'All conservative men here are shocked at the sweeping measures of confiscation proposed by the radicals. They provide substantially for the abolition of slavery, because slaveholders, for the most part, are considered as rebels by these bills.There are a quarter of a million of slaveholders, and a quarter of a million of other property-holders in the South,that would be made beggars by the execution of this programme. It is pretended that this wholesale confiscation is for the purpose of compensating for the expenses of the war; but none will dare to go into the Africanized South among an infuriated people to purchase estates. It is proposed, also, to arm the negroes, and in effect make them superior to the million of whites, who are to be deprived of their property. Of course, under such circumstances, there will be no cotton or other crops, nor any demand for Northern manufactures from the South.'
'All conservative men here are shocked at the sweeping measures of confiscation proposed by the radicals. They provide substantially for the abolition of slavery, because slaveholders, for the most part, are considered as rebels by these bills.There are a quarter of a million of slaveholders, and a quarter of a million of other property-holders in the South,that would be made beggars by the execution of this programme. It is pretended that this wholesale confiscation is for the purpose of compensating for the expenses of the war; but none will dare to go into the Africanized South among an infuriated people to purchase estates. It is proposed, also, to arm the negroes, and in effect make them superior to the million of whites, who are to be deprived of their property. Of course, under such circumstances, there will be no cotton or other crops, nor any demand for Northern manufactures from the South.'
Really! and so legislation at Washington is to be conducted with special reference to protecting the property of the rebels! No confiscation, forsooth, because the half million of rebels who have plunged us into this iniquitous and horrible war, in the hope of utterly ruining us, might thereby be reduced to poverty! Northern men may pay a million a day in taxes, but the select slaveholding few who caused the taxation are to be exempted. How shallow is the concluding 'of course, under such circumstances there will be no demand for Northern manufactures from the South.' Will there not? Wait until the South has been well subdued, thoroughly Butlered and vigorously Northed; wait till the Yankee is at home there, and then see if there will be 'no demand for Northern manufactures.' Quite as tender to the rebels is the spirit of the following from the BostonPostof May 31st:
'Senator Sumner,' a correspondent writes, 'in an argument against the proposed tax on cotton, not only opposed it asan act of injustice to the unrepresented South—for grain, hemp, and flax are left untouched—but as oppressive on manufacturers.' Mr. Sumner's sense of justice is called into exercise onlywhen it suits its owner's convenience. He has no thought of 'injustice to the unrepresented South,' when he wishes to tax negroes, emancipate slaves, and confiscate Southern property.'
'Senator Sumner,' a correspondent writes, 'in an argument against the proposed tax on cotton, not only opposed it asan act of injustice to the unrepresented South—for grain, hemp, and flax are left untouched—but as oppressive on manufacturers.' Mr. Sumner's sense of justice is called into exercise onlywhen it suits its owner's convenience. He has no thought of 'injustice to the unrepresented South,' when he wishes to tax negroes, emancipate slaves, and confiscate Southern property.'
Such remarks require no comment. If a rebel in arms, disgraced by every infamy of treason, is only to be treated as his representatives would like, then it is indeed time for the honest friends of the Union to inquire what safeguard we have in the future against national ruin?
With wings a-quiver, eyes irate,He watched me coming near,Each plume upon his panting breastAstir with kindling fear.My hand, though always kindly stretched,Hewouldnot think it good;And as I placed some sugar in,He pecked, and drew my blood.So have I seen the souls caged here,To learn celestial speechFrom angels chanting love so nearThey seemed within arm reach;When closer to them drew God's power,In wrath or terror stand;And while he dropped the sweet, dart upAnd rend His dear, warm hand.
The LondonTimesis becoming malignantly consistent, and has declared that there should be at present nothing more said of intervention in American affairs, because it would have the effect to immediately strengthen the Federal army.
'If we wish to give the Civil War a new impetus, to recruit for the North with a vigor with which they never can again recruit for themselves, we have only to take some step, we do not say what step, but any step which can be represented as being an interference on our part in the quarrel. The spirit of conquest is worn out, but we know the Americans too well to doubt that the spirit of national independence is as strong as ever. If we interfere at all, we assist Mr. Lincoln to raise his three hundred thousand men, we give a new impetus to the war, and postpone indefinitely the chances of peace, which will never come till the North has been convinced that it is useless to prosecute the war any further. To do nothing is often the wisest, but generally the most difficult policy. We hope that, unless some complete change in the conditions of the problem take place, our government will on no account allow itself to be tempted out of its present policy of expressive silence and masterly inaction.'
