too, too true.'

'Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart. I c-could tear the
d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!'

'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace.
You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I
am tired of the blasted thing.'

I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There,
against the wall.'

'It is--'said she.

'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on
my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the
back to the neck.

'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.'

'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as
this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell
it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd.
_Vamos_!'

The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening
to decay!

* * * * *

He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the
ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter
celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_
lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves
with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for
their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the
following characteristic of

YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE.

The Boston belle is a reader, and knoweth what hath lately
appearyd in ye worlde of bookes as welle as in that of bonetts.
Shee whispereth of Signore Brignoli and of Hinkley, and of ye
Philharmonic, or of Zerrahn his concertes, and eftsoones of
aeriall pleasures att parties and concertes, and anon flitteth to
Robertus Browning his poetrie, or to Emerson hys laste discourse
att ye Musicke Halle. Whan so be itt that twentie of ye sisterhode
be gatheren together, lo! seven thereof wyll haue blonde tresses
and nineteen be of fayre ruddie complexion, whych a man wolde gife
hys lyfe to kisse--yea, and itt oftwhyles passeth that ye
twentieth also hath more whyte and rudd in hir sweete face thann
ye wolde see in other landes.

Ye Boston demoisselle weareth an waterproof guyascutus, [for so
methinketh I haue hearde them calld,] and whan that itt rayneth or
snoweth, shee rusheth forth as to a carnavall, and heedeth not yf
ye powderie snowe-flakes falle on hir daintie littyl nose, or pile
up like untoe a chancellor's wigg on hir hed. Arounde hir whyte
necke shee ever bindeth a scarlett scarfe, to shewe thatt she ys
an well-redd woman; and whan shee turneth homewardes, she aye
beareth in one hande a pamflet, whyle the other holdeth a bouquet
of flowres or a pacquette of sugirplummes or confitures. Whyles
that she is yett younge and reckeless, and gif shee bee faste, and
hathe naughte to beare homewards, lo! shee stiketh bothe tinie
fistes intoe hir small syde-pockets, and propelleth onward
mightilie independente, caring naught for nobodie. I haue herd
from dyvers graue and reuerend menn, who oughte to know, [sith
that ther wyves hadd tolde them,] that manie of these demoiselles
do wear verie longe bootes, but howe long they may bee I knowe
not.

Hee who walketh in Beacon streete on Sundaye, whan thatt the skies
be fayre, seeth, after church out-letting, manie of these sweete
maydens walking wyth ther cavalleros up and doune hille, talkyng
of manie thynges. For ye Boston demoiselle is a notable talker,
and doth itt welle, knowing manie thynges whereof ye firste is _de
omnibus rebus_, ye seconde _et quibusdam aliis_, and ye third
_alterum tantum_. He who complayneth thatt women know nothinge,
and haue noe witte, hathe nott mett ye Boston Yonge Lady; if that
he dothe, and telleth hir soe, he wyll probablie remember for
manie dayes what shee saide in answere. For shee holdeth _dixi et
solvavi animam meam_ to bee a goode rule, and thatt it is nott a
goode thinge to goe away with wrathe pente up in ye boosum.

She worketh harde for ye armie; yea, she knitteth stockyngs and
maketh shertes for ye contrabandes, whereof I haue scene one
whiche a contrabande with his wyfe and children didde all were at
once, so nobly greate was it. And shee belyveth in ye warre with
alle hir braue little hearte and soule, for shee is Uncle Samuel
hys oune daughter, if there ever was one, having greate loue for
ye Union, alwaies hoping firstly for ye Union politicall, and
secondlie for ye wedding union of hertes and ye union of handes,
whych is nedeful, that ye countrie shall not perishe for lacke of
sturdie urchins to growe upp into soldieres. And thatt theye aye
all thus become goode wives and brave mothers, and bee bleste and
happie in alle thynges, is ye heartes prayer of

CLERKE NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

The following extract from the Washington correspondence of the
Philadelphia _Press_ is significant:

'As pertinent to these questions, let me ask if you have ever gone
back to the time when most of the Breckinridge papers in the free
States were in danger of being mobbed and torn out after the fall
of Fort Sumter?

