AN ARMY CONTRACTOR.

Lived a man of iron mold,Crafty glance and hidden eye,Dead to every gain but gold,Deaf to every human sigh.Man he was of hoary beard,Withered cheek and wrinkled brow.Imaged on his soul, appeared:'Honest as the times allow.'

Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. By the Author of Paul Ferroll. New-York: Carleton, 413 Broadway. Boston: N. Williams & Co.

Those who rememberPaul Ferroll, probably recall it as a novel of merit, which excited attention, partly from its peculiarity, and partly from the mystery in which its writer chose to conceal herself—a not unusual course with timid debutantes in literature, who hope either tointriguerthe public with their masks, or quietly escape the disgrace of afiascoshould they fail. Mrs. Clive is, however, it would seem, satisfied that the public did not reject her, since she now reäppears to inform us, 'novelly,' why the extremely ill-married Paul made himself the chief of sinners, by committing wife-icide. The work is in fact a very readable novel—much less killing indeed than its title—but still deserving the great run which we are informed it is having, and which, unlike the run of shad, will not we presume—as it is a very summer book—fall off as the season advances.

The Channings. A Domestic Novel of Real Life. By Mrs. Henry Wood. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson. Boston: Crosby and Nichols.

Notwithstanding the praise which has been so lavishly bestowed on this 'tale of domestic life,' the reader will, if any thing more than a mere reader of novels for the very sake of 'story,' probably agree with us, after dragging through to the end, that it would be a blessing if some manner of stop could be put to the manufacture of such books. A reallyoriginal, earnest novel; vivid in its life-picturing, genial in its characters; the book of a man or woman who has thought something, and actuallyknowssomething, is at any time a world's blessing. But what hasThe Channingsof all this in it? Every sentence in it rings like something read of old, all the incidents are of a kind which were worn out years ago—to be sure the third-rate story-reader may lose himself in it—just as we may for a fiftieth time endeavor to trace out the plan of the Hampton Labyrinth, and with about as much real profit or amusement.

It is a melancholy sign of the times to learn that such hackneyed English trash asThe Channingshas sold well! It has not deserved it. American novels which have appeared nearly cotemporaneously with it, and which have ten times its merit, have not met with the same success, for the simple and sole reason that almost any English circulating library stuff will at any time meet with better patronage than a home work. When our public becomes as much interested in itself as it is in the very common-place life of Cockney clergymen and clerks, we shall perhaps witness a truly generous encouragement of native literature.

The Pearl of Orr's Island. A Story of the Coast of Maine. By Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

In reading this quiet, natural, well-pictured narrative of Northern life, we are tempted to exclaim—fresh from the extraordinary contrast presented byAgnes of Sorrento—O si sic omnes!Why can not Mrs. Stowealwayswrite like this? Why not limit her efforts to subjects which develop her really fine powers—to setting forth the social life of America at the present day, instead of harping away at the seven times worn out and knotted cord of Catholic and Italian romance?The Pearl of Orr'sIsland, though not a work which will sweep Uncle Tom-like in tempest fashion over all lands and through all languages, is still a very readable and very refreshing novel—full of reality as we find it among real people, 'inland or on sounding shore,' and by no means deficient in those moral and religious lessons to inculcate which it appears to have been written. Piety is indeed the predominant characteristic of the work—not obtrusive or sectarian, but earnest and actual; so that it will probably be classed, on the whole, as a religious novel, though we can hardly recall a romance in which the pious element interferes so little with the general interest of the plot, or is so little conducive to gloom. The hard, 'AngularSaxon' characteristics of the rural people who constitute thedramatis personæ, their methods of thought and tone of feeling, so singularly different from that of 'the world,' their marked peculiarities, are all set forth with an apparently unconscious ability deserving the highest praise.

The Golden Hour. ByMonoure D. Conway, Author of the 'Rejected Stone,' 'Impera Parendo.' Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

The most remarkable work which the war has called out is beyond question theRejected Stone. Wild, vigorous, earnest, even to suffering, honest as truth itself, quaint, humorous, pathetic, and startlingly eccentric. Those who read it at once decided that a new writer had arisen among us, and one destined to make no mean mark in the destinies of his country. The reader who will refer to our first number will find what we said of it in all sincerity, since the author was then to us unknown. He is—it is almost needless to inform the reader—a thorough-going abolitionist, yet one who, while looking more intently at the welfare of the black than we care to do in the present imbroglio, still appreciates and urges Emancipation, or freeing the black, in its relation to the welfare of the white man. Mr. Conway is not, however, a man who speaks ignorantly on this subject. A Virginian born and bred, brought up in the very heart of the institution, he studied it at home in all its relations, and found out its evils by experience. A thoroughly honest man, too clear-headed and far too intelligent to be rated as a fanatic; too familiar with his subject to be at all disregarded, he claims close attention in many ways, those of wit and eloquence not being by any means the least. In the work before us, he insists that there is a golden hour at hand, a title borrowed from the quaint advertisement, of 'Lost a golden hour set with sixty diamond minutes'—which if not grasped at by the strong, daring hand will see our great national opportunity lost forever. We are not such disbelievers in fate as to imagine that this golden hour ever can be inevitably lost. If the cause of freedom rolls slowly, it is because even in free soil there are too many Conservative pebbles. Still we agree with Conway as to his estimate of the great mass of cowardice, irresolution, and folly which react on our administration. If the word 'Emancipationist,'—meaning thereby one who looks to the welfare of thewhiteman rather than the negro—be substituted for 'Abolitionist' in the following, our more intelligent readers will probably agree with Mr. Conway exactly:

'If this country is to be saved, the Abolitionists are to save it; and though they seem few in numbers, they are not by a thousandth so few as were the Christians when JESUS suffered, or Protestants when Luther spoke. There is need only that we should stand as one man, and unto the end, for an absolutely free Republic, swearing to promote eternal strife until it be attained—until in waters which Agitation, the angel of freedom, has troubled, the diseased nation shall bathe and be made every whit whole.'The Golden Hour is before us: there is in America enough wisdom and courage to coin it, ere it passes, into national honor and peace, if it is all put forth.'Up, hearts!'

'The Golden Hour is before us: there is in America enough wisdom and courage to coin it, ere it passes, into national honor and peace, if it is all put forth.

'Up, hearts!'

It is needless to say that we earnestlycommend this book to all who are truly interested in the great questions of the time.

Tragedy of Success. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

Another of the extraordinary series bearing the motto, 'Aux plus desheritées le plus d'amour'—works as strongly marked by talent as by misapplied taste. The dramatic ability, the deep vein of poetry, the earnest thought, faith, and humanity of these dramas or drama, are beyond question—but very questionable to our mind is the extreme love of over-adorning truth which can induce a writer to represent plantation negroes as speaking elegant language and using lofty, tender, and poetic sentiments on almost all occasions, or at least to a degree which is exceptional and not regular. If we hope that the time may come when all ofGod'schildren will be raised to this high standard of thought and culture, so much the more reason is there why they should not now be exaggerated and placed in a false light. Yet, as we have said, the work abounds in noble thoughts and true poetry. It may be read with somewhat more than 'profit,' for it has within it a great and loving heart. Truehumanityis impressed on every page, and where that exists greatness and beauty are never absent.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame. ByVictor Hugo. New-York: Dick and Fitzgerald. 1862.

Many years ago—say some thirty-odd—when French literature still walked in the old groves, and the classic form and style of the old revolution still swayed all the minor minds, there sprung up a reäction in the so-called romantic school of which Victor Hugo became the leader. The medieval renaissance, which fifty years before had penetrated Germany and England, and indeed all the North, was late in coming to France, but when it did come it stirred the Latin Quarter and Young France wonderfully. If its results were less remarkable in literature than in any other country, they were at least more admired in their day. Principal among these results was the novel now before us. And this book is really a tolerable imitation of Walter Scott. The feverish spirit of modern France craved, indeed, stronger ingredients than the Wizard of the North was wont to gather, and theHunchbackis accordingly 'sensational.' It has in fact been called extravagant—yes, forced and unnatural. Even ordinary readers were apt to say as much of it. We well remember meeting many years ago in a well-thumbed circulating-library copy of theHunchback of Notre Damethe following doggerel on the last page:

'In Paris when to the Grève you go,Pray do not grieve ifVictor HugoShould there be hanging by a rope,Without the blessing of the Pope,Or that of any human creatureOn him who libels human nature.'

Yet we counsel all who would be well-informed in literature—as well as the far greater number of those who read only for entertainment, to get this work. It is exciting—full of strange, quaint picturing of the Middle Ages, has vivid characters, and is full of life. Among the series of books with fewer faults, but, alas! with far fewer excellencies, which are daily printed, there is, after all, seldom one so well worth reading asThe Hunchback of Notre Dame.

At last we are wide awake. At last the nation has found out its strength, and determined, despite doughface objections and impediments to every proposal of every kind, to push the war with energy, so that the foeshallbe overwhelmed. Six hundred thousand men, as we write, will soon swell the ranks of the Federal army, and if six hundred thousand more are needed they can be had. For the North is arming in real earnest, thank God! and when it rises inallits force, who shall withstand it? It is a thing to remember with pride, that the proclamation calling for the second three hundred thousand by draft, was received with the same joy as though we had heard of a great victory.

Government has not gone to work one day too soon. From a rebellion, the present cause of strife has at length assumed the proportion of equal war. The South has cast itswholepopulation, all its means, all its energy, heart and soul, life and future, on one desperate game; while we with every advantage have let out our strength little by little, so as to hurt the enemy as little as possible. Doughface democracy among us has squalled as if receiving deadly wounds at every proposal to crush or injure the foe. It opposed, heart and soul, the early On to Richmond movement, when the Republicans clamored for an overwhelming army, a grand rally, and a bold push. It rejoiced at heart over Bull Run—for the South was saved for a time. It upheld the wounded snake, 'anaconda' system, it opposed the using of contrabands in any way, it urged, heart and soul, the protection of the property of rebels, it warred on confiscation in any form, it was ready with a negative to every proposition to energetically push the war, and finally its press is now opposing the settling our soldiers on the cotton-lands of the South. Thus far the slow course of this war of ten millions against twenty millions is the history of the action of falsehood and treason benumbing the majority. They have lied against us, and against millions, that the negro was all we cared for, though it was the WHITE MAN, far, far above the black for whom we spoke and cared, or how else could thatfreelabor in which the black is but a small unit have been our principal hope and thought?