'If we wish to give the Civil War a new impetus, to recruit for the North with a vigor with which they never can again recruit for themselves, we have only to take some step, we do not say what step, but any step which can be represented as being an interference on our part in the quarrel. The spirit of conquest is worn out, but we know the Americans too well to doubt that the spirit of national independence is as strong as ever. If we interfere at all, we assist Mr. Lincoln to raise his three hundred thousand men, we give a new impetus to the war, and postpone indefinitely the chances of peace, which will never come till the North has been convinced that it is useless to prosecute the war any further. To do nothing is often the wisest, but generally the most difficult policy. We hope that, unless some complete change in the conditions of the problem take place, our government will on no account allow itself to be tempted out of its present policy of expressive silence and masterly inaction.'
TheTimesspeaks too late. One year ago it did not express the sentiments of all England—now unfortunately we find that it has not only poisoned all Great Britain, but is rapidly stirring up Europe against us. The steady stream of falsehood; the reports of Federal defeats which never occurred, and of confederate victories more unfounded, are gradually weakening the faith even of Americans abroad in the great cause of freedom. Let our people arm and out, in all their strength. England and France are only waiting for reverses to our Government to attack us right and left.
We clip the following in reference to a popular eccentric phrase from a note by a friend:
'By the way, do you know that the phrase, 'Or any other man,' can be found in Byron'sLetter to my Grandmother's Review? He writes:"Charley Incledon's usual exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him sing, without paying their share of the reckoning: 'If a maun, oronymaun, orony othermaun,' etc., etc.''
'By the way, do you know that the phrase, 'Or any other man,' can be found in Byron'sLetter to my Grandmother's Review? He writes:
"Charley Incledon's usual exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him sing, without paying their share of the reckoning: 'If a maun, oronymaun, orony othermaun,' etc., etc.''
That settles it. After all, there is nothing original in this world, or, as we presume, 'any other world.'
If the steamers for Europe take every week gold from this country, there is at least some comfort in the reflection that we received and continue to receive something for it. If American securities are returning to us from abroad, we are at least getting them back cheap and shall some day sell them again dear. There is some comfort and common-sense in the following from one of 'Hallett and Co.'s' circulars:
'We certainly ought not to complain. We had their money at the right time. It has done for the nation all that money could do—by giving the highest possible value to all our resources and products. Having reapedthe full advantage of the investment, which has increased our means more than five-fold, we were never in a better position to commence its return. The securities are still very low; on an average from ten to fifty per cent below what they were originally sold for. To this discount is to be added something over twenty per cent in the present price of exchange. We are getting back our securities at about one half what we parted with them for. As money is plenty, the foreigner paying the premium on gold, we are certainly driving a very good bargain. We can, without the least inconvenience, part with one hundred million dollars in specie, which is lying idle in the vaults of our banks and the hands of our people, and get back nearly twice the amount of interest-paying securities, which is equivalent to the payment of a debt too, and stopping the interest on an equal amount, assuming securities of this country to a similar amount were held abroad, which is an excessive estimate, the aggregate not probably exceeding one hundred million dollars.'
'We certainly ought not to complain. We had their money at the right time. It has done for the nation all that money could do—by giving the highest possible value to all our resources and products. Having reapedthe full advantage of the investment, which has increased our means more than five-fold, we were never in a better position to commence its return. The securities are still very low; on an average from ten to fifty per cent below what they were originally sold for. To this discount is to be added something over twenty per cent in the present price of exchange. We are getting back our securities at about one half what we parted with them for. As money is plenty, the foreigner paying the premium on gold, we are certainly driving a very good bargain. We can, without the least inconvenience, part with one hundred million dollars in specie, which is lying idle in the vaults of our banks and the hands of our people, and get back nearly twice the amount of interest-paying securities, which is equivalent to the payment of a debt too, and stopping the interest on an equal amount, assuming securities of this country to a similar amount were held abroad, which is an excessive estimate, the aggregate not probably exceeding one hundred million dollars.'
