Dear Sir: In a certain village not unknown to you, dwelleth one Alwright.It is a good thing to have a good name. His, you observe, is 'petter as goot.'Not long ago, A. went to an auction and bought things.'What name, sir?' inquired the man with the hammer.'Alwright.''Whatname, I say?' was the irritated reply.'Alwright, I say.''All wrong, you mean. 'Spect you'll make it all right in the morning, hey?''Al-wright!' cried the purchaser.'Yes, all right!' cried the crowd, taking the joke. 'All right-go ahead, old knock 'em down.'The auctioneer began to be profane.'A-l, Al,' began Alwright.'Hold your tongue! Go——' continued the auctioneer.'A-lAl,w-r-i-g-h-twright,' continued the buyer.'O—h, thunder!' exclaimed Hammer, on whom the laughter of the mob began to operate. 'That's it, is it! Beg pardon. James, put this gentleman's name down. All right, sir. Go ahead. Gentlemen, allow me to call your attention to this fine lot of leather. Did I hear twenty-five?—five—five—five—an' an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f—gone!'Yours truly,Constant Reader.
Dear Sir: In a certain village not unknown to you, dwelleth one Alwright.
It is a good thing to have a good name. His, you observe, is 'petter as goot.'
Not long ago, A. went to an auction and bought things.
'What name, sir?' inquired the man with the hammer.
'Alwright.'
'Whatname, I say?' was the irritated reply.
'Alwright, I say.'
'All wrong, you mean. 'Spect you'll make it all right in the morning, hey?'
'Al-wright!' cried the purchaser.
'Yes, all right!' cried the crowd, taking the joke. 'All right-go ahead, old knock 'em down.'
The auctioneer began to be profane.
'A-l, Al,' began Alwright.
'Hold your tongue! Go——' continued the auctioneer.
'A-lAl,w-r-i-g-h-twright,' continued the buyer.
'O—h, thunder!' exclaimed Hammer, on whom the laughter of the mob began to operate. 'That's it, is it! Beg pardon. James, put this gentleman's name down. All right, sir. Go ahead. Gentlemen, allow me to call your attention to this fine lot of leather. Did I hear twenty-five?—five—five—five—an' an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f—gone!'
Yours truly,
Constant Reader.
There is often some fun at auctions. One of the queerest ever reported to us was held in a French-Spanish be-Germanized village on the frontier, where business was transacted in something of a polyglott manner, as follows:
'Gentlemen-Messieurs-Senores y meine Herrne, I've got here for sale—a vender—a vendre zum verkaufen eine Schöne Büchse a first-rate rifle un fusil sans pareil, muy hermosa! Do I hear fifty pesos, cinquante Thaler ge-bid pour this here bully gun? Caballeros mira como es aplatado—all silvered up, in tip-top style—c'est de l'argent fin messieurs—s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fünfzig, fünfzig, fifty do I hear, anda half an' a half an' a half e un demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb' un medio y tin medio—wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun, good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another with—madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos—first-rate to kill a Greaser—womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten. Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir—cinquante deux—Merci, Monsieur! Wer sagt drei und fünfzig—ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres quartos—quelqu'un a dit fifty-three—fifty-four—going, going, gone, sir—at fifty-four—America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'
'Gentlemen-Messieurs-Senores y meine Herrne, I've got here for sale—a vender—a vendre zum verkaufen eine Schöne Büchse a first-rate rifle un fusil sans pareil, muy hermosa! Do I hear fifty pesos, cinquante Thaler ge-bid pour this here bully gun? Caballeros mira como es aplatado—all silvered up, in tip-top style—c'est de l'argent fin messieurs—s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fünfzig, fünfzig, fifty do I hear, anda half an' a half an' a half e un demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb' un medio y tin medio—wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun, good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another with—madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos—first-rate to kill a Greaser—womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten. Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir—cinquante deux—Merci, Monsieur! Wer sagt drei und fünfzig—ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres quartos—quelqu'un a dit fifty-three—fifty-four—going, going, gone, sir—at fifty-four—America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'
It would take some time, we should think, to be able to reel it off in such a quadruple thread.