'I will not ask why these demonstrations occurred, but I will ask
if you can point to any one of these journals that is not _now_
filled with strong denunciations of the Administration and its
friends, and timid reproaches of the rebels in arms? Are they not
all clamorous for the reoerganization of the Democratic party? Are
they not all against any combination of patriotic men under the
name of a Union party? Their object is as plain as their early
treason was notorious, and the end of their victory will be the
recognition of the armed rebels, or their full forgiveness. The
armed rebels are watching their movements with eagerness and joy.'

That they are doing so, is amply evidenced by the recent 'democratic'
and treasonable movements in Washington. In time of war, and especially
of such a war as this, there can be, as Mr. Douglas said, 'but patriots
and traitors.' Away with all parties--till the enemy are ours, the only
parties should be those of the North and South.

* * * * *

The municipal authorities at Nashville met Governor Johnson's appeal,
urging them to take the oath of allegiance, by a prompt refusal--falling
back 'for reasons' on State rights. There should be, in these times, but
one way of dealing with all such State rights gentlemen--arrest as
traitors, and trial under military law. This is no day for
dilly-dallying and quibbling about 'State rights.' There is only one
right in such cases--the right of the Union, and fidelity to it. This
rebuff is generally spoken of by the press as 'the Nashville Snag.'
There be such things as snag-extractors, and we trust that our
Government is free enough from red-tape do-nothingism and
circumlocution, to make short work of these insolent rebels, whatever
they be.

_Boston, April 1st._

DEAR EDITOR: I jot down the following as one of the most
melancholy results of this wicked and cruel war:

The Captain at our house believes in General Butler. The Lawyer
don't. Such is the state of parties at our table. As I said
before, the hand of brother is uplifted against brother, and
either may become a fratri-cider--as the fellow did when he
squeezed his brother to death in the press, among the apples.

The captain said, the other day, that Butler had a great deal of
dash.

'U--m!' growled the lawyer; 'one kind of dash he certainly has--to
perfection.'

'And what is that?'

'Balder-dash!' was the annihilating reply.

I report this for the special consideration of Governor Andrew.

Nor less illustrative of the terrible tendencies of civil war, is
the following:

'We have a whole navy of gun-boats at Island Number Ten,' said the
Colonel, reflectively.

'Yes,' was the unwary reply.

'Then how comes it that if the knave can take the Ten, a navy
can't?'

Yours in grief,

CONSTANT READER.

* * * * *

The Legislature of Kentucky has, probably, by this time, made it a
criminal offence for any person to join the K.G.C. As soon as the lists
shall have been published of all those Northern men who have belonged to
the order, the traitors will find themselves in quite as enviable a
situation as though 'escaped convict' were branded on their foreheads.

* * * * *
From one now far away in the South--albeit
not on the Southern side--we have
an ornithological reminiscence which
may be of interest to those who endeavor
to solve the problem, whether
animals ever rise to reasoning.

I have amused myself the past year raising a brood of chickens in
my little backyard. Being 'tenderly brought up,' they are, of
course, very tame, particularly a little brown pullet, that lays
an egg in the cellar every morning. A few days ago, as I was
leaving the house after breakfast, my wife cried out for me to
come into the kitchen. I did so, and found the little brown hen
standing quietly by the door at the head of the cellar-stairs,
evidently waiting for it to be opened. Going outside, I found the
servant had neglected to open the 'bulkhead' door, as usual, and
my wise little biddy had concluded to go down-cellar through the
kitchen. When I drove her out and opened the outer-door, she went
down and laid, as usual. She was never in the house before, to my
knowledge, and has not been since. This is a fact, and is only one
more instance added to many I could adduce, which go to show that
the 'dumb creatures' think and reason.

* * * * *

Poetry on bells is divisible into two kinds, the _tintinnabulistic_,
which refers to little hand-tinklers, sleigh-bells, and the kind which
oriental mothers were wont, of old, to sew to the hems of their
daughters' garments, [that they might tell by the sound whether the
young ladies were at mischief or no,] and the _campanologistic_,
descriptive solely of large church ringers, Big Toms of Oxford, and the
regular _vivos voco, fulgura frango_ giants, such as Mr. Meneely makes
and sends all over the country, to factories, churches, depots, and
steamboats. The sleigh-bell song, according to this classification, is
tintinnabulistic; so, too, is the Russian _troika_,

'I kolokolchick dor voltaia,'

as is also the immortal line which speaks of

That tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.'