But treason at home could not last forever, nor will lies always endure. The people have found out that the foecan notbe gently whipped and amiably reinstated in their old place of honor. Moreover we have no time to lose. Another year will find us financially bankrupt, and the enemy in all probability, in that case, free and fairly afloat by foreign aid.

And if the South goes,allmay possibly go. In every city exist desperate and unprincipled men—theFernando Woodsof the dangerous classes—who to rule would do all in their power to break our remaining union into hundreds of small independencies. The South would flood us with smuggled European goods—for, be it remembered, this iniquitous device to beat down our manufacture has always been prominent on their programme—our industry would be paralyzed, exchanges ruined, and the Eastern and Middle States become paltry shadows of what they once were.

The people have at last seen this terrible ghost stare them full in the face. They have found out that it is 'rule or ruin' in earnest. No time now to have every decisive and expedient measure yelled down as 'unconstitutional' or undemocratic or unprecedented. No daysthese to fight a maddened foe with conservative kid-gloves and frighten the fell tiger back with democratic rose-water. We must do all and every thing, even as the foe have done. We have been generous, we have been merciful—we have protected property, we have returned slaves, we have let our wounded lie in the open air and die rather than offend the fiendish-hearted women of Secessia—and what have we got by it? Lies and lies, again and yet again. For refusing to touch the black, Mr. Lincoln is termed by the Southern press 'a dirty negro-stealer,' and our troops, fornottaking the slaves and thereby giving the South all its present crop and for otherwise aiding them, are simply held up as hell-hounds and brigands. Much we have made by forbearance!

The miserable position held by Free State secessionists, Breckinridge Democrats, rose-water conservatives, and other varieties of the great Northern branch of Southern treason, is fully exemplified by the following extract from Breckinridge's special organ, the LouisvilleCourier, printed while Nashville was still under rebel rule, an article which has been of late more than once closely reëchoed and imitated by the RichmondWhig.

'This,' says theCourier, 'has been called a fratricidal war by some, by others an irrepressible conflict between freedom and slavery. We respectfully take issue with the authors of both these ideas. We are not the brothers of the Yankees, and the slavery question is merely thepretext, not the cause of the war. The true irrepressible conflict lies fundamentally in the hereditary hostility, the sacred animosity, the eternal antagonism, between the two races engaged.'The Norman cavalier can not brook the vulgar familiarity of the Saxon Yankee, while the latter is continually devising some plan to bring down his aristocratic neighbor to his own detested level. Thus was the contest waged in the old United States. So long asDickinson dough-faces were to be bought, andCochrane cowards to be frightened, so long was the Union tolerable to Southern men; but when, owing to divisions in our ranks, the Yankee hirelings placed one of their own spawn over us, political connection became unendurable, and separation necessary to preserve ourself-respect.'As our Norman friends in England, always a minority, have ruled their Saxon countrymen in political vassalage up to the present day, so have we, the slave oligarchs, governed the Yankees till within a twelve-month. We framed the Constitution, for seventy years molded the policy of the Government, and placed our own men, or 'Northern men with Southern principles,' in power.'

'The Norman cavalier can not brook the vulgar familiarity of the Saxon Yankee, while the latter is continually devising some plan to bring down his aristocratic neighbor to his own detested level. Thus was the contest waged in the old United States. So long asDickinson dough-faces were to be bought, andCochrane cowards to be frightened, so long was the Union tolerable to Southern men; but when, owing to divisions in our ranks, the Yankee hirelings placed one of their own spawn over us, political connection became unendurable, and separation necessary to preserve ourself-respect.

'As our Norman friends in England, always a minority, have ruled their Saxon countrymen in political vassalage up to the present day, so have we, the slave oligarchs, governed the Yankees till within a twelve-month. We framed the Constitution, for seventy years molded the policy of the Government, and placed our own men, or 'Northern men with Southern principles,' in power.'

Cool—and in part true. Theydidrule us in political vassalage, theydidplace their own men, or 'Northern men with Southern principles,' in power, and there are scores of such abandoned traitors even now crying out 'pro-slavery' and abusing Emancipation among us, in the hope that if some turn of Fortune's wheel should separate the South, they may again rise to power as its agents and representatives! GOD help them! It is hard to conceive of men sunk so low! Nobody wants them now—but a timemaycome. They are in New-York—there is a peculiarly contemptible clique of them in Boston, and the PhiladelphiaBulletininforms us that there is exactly such another precious party in the city of Brotherly Love, who are 'in a very awkward position just now, inasmuch as there is no market for them. They are in the position of Johnson and Don Juan in the slave-market at Constantinople, and ready to exclaim:

'I wish to G—d that some body would buy us!''