We have heard of a German, who having been strung up in jest and cut down, declared it was 'a fery pad choke.' The best 'choke' of the season was issued by our friend theBoston Traveller, who in commenting on the remark of the LondonTimes, to the effect that Mr. Lincoln is eating his artichoke, the South, leaf by leaf, but thinks it will not agree with him, said: 'It will not trouble him a thousandth part so much as Jeff Davis will be troubled when he shall, by and by, takehis'heartychoke with caper sauce.''
Hon Robert J. Walkerknows the South well, and he has of late written well on it and on the present state and future prospects of our country. Those who have read Mr. Atkinson's instructive pamphlet upon 'Cheap Cotton,' will be interested in the strong confirmation of his arguments given by Hon. Robert J. Walker, late of Mississippi, in the following statement contained in one of his recent letters:
'From long residence in the South, and from having traversed every Southern State, I know it to be true that cotton is raised there most extensively and profitably by non-slaveholders, and upon farms using exclusively white labor. In Texas, especially, this is a great truth, nor is there a doubt that skilled, educated, persevering, and energetic free labor, engaged voluntarily for wages for its own use, would in time, especially when aided by improved culture and machinery, produce much larger crops and better cotton than is now raised by the forced and ignorant labor of slaves, and at a much cheaper rate and a far greater profit than any crop now produced in the North.'
'From long residence in the South, and from having traversed every Southern State, I know it to be true that cotton is raised there most extensively and profitably by non-slaveholders, and upon farms using exclusively white labor. In Texas, especially, this is a great truth, nor is there a doubt that skilled, educated, persevering, and energetic free labor, engaged voluntarily for wages for its own use, would in time, especially when aided by improved culture and machinery, produce much larger crops and better cotton than is now raised by the forced and ignorant labor of slaves, and at a much cheaper rate and a far greater profit than any crop now produced in the North.'
With this great truth before us, will Government hesitate to seize on and settle Texas, as soon as circumstances admit? We have urged Texas from the beginning as the great stone of resistance which must eventually, by means of free labor be employed to stem the progress of cotton-ocracy in the other Southern States. On this subject Hon. Robert J. Walker's letter of June 28th is one of the most instructive and remarkable documents issued since the beginning of the free-labor agitation, and it is to be desired that it should be read by every freeman in the Union. Colonization, voluntary but effective, is, as he holds, the only remedy for the terrible evil of slavery, and the only basis of the peaceful restoration of the Union.
It was urged, months ago, againstThe Continentalby a radical Abolition organ, that while favoring Emancipation, we were quite willing 'to colonize the negro out of the way.' And if it could promote the real welfare of both black and white, why should he not be colonized, even 'out of the way'? 'But it is impossible,' say the Conservatives; to which we reply that this is an age of great conceptions and great deeds, and it would be strange indeed if we, with steamboats, could not effect as much as was done of old by the most primitive races of both hemispheres. The Incas of Peru had no difficulty in moving hundreds of thousands of a conquered race to fresh fields and pastures new—why should we find it impossible? Let the same enthusiasm which has been displayed on the bare subject of freeing the black, be devoted to freeing and placing him at the same time in a climate congenial to his nature, and we should soon witness a solution of our great national difficulty.
We are indebted to a genial Western correspondent for
ToAbraham Lincoln, President of the United States, this poem is dedicated with the 'distinguished consideration' of
The Author.