But Schiller's great ringing poem is superbly _campanologistic_; so is
Southey's 'Inch Cope Bell,' and to this division belong all tollings,
fire-alarms, and knells in verse whatever.

The following lyric is, however, far above either, as it ambitiously
embraces the whole subject, and therefore, so far as comprehensiveness
is concerned, must of course take precedence even of Tennyson's 'Ring
Out!'

ABOUT BELLS.

I was sitting, one night, in my easy-chair,
When a bell's clear notes rung out on the air;
And a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
Came into my mind, about sundry bells:

About church-going bells, whose solemn chime
Calls, far and near, 'It's time! _it's time!_'
While the worshiper goes, with a faith that is strong,
For he knows he can trust their clear '_Ding-dong!_'

Of deified bells, like Bel of old,
With silver tongues and a ring of gold;
While the many who run at their silvery call,
Never reach the goal--d; but tire and fall!

Of modest bells, by the river's side,
As they meekly hang o'er the liquid tide;
But are tongueless all, and their changes few,
For they ever appear in a dress of blue.

Of modern Belles, which the world well knows,
Go all the ways that the fashion goes;
And ring their chimes through an endless range,
As they change their rattle, and rattle their '_change_.'

Of divers' bells, which are made to go,
With their living freight, to the depths below;
And are quiet quite, on their water ways,
Save hen they are trying to 'make a raise.'

Of door-bells, which our callers ring
By a kind of a sort of a wire of a string;
Answered oft, as wire-pullers ought to be--
'_Not at home!_' meaning, '_Not in order to see!_'

About John Bells, _one_ of whom, we know,
Politicians rung not long ago;
An unlucky Bell, and to-day a wreck,
But fit, even _now_, to be wrung--_by the neck!_

About Isabelles, so diverse in kind,
That the one you prefer isn't hard to find;
Yet hard 'tis to be in _this_ all agreed--
Isabelle by name _is_ a belle in-deed!

And thus, as I sat in my easy-chair,
While the bell's clear notes rung through the air,
Did a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
Come into my mind, about sundry bells.

* * * * *

'Is this 'dreadful bad'?' inquires a correspondent. Gentle writer, it is
not dreadful, neither is it bad; and we appeal to the reader to decide.
To our thought, it is as brave and wild a love-poem as we have seen for
many a day:

TO THE KING.

A Health to the King--my king!
But not in the ruby wine,
Too pale for the name I sing;
Too weak for such love as mine!

How shall I pledge thee, my king?
What nectar shall fill the bowl?
Hope herself can not bring
A wine--like that in my soul!

Then take for a pledge, my king!
A life--it is wholly thine;
And quaff from the cup, O king!
A soul--not the ruby wine!

Happy the gentleman who is crowned king with the garland of song and
consecrated with the wine of life and of love.

* * * * *

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY J.L. RAND.

The sentinel sounds the dread note that alarms,
Each man springs up from his sleep to arms!
There's an onward dash
And a sudden flash;
There's a sigh and a groan,
And the quick feet have flown--
A picket is dying alone.
For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And who can stop to reckon?

The newspaper tells what the President thought,
What Stanton did or Seward taught,
In columns long,
With capitals strong;
And the paper is filled
As the editor willed:
'SLIGHT SKIRMISH!--one man killed.'
But men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And who can stop to reckon?

A wife sits sad in her fireside chair,
And thinks of the husband so brave to dare,
And dreams once more
That the war is o'er;
While the South-birds trill
Near the picket-camp still,
And the picket lies dead on the hill.
For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
And God stands by to reckon.

But the account is kept in eternity--there are none lost, no, not
one--and the time will come when all shall be found and known who were
brave in this world's battles.

* * * * *

We gladly find a corner for the following, by one known to us of old, as
no indifferent poet:

EMANCIPATION.