The first draft for the army was a death-blow to the slow-poison democracy, and it has been frightened accordingly. Like a slug on whom salt has just begun to fall, the crawling mass is indeed manifesting symptoms of frightened activity—but it is the activity of death. For the North is awake in real earnest; it is out with banner and bayonet; there is to be no more playing at war or wasting of lives—the foe is to be rooted out—delanda est Dixie. And in the hour of triumph where will the pro-slavery traitors be then? Where? Where they always strive to be—on thewinningside. They will 'back water' as they have done on progressive measure whichthey once opposed, since the war begun; they will eat their words and fawn and wheedle those in power until the opportunity again occurs for building up on some sham principle a party of rum and faro-banks, low demagogue-ism, ignorance, reaction, and vulgarity. Then from his present toad-like swelling and whispering, we shall hear the full-expanded fiend roar out into a real life. It is the old story of history—the corrupt and venal arraigning itself against truth and terming the latter 'visionary' and 'fanatical.'

Those who visit the sick soldiers and do good in the hospitals occasionally get a gleam of fun among all the sad scenes—for any wag who has been to the wars seldom loses his humor, although he may have lost all else save that and honor. Witness a sketch from life:

C——, good soul, after taking all the little comforts he could afford to give to the wounded soldiers, went into the hospital for the fortieth time the other day, with his mite, consisting of several papers of fine-cut chewing-tobacco, Solace for the wounded, as he called it. He came to one bed, where a poor fellow lay cheerfully humming a tune, and studying out faces on the papered wall.

'Got a fever?' asked C——.

'No,' answered the soldier.

'Got a cold?'

'Yes, cold—lead—like the d——l!'

'Where?'

'Well, to tell you the truth, it's pretty well scattered. First, there's a bullet in my right arm, they han't dug that out yet. Then there's one near my thigh—it's sticking in yet: one in my leg—hit the bone—thatfellowhurts! one through my left hand—that fell out. And I tell you what, friend, with all this lead in me, I feel, ginrally speaking,a little heavy all over!'

C—— lightened his woes with a double quantity of Solace.

C—— was a good fellow, and the soldier deserved his 'Solace.' Many of them among us are poor indeed. 'Boys!' exclaimed a wounded volunteer to two comrades, as they paused the other day before a tobacconist's and examined with the eyes of connoisseurs the brier or bruyére-wood pipes in his window, 'Boys! I'd give fifty dollars, if I had it, for four shillins to buy one of them pipes with!'

In a late number of an English magazine, Harriet Martineau gives some account of her conversations, when in America in 1835, with Chief-Justice Marshall and Mr. Madison. These men then represented the old ideas of the Republic and of Virginia as it had been. The following extract fully declares their opinions:

'When I knew Chief-Justice Marshall he was eighty-three—as bright-eyed and warm-hearted as ever, while as dignified a judge as ever filled the highest seat in the highest court of any country. He said he had seen Virginia the leading State for half his life; he had seen her become the second, and sink to be (I think) the fifth.'Worse than this, there was no arresting her decline if her citizens did not put an end to slavery; and he saw no signs of any intention to do so, east of the mountains, at least. He had seen whole groups of estates, populous in his time, lapse into waste. He had seen agriculture exchanged for human stock-breeding; and he keenly felt the degradation.'The forest was returning over the fine old estates, and the wild creatures which had not been seen for generations were reäppearing, numbers and wealth were declining, and education and manners were degenerating. It would not have surprised him to be told that on that soil would the main battles be fought when the critical day should come which he foresaw.'To Mr. Madison despair was not easy. He had a cheerful and sanguine temper, and if there was one thing rather than another which he had learned to consider secure, it was the Constitution which he had so large a share in making. Yet he told me that he was nearly in despair, and that he had been quite so till the Colonization Society arose.'Rather than admit to himself that the South must be laid waste by a servile war, or the whole country by a civil war, he strove to believe that millions of negroes could be carried to Africa, and so got rid of. I need not speak of the weakness of such a hope. What concerns us now is that he saw and described to me, when I was his guest, the dangers and horrors of the state of society in which he was living.'He talked more of slavery than of all other subjects together, returning to it morning, noon, and night. He said that the clergy perverted the Bible because it was altogether against slavery; that the colored population was increasing faster than the white; and that the state of morals was such as barely permitted society to exist.'Of the issue of the conflict, whenever it should occur, there could, he said, be no doubt. A society burdened with a slave system could make no permanent resistance to an unencumbered enemy; and he was astonished at the fanaticism which blinded some Southern men to so clear a certainty.'Such was Mr. Madison's opinion in 1855.'

'Worse than this, there was no arresting her decline if her citizens did not put an end to slavery; and he saw no signs of any intention to do so, east of the mountains, at least. He had seen whole groups of estates, populous in his time, lapse into waste. He had seen agriculture exchanged for human stock-breeding; and he keenly felt the degradation.

'The forest was returning over the fine old estates, and the wild creatures which had not been seen for generations were reäppearing, numbers and wealth were declining, and education and manners were degenerating. It would not have surprised him to be told that on that soil would the main battles be fought when the critical day should come which he foresaw.