Tom Johnson he lived on the Western border,Where he went to escape from 'law and order,'For Tom was a terrible fellow, was he,He drunk, and he swore, and he fou't[B]like theOld Harry—and Tom he had a wife:Fit partner she was of his backwoods life.Tom lived on the border for divers years,Where he fou't the red-skins, and he fou't the bearsAnd there wasn't a thing that could bite or scratchFor which Tom Johnson wasn't a match,Excepting his wife, and she was the betterHalf by all odds—he'd often get herIn a tight place, and give her a strapping.But somehow or other 'twould always happen,In every tussle and every bout,In every 'scrimmage' and every rout,She'd come out ahead of the cross-grained old wizzard,And by hook or crook manage to 'give him a blizzard.'Sometimes from a brawl of which Tom was the hero,Returning at midnight, the weather at zero,His wife snug in bed, and the door safely barred,Long time would elapse ere his shouts could be heard;And sometimes she'd catch him dead drunk or asleep,When he'd find himself suddenly 'all of a heap,'And open his eyes on his bellicose bride,Hot mush in his mouth and his under-pins tied.So she managed to keep just inside of the law,While he ever would find himself 'hors du combat.'As Johnson was one day exploring the wood,To replenish the meat-tub—then empty—with food,While a tree-top near by he was leisurely viewin''He spied the short ears and sharp eyes of old Bruin,Peering out 'mid the branches—a sight worth a dollarWhen the rifle is charged and the stomach is hollow;So he drew a bead on him, and sent him a missile,Which Brain perceived, by an ominous whistle,Was very near taking him plump in the eye,But he dodged just in time, and the bullet went by.Now bears are pugnacious—as much so as wives,And whenever assaulted will fight for their lives;So seeing that Tom's ammunition was spent,He determined at once on a hasty descent;For knowing that he or Tom Johnson would eat,The question arose which should furnish the meat;For although the bullet had wrought some confusion,A moment's reflection produced the conclusion,That he at the foot of the tree with the gun,Minus powder and bullet, must needs be the one;So he slid down the tree, with much scratching and clawing,Designing to give poor Tom's carcass a gnawing.But Thomas, intent upon saving his life,And calling to mind a sharp trick of his wife,As Bruin came down, his legs clasping the tree,Caught a paw in each hand and held tight as could be:He put on a grip unto Bruin quite new,Like a vice when the blacksmith is turning the screw.But now what to do there arose a great doubt,For Bruin and Johnson had both just found outWhat neither had thought of until 'twas too late,That each was exposed to a merciless fateAt the hands, or the teeth, or the claws of the other,At whichneithercould his astonishment smother,And neither knew what it was safest to do;'Twashardto hold on, but 'twas worse to let go!Now Johnson still being not far from his house,Bethought him in time of his excellent spouse,So he hooted and hallooed and made such a noiseShe distinguished at last his affectionate voice,Calling loudly for help as it rose on the breeze,Like the panther's wild scream in the tops of the trees:'O Julee, dear Julee! come, help me this time,And I never again—will—(oh! bother the rhyme,)Will bite you, or scratch you, or whip you, not I,But love and protect you till you or I die.'Now good Mistress Johnson, dear soul, when she heardThe piteous cries of her penitent lord,Got herself to the wood with broom-stick in hand.'I am, most respectfully, yours to command,'Said the wife, as she came and found Tom and the bearBoth hugging a tree with the grip of despair.'O Julee,dearJulee! How can you?—now come,Do help me, or quickly-confound it!—our homeWon't have any master!—dear Julee, consider—The children no daddy, and you a lone widow!'Anunlucky hint for poor Tom, by the by,'For worse thingsmighthappen!' thought she with a sigh.But good mistress Johnson, though love was but scant,Had a heart never hewn from the worst adamant;It softened apace, so with broom-stick in airAnd ire in her eye she advanced on the bear,Who seeing the enemy thus reënforcedTried to get his fore-paws from Tom's clutches divorced.O woman, poor woman! dear woman! sweet thing!O light of earth's darkness! O treasure supernal!Thy fond heart, though crushed, win unceasingly clingTo a loved one, though fallen, degraded, infernal!Thrice Bruin's tough hide from the broom-stick now had a cut;Quoth Johnson: 'My darling, that weapon's inadequate—Hold a bit—let me see—now we'll fix him—here, Mother—Reach your hand—take this paw—hold it tight—now the other.There,Iwill dispatch him—ah! where is my gun?And bullets? dear me!—ah!—why, what have I done?I will run to the house, and be back in a trice—Hold on, my beloved! be 'still as a mice!'''Quick! quick!' the wife shouted. 'Be off—get away!Make tracks, Mr. Johnson! don't stand there all day!'So Tom started off in pursuit of assistance,And leisurely walking a very short distance,Turned, paused to reflect, then addressed her: 'My dear,My conscience upbraids me concerning this bear;A very great doubt has arisen in my mind—I am not quite sure—but am rather inclined,Indeed—I may say—I have reached the conclusionThat bears have been made a Divine Institution;This is plainly deduced from the Scriptures of truth,Which frightened me much in the days of my youth,With the story of forty of ages quite tender,Torn to strings by two gears of the feminine gender:And not only so, but you see, Mistress Julia,This same institution is very 'peculiar;'I found it somewhat inconvenient to hold,(The cubs are quite harmless, but this one is old,)He is gentle at first, but as muscle increases,Shows some disposition to tear one in pieces.Then hold him the tighter, and keep up good heart,As it's all in the family, you'll do your part.'Tom closed his oration with actions to suit,Then went to his house, where the reprobate bruteWhipped the children and kicked his old mother out-door,Got tipsy as Bacchus and rolled on the floor,While his wife held the bear, fast tied to the spot,And how long she staid there, deponent says not.