All oupos ama panta Theoi dosan anthropoisin.--Iliad.

Lift up your faces to the golden dawn
That ushers in your year of Jubilee,
Ye who to unrequited toil have gone
In this great land, in this proud century.
The clock of time has beat its seconds slow,
But lo the hour of your release has come;
Ay, strikes, and thrills the world with every blow
That rings Oppression out, and Freedom home.

Not, not in vain, 'How long, O Lord: how long?'
Have ye inquired of Him who knew your needs;
For those who prospered by your ancient wrong,
Invoked the vengeance that upon their heads
Is raining ruin. Lo! the Lord is just:
Through the Red Sea of War ye, ye alone
Come up unharmed; while all the oppressor's host
In their mid-passage shall be overthrown.

* * * * *

For the benefit of those desiring to obtain the celebrated K.G.C.
pamphlet, we may state that it is published by the National Union Club,
communications for which may be addressed to Post-office Box No. 1079,
Louisville, Ky.

* * * * *

Owing to our enlarged edition obliging us to send this number of the
Magazine to press at an earlier date than usual, we are unable to give
this month the commencement of Mr. Kimball's new novel, and the
continuation of 'Among the Pines.' Both articles will appear in the next
issue.

* * * * *

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.

This Continent has lately been convulsed by an upheaving so sudden and
terrible that the relations of all men and all classes to each other are
violently disturbed, and people look about for the elements with which
to sway the storm direct the whirlwind. Just at present, we do not know,
what all this is to bring forth; but we do know that great results MUST
flow from such extraordinary commotions.

At a juncture so solemn and so important, there is a special need that
the intellectual force of the country should be active and efficient. It
is a time for great minds to speak their thoughts boldly, and to take
position as the advance guard. To this end, there is a special want
unsupplied, it is that of an Independent Magazine, which shall be open
to the first intellects of the land, and which shall treat the issues
presented, and to be presented to the country, in a tome no way tempered
by partisanship, or influences be fear, favor or the hope of reward;
which shall seize and grapple with the momentous subjects that the
present disturbed state of affairs heave to the surface, and which CAN
NOT be laid aside or neglected.

To meet this want, the undersigned has commenced, under the editorial
charge of CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, the publication of a new Magazine,
devoted to Literature and National Policy.

In POLITICS, it will advocate, with all the force at its command,
measures best adapted to preserve the oneness and integrity of these
Unites States. It will never yield to the idea of any disruption of this
Republic peaceably or otherwise; and it will discuss with honesty and
impartiality what must be done to save it. In this department, some of
the most eminent statesmen of the time will contribute regularly to its
pages.

In LITERATURE, it will be sustained by the best writers and ablest
thinkers of this country.

Among its attractions will be presented, in the June Number, a NEW
SERIAL of American Life, by RICHARD B. KIMBALL, Esq., the very popular
author 'The Revelations of Wall-Street,' 'St. Leger,' etc. A series of
papers by Hon. HORACE GREELEY, embodying the distinguished author's
observations on the growth and development of the Great West. A series
of articles by the author of 'Through the Cotton States,' containing the
result of an extended tour in the seaboard Slave States, just prior to
the breaking out of the war, and presenting a startling and truthful
picture of the real condition of that region. No pains will be spared to
render the literary attractions of the CONTINENTAL both brilliant and
substantial. The lyrical or descriptive talents of the most eminent
_literati_ have been promised to it; and nothing will be admitted which
will not be distinguished by marked energy, originality, and solid
strength. Avoiding every influence or association partaking of clique or
coterie, it will be open to all contributions of real merit, even from
writers differing materially in their views; the only limitation
required being that of devotion to the Union, and the only standard of
acceptance that of intrinsic excellence.

The EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT will embrace, in addition to vigorous and
fearless comments on the events of the times, genial gossip with the
reader on all current topics, and also devote abundant space to those
racy specimens of American wit and humor, without which there can be no
perfect exposition of our national character. Among those who will
contribute regularly to this department may be mentioned the name of
CHARLES F. BROWNE, ('Artemus Ward.') from whom we have promised an
entirely new and original series of SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE.

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