'To Mr. Madison despair was not easy. He had a cheerful and sanguine temper, and if there was one thing rather than another which he had learned to consider secure, it was the Constitution which he had so large a share in making. Yet he told me that he was nearly in despair, and that he had been quite so till the Colonization Society arose.

'Rather than admit to himself that the South must be laid waste by a servile war, or the whole country by a civil war, he strove to believe that millions of negroes could be carried to Africa, and so got rid of. I need not speak of the weakness of such a hope. What concerns us now is that he saw and described to me, when I was his guest, the dangers and horrors of the state of society in which he was living.

'He talked more of slavery than of all other subjects together, returning to it morning, noon, and night. He said that the clergy perverted the Bible because it was altogether against slavery; that the colored population was increasing faster than the white; and that the state of morals was such as barely permitted society to exist.

'Of the issue of the conflict, whenever it should occur, there could, he said, be no doubt. A society burdened with a slave system could make no permanent resistance to an unencumbered enemy; and he was astonished at the fanaticism which blinded some Southern men to so clear a certainty.

'Such was Mr. Madison's opinion in 1855.'

But the trial has come at last, and it is for the country to decide whether the South is to be allowed to secede, or to remain strengthened by their slaves, planting and warring against us until our own resources becoming exhausted, Europe can at an opportune moment intervene. But will that be the end? Will not Russia revenge the Crimea by aiding us—will not Austria be dismembered, France on fire, Southern Europe in arms, and one storm of anarchy sweep over the world? It is all possible, should we persevere in fighting the enemy with one hand and feeding him with the other.

There is such a thing as silly theatrical sentiment, and much of it is shown in the vulgar, melodramatic acting out of popular songs, as shown by the subjoined brace of anecdotes:

Dear Sir: I have had, in my time, not a little experience of jailer, warden, and, of late, camp life, and would like to say a word about silly, misplaced sympathy, of which I have witnessed enough in all conscience.At one time, while officering it in a prison not one thousand miles—as the penny papers say—from the State of New-York, we received into our hands about as degraded a specimen of thegenus'murderer,' as it was ever my lot to see. He had killed a woman in a most cowardly and cruel manner, and was, to my way of thinking, (and I was used to such fellows,) about as brutal-looking a human beast as one need look at. However, we had hardly got him into a cell, before a carriage drove up to the door, and a splendidly-dressed lady, with a basket of oranges and a five-dollar camellia bouquet, asked to see the prisoner.'Dolet me see him!' she cried, 'I read of him in the newspaper, and, guilty as he is, I would fain contribute my mite to soothe him.''He is a rough customer, marm,' said my assistant.'Yes, but you know what the poet says:"Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell."So she went in. She took but small notice of the prisoner, however, arranged her bouquet, left her oranges, and departed. It occurred to me to promptly search the bouquet for a concealed note or file, so I entered the cell as she went out. I found Shocky, as we called him, sucking away at an orange, and staring at the flowers in great amazement. Finally, he spoke.'Wat in ——'s the use a sendin' them things to a feller fur, unless they give him the rum with 'em?''What do you suppose they are meant for?' I replied.'Why, to make bitters with, in course. An't them come-a-mile flowers?'The second is something of the same sort. Not long since, a lot of us—I am an H. P., 'high private,' now—were quartered in several wooden tenements, and in the inner room of one lay thecorpusof a young Secesh officer, awaiting burial. The news soon spread to a village not far off. Down came tearing a sentimental and not bad-looking specimen of a Virginny dame.'Let me kiss him for his mother!' she cried, as I interrupted her progress. 'Dolet me kiss him for his mother!''Kiss whom?''The dear little lieutenant, the one who lies dead within. P'int him out to me, sir, if you please. I never saw him, but—oh!'I led her through a room in which Lieutenant ——, of Philadelphia, lay stretched out on an up-turned trough, fast asleep. Supposing him to be the 'article' sought for, she rushed up, and exclaiming, 'Let me kiss him for his mother,' approached her lips to his forehead. What was her amazement when the 'corpse,' ardently clasping its arms around her, returned the salute vigorously, and exclaimed:'Never mind the old lady, Miss, go it onyour own account. I haven't the slightest objection!'Sentiment is a fine thing, Mr. Editor, but it should be handled as one handles the spiked guns which the rebels leave behind, loaded with percussion-caps—very carefully.Yours amazingly,Warden.

At one time, while officering it in a prison not one thousand miles—as the penny papers say—from the State of New-York, we received into our hands about as degraded a specimen of thegenus'murderer,' as it was ever my lot to see. He had killed a woman in a most cowardly and cruel manner, and was, to my way of thinking, (and I was used to such fellows,) about as brutal-looking a human beast as one need look at. However, we had hardly got him into a cell, before a carriage drove up to the door, and a splendidly-dressed lady, with a basket of oranges and a five-dollar camellia bouquet, asked to see the prisoner.

'Dolet me see him!' she cried, 'I read of him in the newspaper, and, guilty as he is, I would fain contribute my mite to soothe him.'

'He is a rough customer, marm,' said my assistant.

'Yes, but you know what the poet says:

"Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell."