Two 'after-Norse' poems are ours this month-the first from an esteemed Philadelphia correspondent—the second from another of the same State, but more inland. The following, we may observe, is written in the measure which most prevails in Icelandic poems:
THE VIKINGS.Through the brown watersDash the swift prows;At the helm Valor stands,Death at the bows:Vainly the foeman shrinks,Palsied in fright,Vain are his struggles, yetVainer his flight.Triple defenses—Fire, water, and steel,Guard the gate of the WestFrom the Northerner's keel.Though defiant at midnight,Ere morning the wrathOf the terrible sea-kingsHas leveled a path.Rampart and heavy gunFrom o'er the bay,Whose broad waters stretch'Twixt the ships and their prey:But shattered the rampart lies,Silent the gun,As the circle of living fireMadly rolls on.Wide yawn the timbers,Wild waters rush in,As the ship settles fastMid the fierce battle-din:Yet her guns hurl defiance,As, stern to the last,The sea sucks her inWith her flag on the mast.Sons of the Northman,Whose banner of oldSpread the shadow of terrorFrom each grisly fold,Of his broad heritageWorthy are ye:Win it and wear it well,Kings of the sea.
The next 'Norse' is longer. We find in it a brave ring of true poetry:
1861.'Oh! dark and true and tender is the North.'
Loud leaps the strong wind forth,Fierce from the caves of the mighty North,Ages untold,O'er town and wold,That rest 'neath a softer sky,Swept that blast in anger by,And in his wrathful eddies boreThe fiery song of Odin and Thor.Then little avail,'Gainst the Vi-king's arm,The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail,Or the priestman's charm.And o'er the bright South-landA shadow of dread was the North wind's course,Whene'er his surging currents fannedThe raven banner of the Norse.Years pass, and time new rays has brought,Yet still the Northman's heart is warm;But light on his soul a change has wrought,And he loves the calm as he loved the storm.Another god than the fearful ThorIn heaven's blue he saw,And he gave to Peace his might in war—His anger to the law.And the strong hand holds the sickle now,The anvil rings at morn;And waving sunbeams tinge with goldThe hues of the ripening corn.And the land he loves in peace has grownTo be mighty in wealth and name;But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown,And evil men to its councils came.And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep,While treason walked in her halls of state,And good men grieve, but hopeless weep,And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate.'The nation must pass away.For the Northman's blood is cold,And little he recks of honor or name,If his hand may clutch the gold.'Work treason—work your will—Divide our Fatherland;Hearts are craven, souls are base—'Tis fit for the traitor's hand.'Fear no more the Northman's rage,The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn;No ancient mem'ry can stir him now,To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.'The words half-sung in silence fall,Hushed in dread by a mightier call,That stays the hand—that throbs the heart;Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note—The traitor's foot is on your flag,His bayonet at our throat.And hark! the North-wind's sullen moanRises high to a sterner tone,That sinks away, then bursts anewIn joy, as 'mid its surges grewThe shout, the stroke, the cannon's peal,The tread of countless number.For the flash of a traitor's steelHas broken the nation's slumber;And sighing breeze and southern gale,Seized by the fierce wind's grasp, are tornFrom gentle haunt by hill or dale,And in the whirling vortex borne.There murm'ring on his hollow breast,And wond'ring at his wild unrest,Their shrieking echoes sounding far,Loud swelled the Northman's shout to war;For with death's dark shadows flitting by,And the day as dark as night,A nation's hands are raised on highTo hold their ancient right.And the ages are rolled from the record of time;For the years of peace with its soft'ning beam,That soothed in love the Northman's heart,Are now but the mists of a warrior's dream.And the tinsel of life is burned in the glowThat flames in his heart as in years long ago,When Norman sea-kings swept the wave,Who loved the night, the storm, and bloody grave.And through all the blue of heaven's vault,Rolls the Vala's mystic charm,Swelled with strains of the mighty past—Victory strikes with the Northman's arm.F.
Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the battle-call:
'Northmen, come out!Forth into battle with storm and shout,He who lives with victory's blest;He who dies gains peaceful rest.Living or dying, let us beStill vowed to God and liberty!Northmen, come out!'
The following poem is certainlynotbehind the times:
PAYING THE SHOT.
BY J. IVES PEASE.
Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin,Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot;Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,'Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.'We 'owe themone!' and now's the time to settle,And finish up the business to a dot;A half a millionmen, upon theirmetal,Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.'We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers;Master or slave no more shall treason plot.We've settledthataccount with steel and triggers,And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.'We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil,Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot;We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil,That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.'There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books;Thatmust be paid, each tittle and each jot;A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks,Butstrikes his balancefair, and 'pays the shot.'There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs,We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;'In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar,Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.'So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers!Wipe out this treasonnow, nor leave one blot;When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;'Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'
War stories and war songs are in vogue—for instance:
The accomplished, fascinating, talented, and beautiful Miss H——, as Jinkings calls her in his last Saratoga letter, has engaged her affections to Mr. John G——, and they are to be married some time. In the mean time, she has done all in her power to induce her lover to go and fight the battles of his country; so far unsuccessfully, since Mr. John G—— deems it his duty to stay at home and keep things steady, especially billiards, which, as we all know, is an erratic game, requiring great watching.