So she went in. She took but small notice of the prisoner, however, arranged her bouquet, left her oranges, and departed. It occurred to me to promptly search the bouquet for a concealed note or file, so I entered the cell as she went out. I found Shocky, as we called him, sucking away at an orange, and staring at the flowers in great amazement. Finally, he spoke.

'Wat in ——'s the use a sendin' them things to a feller fur, unless they give him the rum with 'em?'

'What do you suppose they are meant for?' I replied.

'Why, to make bitters with, in course. An't them come-a-mile flowers?'

The second is something of the same sort. Not long since, a lot of us—I am an H. P., 'high private,' now—were quartered in several wooden tenements, and in the inner room of one lay thecorpusof a young Secesh officer, awaiting burial. The news soon spread to a village not far off. Down came tearing a sentimental and not bad-looking specimen of a Virginny dame.

'Let me kiss him for his mother!' she cried, as I interrupted her progress. 'Dolet me kiss him for his mother!'

'Kiss whom?'

'The dear little lieutenant, the one who lies dead within. P'int him out to me, sir, if you please. I never saw him, but—oh!'

I led her through a room in which Lieutenant ——, of Philadelphia, lay stretched out on an up-turned trough, fast asleep. Supposing him to be the 'article' sought for, she rushed up, and exclaiming, 'Let me kiss him for his mother,' approached her lips to his forehead. What was her amazement when the 'corpse,' ardently clasping its arms around her, returned the salute vigorously, and exclaimed:

'Never mind the old lady, Miss, go it onyour own account. I haven't the slightest objection!'

Sentiment is a fine thing, Mr. Editor, but it should be handled as one handles the spiked guns which the rebels leave behind, loaded with percussion-caps—very carefully.

Yours amazingly,

Warden.

Readers who are desirous of seeing Ravenshoe fully played out will please glance at the following:

There are those who assert that the doctrine of Compensation is utterly ignored in Ravenshoe. They instance the rewarding Welter, a coarse, brutal scoundrel and sensual beast, with wealth and title, and such honor as the author can confer, as an insult to every rational reader; nor can they think Charles Ravenshoe, or Horton, who endeavored right manfully to support himself, repaid for this exertion, and for bearing up stoutly against his troubles, by being compelled 'to pass a dull, settled, dreaming, melancholy old age' as an invalid.

It may naturally be thought that a residence of years in Australia, the mother of Botany Bay, where not exactly the best of American society could be found, has had its effect in embittering even an Englishman against Americans, and of embroiling him with his own countrymen; therefore the reader must smile at this principle of rewarding vice and punishing virtue; it is what Ravenshoe pretends to be—something novel.

The extreme dissatisfaction of the public with this volume calls imperatively for a satisfactory conclusion to it, consequently a sequel is now presented in what the Australians call the most 'bloody dingo[6]politeful' manner.

A small boy with a dirty face met another small boy similarly caparisoned. Said the first: 'Eech! you don' know how much twicet two is?'

'You are a ——' (we suppress the word he used; suffice it to say, it may be defined, 'a kind of harp much used by the ancients!')—'twicet two is four. Hmm!' replied the second.

The reader may not see it, but the writer does, that this trivial conversation has important bearing on the fate of William Ravenshoe, the wrongful-rightful, rightful-wrongful, etcetera, heir. For further particulars, see the Bohemian Girl, where a babe is changed by a nurse in order that the nurse may have change for it.

When Charles Horton Ravenshoe returned once more to his paternal acres, it will be remembered he settled two thousand pounds a year, rent-charge on Ravenshoe, in favor of William Ravenshoe. Over and above this, Charles enjoyed from this estate and from what Lord Saltire (Satire?) willed him, no less than fourteen thousand pounds; his settlement on William was therefore by no means one half of the income, consequently unfair to the exiled Catholic half-brother.

After the death of Father Mackworth he was followed by a gentleman in crow-colored raiment, named Father Macksham, who accompanied William, the ex-heir, to a small cottage, where the plots inside were much larger than the grass-plots outside, and where Father Macksham hatched the following fruit, which only partially ripened. He determined to overthrow Welter by the means of Adelaide, then overthrow Adelaide by means of Charles Ravenshoe, then overthrow the latter by his illegitimate brother, and finally throw the last over in favor of the Jesuits. He occupied all his spare moments preparing the fireworks.

The reader will remember that Adelaide, wife of Welter, or Lord Ascot, broke her back while attempting to jump a fence, mounted on the back of the Irish mare 'Molly Asthore,' but the reader does not know that Welter was the cause of his wife's fall, and that he actually hired a groom to scare 'Molly Asthore' so that she would take the fence, and also his wife out of this vale of tears. (This sentence I know is not grammatical; who cares?) Welter, when he saw that his wife was not killed, was furious. His large red brutal face turned to purple; he smote his prize-fighting chest with his huge fists, he lowered his eyebrows until he resembled an infuriated hog, and then he retired to his house anddrank a small box of claret—pints—twenty-four to the dozen!

Adelaide, too, was furious, but she sent privately to London for Surgeon Forsups—he came; then in the night season, unbeknown to Welter, an operation was performed, and behold! in the morning light lay Adelaide, tall, straight, commanding, proud—well as ever! in fact, straight as a shingle. Do you think she wanted to choke Welter? I do.

Nature was in one of her gloomiest moods, the clouds were the color of burnt treacle, the sombre rain pelted the dismal streets; mud was everywhere, desolation, misery, wet boots, and ruined hats. In the midst of such a scene, Welter, Lord Ascot, died of apoplexy in the throat, caused by a rope. Who did the deed? Owls on the battlements answer me. Did he do it himself or was it done for him? Shrieking elements respond. Echo answers: Justice!

Ravenshoe bay again. Sunlight on the waters; clear blue sky; all nature smiling serenely; Charles Ravenshoe—I adore the man when I think of him—landing a forty-four-pound salmon; ruddy with health, joyous in countenance; two curly-headed boys screaming for joy; his wife, 'she that was' (Americanism picked up among Yorkshiremen in Australia) Mary Corby, laughing heartily at thetout ensemble. William Ravenshoe affectionately helping Charles with a landing-net to secure the salmon, thus speaks to him:

'Charles, this idea of yours of dividing the 'state evenly between us is noble, but I shall not accept it. I would like a small piece of the tail of this salmon for dinner, though, if it will not rob you.'

'William, halves in every thing between us is my motto; so say no more about it. The delightful news that Father Macksham has at last fallen a victim to his love of gain, while trying to run a cargo of cannons, powder, and Enfield rifles to the confederate States, IN DIRECT OPPOSITION TO HER BLESSED MAJESTY'S COMMANDS, rejoices my heart to that extent that I exclaim, perish all Jesuits! Now that you have turned Protestant, and are thoroughly out of the woods of medieval romance, I may say,

'The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,'

and quote Tennyson, like poor Cuthbert, all day long. Who is there to hinder?'

'No one,' replied William, with all the warmth of heart of a man who was once a groom and then a bridegroom. 'No one. I saw Adelaide this morning a-carrying flannels and rum to the poor of the parish; how thoroughly she has reformed, I'm sure.'

Reader, let us pause here and dwell on the respective merits of the Bohemian Girl, and Father Rodin in theMysteries of Paris, compared with the characters described inRavenshoe. Let us ask if an English novel can be written without allusion to the Derby or Life at Oxford, the accumulation of pounds or the squandering of pounds, rightful heirs or wrongful heirs, false marriages, or the actions of spoiled children generally? An answer is looked for.

'And further this deponent sayeth not.'

The NashvilleUnion—the new Union newspaper of that city—is emphatically 'an institution,' and a dashing one at that. Its every column is like the charge of a column of infantry into the unhallowed Rebel-ry of Disunion. 'Don't compromise your loyalty with rebels,' says theUnion, 'until you are ready to compromise your soul with the devil.'

Some of the humor of this brave pioneer sheet is decidedly piquant. Among its quizzical literary efforts the review of Rev. Dr. McFerrin'sConfederate Primeris good enough to form the initial of a series. We make the following extracts:

'Nothing is more worthy of being perpetuated than valuable contributions to literature. The literature of a nation is its crown of glory, whose reflected light shines far down the swift-rolling waves of time and gladdens the eyes of remote generations. This beautiful and—to our notion—finely-expressed sentiment was suggested to our mind in turning over the pages of Rev. Dr. McFerrin'sConfederate Primer, which we briefly noticed yesterday. We feel that we then passed too hastily over a work so grand in its conception.... ThePrimer, after giving the alphabet in due form, offers some little rhymes for youngsters, which are perfect nosegays of sentiment, of which the following will serve as samples:N.At Nashville's fallWe sinned all.T.At Number TenWe sinned again.F.Thy purse to mend,Old Floyd, attend.L.Abe Lincoln bold,Our ports doth hold.D.Jeff Davis tells a lie,And so must you and I.I.Isham doth mournHis case forlorn.P.Brave Pillow's flightIs out of sight.B.Buell doth play,And after slay.O.Yon Oak will be the gallows-treeOf Richmond's fallen majesty.

N.At Nashville's fallWe sinned all.T.At Number TenWe sinned again.F.Thy purse to mend,Old Floyd, attend.L.Abe Lincoln bold,Our ports doth hold.D.Jeff Davis tells a lie,And so must you and I.I.Isham doth mournHis case forlorn.P.Brave Pillow's flightIs out of sight.B.Buell doth play,And after slay.O.Yon Oak will be the gallows-treeOf Richmond's fallen majesty.

Governor Ishain Harris 'catches it' in the following extract from the Easy Reading Lessons for Children:

'Once there was a lit-tle boy, on-ly four years old. His name was Dix-ie. His fa-ther's name was I-sham, and his moth-er's name was All-sham. Dix-ie was ver-y smart, He could drink whis-ky, fight chick-ens, play po-ker, and cuss his moth-er. When he was on-ly two years old, he could steal su-gar, hook pre-serves, drown kit-tens, and tell lies like a man. By and by Dix-ie died, and went to the bad place. But the dev-il would not let Dix-ie stay there, for he said: 'When you get big, Dix-ie, you would be head-devil yourself.' All little Reb-els ought to be like Dix-ie, and so they will, if they will stud-y theCon-fed-e-rate Prim-er.'