The other evening, Miss H——, while assisting at a sociable at Madame V——'s, was asked to sing. Seated at the piano, to the horror of expectant hearers of classic music, she began, with loudest voice, to sing:
'I'll trace these gardins o'er and o'er,A med-i-tating on atche swate flowir,A thinking on each bewcheous hour;Oh! Johnny is gone for a sol-di-er.'
She then put her handkerchief to her eyes, pretended to sob bitterly, arose from the piano-stool, and sought an arm-chair.
Solicited by her confidential friend, Miss Belrose, to confide her affliction, she only answered:
'Oh! my Johnny G——'s gone for a soldier—to play billiards with him! And—and I know that that fast Lieutenant Gamble will keep him there for hours and hours.'
Young gentlemen, this is the time for bullets and not for balls; for cannons and not caroms; for rifle-pits to hole yourselves in, and not for 'pockets' wherein to hole your adversary.Aproposof which, listen to
Colonel X—— raised a regiment in the Ri-too-lal Rural districts of New-Jersey, including a by no means bad brass band.
Arrived in Washington with his force, he was unfortunate enough to meet with a wag, who at once told him he was afraid that he, the Colonel, would meet or rather come to grief shortly.
'How so?' asked Colonel X—— excitedly.
'H'm!' answered the wag, 'don't you see that those rural musicians of yours will be regarded as country-band of war?'
The Colonel saw it!
Do our readers remember a beautiful poem on Gottschalk's playing—Los ojos Criollos—which appeared some time since in theHome Journal? They will not regret to see a lyric in our pages by the writer of the first referred to:
'Twas in a Southern hospital, a week ago or more,(God save us! how the days drag on, these weary times of war!)They brought me, in the sultry noon, a youth whom they had foundDeserted by his regiment upon the battle-ground,And bleeding his young life away through many a gaping wound.'Dark-haired and slender as a girl, a handsome lad was he,Despite the pallor of his wounds, each one an agony.A ball had carried off his arm, and zig-zag passage frayedInto his chest—so wild a rent that, when it was displayed,I, veteran surgeon that I was, turned white as any maid.''There is no hope?' he slowly said, noting my changing cheek;I only shook my head: I dare not trust myself to speak;But in that wordless negative, the boy had read his doom,And turned about, as best he could, and lay in silent gloom,Watching the summer sunlight make a glory of the room.''My little hero!' said a voice, and then a woman's handLay like a lily on his curls: 'God give you self-command!''Mother!'—how full that thrilling word of pity and alarm—'You here? my sweetest mother here?' and with his one poor armHe got about her neck and drew her down with kisses warm.''All the long, sultry night, when out—'(He shuddered as he said)—'On yonder field I lay among the festering heaps of dead;With awful faces close to mine, and clots of bloody hair,And dead eyes gleaming through the dusk with such a rigid stare;Through all my pain, O mother mine! I only prayed one prayer.''Through all my pain—(and ne'er I knew what suffering was before!)—I only prayed to see your face, to hear your voice once more;The cold moon shone into my eyes—my prayer seemed all in vain.''My poor deluded boy!' she sobbed; her mother-fount of painO'erflowing down her gentle cheeks in drops like thunder-rain.''Accursed be he whose cruel hand has wrought my son such ill!'The boy sprang upright at the word, and shrieked aloud, 'Be still!You know not what you say. O God! how shall I tell the tale!How shall I smite her as she stands!' and with a moaning wailHe prone among the pillows dropped, his visage ashen pale.''It was a bloody field,' he said, at last, like one who dozed;'I know not how the day began—I know not how it closed;I only know we fought like fiends, begrimed with blood and dust,And did our duty to a man, as every soldier must,And gave the rebels ball for ball, and paid them thrust for thrust.'But when our gallant General rode up and down the line,The sunlight striking on his sword until it flashed like wine,And cried aloud (God bless his lips!) with such a cheery laugh,'Charge bayonets, boys! Pitch into them, and scatter them like chaff!'One half our men were drunk with blood, and mad the other half.''My veins ran fire. O Heaven! hide the horrors of that plain!We charged upon the rebel ranks and cut them down like grain.One bright-haired man ran on my steel—I pierced him through and through;The blood upspirted from his wound and sprinkled me like dew.'Twas strange, but as I looked I thought of Cain and him he slew.''Some impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell,I turned him o'er—I saw his face—the sight was worse than hell!There lay my brother—Curse me not!—pierced bymybayonet!'O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget—Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet.'And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she,Dropped down among us, in a swoon, from very sympathy.'I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had diedIn those old days of innocence!) was ever by my side,At bed or board, at school or play, so fresh and merry-eyed!''And now to see it white and set—to know the deed was mine!A madness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine.I did not heed the balls which fell around us thick as rain,I did not know my arm was gone;I felt nor wound nor pain,I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again.''O Louis!' (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside,)'O Louis! brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide!By the bright heaven where thou stand'st—by thy big-hearted faith—By these the tears our mother sheds—by this my failing breath—Forgive me for that murd'rous thrust which wounded thee to death.''Forgive me! I would yield my life to give thee thine, my brother!What's this? Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother.The air blows sweet from yonder field!Dear Lou, put up your sword.Let's weave a little daisy-chainupon this pleasant sward—'And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.'