Very good, too, is the powerful and thrilling sermon on the 'Curse of Cowardice,' delivered by the Rev. Dr. Meroz Armageddon Baldwin, from which we take 'the annexed:'

'Then there is Gideon Pillow, who has undertaken a contract for digging that 'last ditch,' of which you have heard so much. I am afraid that the white 'feathers will fly' wheneverthatCase is opened, and that Pillow will give us the slip. 'The sword of the Lord' isn't 'the sword of Gideon' Pillow—that'scertain—so I shall bolster him up no longer. Gideon is 'a cuss,' and a 'cuss of cowardice.''

We are glad to see that the good cause has so stalwart and keen a defender in Tennessee.

We have our opinion that the following anecdote is true. If not, it is 'well found'—or founded.

Not long since, an eminent 'Conserve' of Boston was arguing with a certain eminent official in Washington, drilling away, of course, on the old pro-slavery, pro-Southern, pro-give-it-up platform.

'But whatcanyou do with the Southerners?' he remarked, for 'the frequenth' time. 'You can't conquer them—you can't reconcile them—you can't bring them back—you can't do any thing with them.'

'But we mayannihilatethem,' was the crushing reply.

AndConservetook his hat and departed.

It is, when we come to facts, really remarkable that it has not occurred to the world that therecanbe but one solution to a dispute which has gone so far.There is no stopping this war.Secession is an impossibility. If wewilledit, we could not prevent 'an institutional race' from absorbing one which has no accretive principle of growth. It is thought, as we write, that during the week preceding July 4th,seventy thousandof the Secession army perished! They are exhausting, annihilating themselves; and by whom will the vacancy be filled? Not by the children of States which, under the old system, fell behindhand in population. By whom, then? By Northern men and European emigrants, of course.

But European intervention? If Louis Napoleon wants to keep his crown—if England wishes Europe to remain quiet—if they both dread our good friend Russia, who in event of a war would 'annex,' for aught we can see, all Austria and an illimitable share of the East—if they wish to avoid such an upstirring, riot, and infernal carnival of revolution as the world never saw—they will let us alone.

The LondonHeralddeclares that 'America is a nuisance among nations!' When they undertake to meddle with us, they will find us one. We would not leave them a ship on the sea or a seaboard town un-ruined. The whole world would wail one wild ruin, and there should be the smoke as of nations, when despotism should dare to lay its hand on the sacred cause of freedom. For we of the North are living and dying in that cause which never yet went backward, and we shall prevail, though the powers of all Europe and all the powers of darkness should ally against us. Let them come. They do but bring grapes to the wine-press of the Lord; and it will be a bloody vintage which will be pressed forth in that day, as the great cause goes marching on.

Let no one imagine that our military draft has been one whit too great. Our great folly hitherto has been to underrate the power of the enemy. In the South every male who can bear arms is now either bearing them or otherwise directly aiding the rebellion. When the sheriffs of every county in the seceding States made their returns to their Secretary of War, they reported one million four hundred thousand men capable of bearing arms. And they have the arms and will use them. It is 'an united rising of the people,' such as the world has seldom seen.

But then it isallthey can do—it is the last card and thelastman, and if we make one stupendous effort, we must inevitably crush it. There is no other course—it is drag or be dragged, hammer or anvil now. If we do not beatthemthoroughly and completely, they will make us rue the day that ever we were born.

The South is stronger than we thought, and its unity and ferocity add to its strength. It will never be conciliated—it must be crushed. When we have gained the victory, we can be what our foes never were to us—generous and merciful.

A GENTLEMAN of Massachusetts, who has held a position in McClellan's army that gave him an opportunity to know whereof he speaks, states that for weeks, while the army on the Peninsula were in a grain-growing country, surrounded by fields of wheat and oats belonging to well-known rebels, the Commissary Department was not allowed to turn its cattle into a rich pasturage of young grain, from the fear of offending the absent rebel owners, or of using in any way the property of Our Southern Brethren in arms against us. The result was, that the cattle kept with the army for the use of our hard-worked soldiers, were penned up, and half-starved on the forage carried in the regular subsistence trains, and the men got mere skin and bones for beef.

So endeth the month. The rest with the next. But may we, in conclusion, beg sundry kind correspondents to have patience? Time is scant with us, and labor fast and hard. Our editorial friends who have kindly cheered us by applauding 'the outspoken and straightforward young magazine,' will accept our most grateful thanks. It has seldom happened to any journal to be so genially andwarmlycommended as we have been since our entrance on the stormy field of political discussion.

FOOTNOTES:[6]Thedingo, or native dog of Australia, looks like a cross between the fox or wolf and the shepherd-dog; they generally hunt in packs, and destroy great numbers of sheep. I have never eaten one.

[6]Thedingo, or native dog of Australia, looks like a cross between the fox or wolf and the shepherd-dog; they generally hunt in packs, and destroy great numbers of sheep. I have never eaten one.

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