Such are the tragedies of civil war, the fearful probability of such events. But who has not heard of families with sons in either army, especially on the border, in Philadelphia, and Baltimore? We have heardsevensuch instances enumerated by one lady of the former city. Let us turn from tragedy to comedy:
The ladies of Christopher's Church, Philadelphia, have worked like true-hearted women for the wounded soldiers. Many a poor fellow has blessed them for their contributions to alleviate his pain and make the old hospital comfortable for him. In the congregation, one elderly maiden lady, who had so far given nothing, was called on by one of her energetic sisters in the church, and implored to do something for the poor soldiers. She was told that any thing that would render their sufferings less would be gratefully received.
She promised to send a donation. Nothing more was heard from her for a couple of weeks, when one morning the ladies assembled in the vestry-room of the church received a large basket from the elderly maiden lady. On opening it, they found three dozen starched muslin, night-cape, with frills all round them, bows and long strings.
'Did you ever?' asked Miss G——. 'I declare Miss—— has set her Caps for the soldiers in earnest this time.
We select the following as the best proposed completion of the unfinished poem by Fitz-James O'Brien, published in our July number:
Detroit, Mich., June 22d, 1862.
Editors of Continental: As you do not give the conclusion of that 'Watching the Stag,' I propose to finish it in this wise:
'Watching my face with half-closed eyes,'As I lean my head on the dappled stagThat stiffens beneath a windward crag.His flanks are black with the hardened sweat,And a film has clouded his eye of jet;While a round, red wound that oozes still,'Tells of his fate and my marksman's skill.Oh! the granite crags shall no longer feelHis fleet hoofs ringing like steel on steel,And shepherd shall never again espyHis antlers painted against the sky!The mountain tarn, so lone and cold,The delicate shadow no more shall hold;The fleetness has died in each rigid limb,And never shall dun hound follow him!Stanch Hela blinks as she half recallsThat savage chase through the mountain-walls,And growls as she dreams how her white teeth sankWith a thirsty grip in his shuddering flank.Dream on, good dog! through the night so chill,Till sunrise surges over the hill,Till the heather glows and the peaks are gay,And then for our mountain-home hurra!
We are indebted to L. H. Brook, of Cambridge for a version of
The Continental Monthlyhas passed its experimental ordeal, and stands firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period when any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine. Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation, for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has found favor in quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where opposition only was looked for. While holding firmly to itsown opinions, it has opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERSof widely different views, and has made a feature of employing the literary labors of theyoungerrace of American writers. How much has been gained by thus giving, practically, the fullest freedom to the expression of opinion, and by the infusion of fresh blood into literature, has been felt from month to month in its constantly increasing circulation.
The most eminent of our Statesmen have furnished THE CONTINENTAL many of its political articles, and the result is, it has not given labored essays fit only for a place in ponderous encyclopedias, but fresh, vigorous, and practical contributions on men and things as they exist.
It will be our effort to go on in the path we have entered, and as a guarantee of the future, we may point to the array of live and brilliant talent which has brought so many encomiums on our Magazine. The able political articles which have given it so much reputation will be continued in each issue, together with the new Novel by Richard B. Kimball, the eminent author of the 'Under-Currents of Wall-Street,' 'St, Leger,' etc., entitled,
An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money. This work excels the previous brilliant productions of this author. In the present number is also commenced a new Serial by the author of 'Among the Pines,' entitled,
which will depict Southernwhitesociety, and be a truthful history of some eminent Northern merchants who are largely in 'the cotton trade and sugar line.'
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J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York, and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.
CHARLES T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New-York,GENERAL AGENT.
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