Secesh has a bear, and has had many years,At first, a mere pet, he engendered no fears;But now he's grown strong and can fight like a major,And has like his master become an old stager;He has taught him to work, and has trained him to fight,Adding strength to his hands and increasing his might;Albeit iffreehe would turn on his master,Who knows it full well, and hence holds him the faster;But not only so, he insistsweshall helpWhile he fights to destroy us, at holding his whelp!And strangely enough, we obey his command,While he strikes at our vitals and plunders the land!He has murdered the son and led captive the brother,Has broke up the home and made war on his mother;And now while our sons by the thousand are slainThe nation to save and its life to maintain,When the patriot's eyelids are closing in death,While a prayer for his country inspires his last breath,Or bleeding he lies as the foul traitor's dartIs caught in the folds of the flag round his heart,While freedom's bright bow, for the millions unborn,No longer encircles the brow of the storm,While the sun of our glory grows dim in our sight,And the star of our destiny's shrouded in night;Still our paralyzed hands, to our country untrue,Are stretched out tosuccorthe traitorous crew,As they strike for our lives, fully bent on our ruin,Welend them assistance by holding their Bruin,And tell all the world that our national warsShall be waged to protectconstitutional bears.And now let us know, my dear sir, in conclusion,How long must continue this monstrous delusion,(If not a state secret, so sacred a oneThat it may to the Cabinet only be known,)While being destroyed by a traitorous war,How long we must aid them by holding their bear?Or how long shall we flourish our broom-stick, and say,To one who would help us: 'Keep out of the way!Go home to your master, your Samaritan neighbor;Return all his kindness and give him your labor,Plant corn, hoe the cotton, and keep things all bright,Give him plenty to eat and more leisure to fight;For we mean to protect him in every 'RIGHT;'And the best way of keeping the 'whole Constitution'Is to help those who fight for itswholedissolution,(Though this proposition may seem somewhat strange,)While we dig our own ditches and fire at long range,For our duty is plain, when the traitor makes war,To give aid and comfort byholding his bear.'
[B]In the border dialect this word rhymes with 'shout,' 'about,' etc.
[B]In the border dialect this word rhymes with 'shout,' 'about,' etc.
We find the following in the notice ofThe Continental Monthlyby a contemporary:
'TheContinentallooks upon Slavery through blood and murder eyes. It sees in the institution nothing but lashes, salt-rubbed wounds, bloodhounds, and iron-hearted taskmasters.It looks upon the war as solely for the freedom of the nigger; and judging from its tone for the past six months would undoubtedly go in for an entire separation, if its editors and contributors thought at the end of the conflict the rebellious States would be restored to the Union with the 'peculiar institution' still in force.'
'TheContinentallooks upon Slavery through blood and murder eyes. It sees in the institution nothing but lashes, salt-rubbed wounds, bloodhounds, and iron-hearted taskmasters.It looks upon the war as solely for the freedom of the nigger; and judging from its tone for the past six months would undoubtedly go in for an entire separation, if its editors and contributors thought at the end of the conflict the rebellious States would be restored to the Union with the 'peculiar institution' still in force.'
Ab uno disce omnes.This, reader, is the manner in which every democratic-conservative journal which has undertaken to notice our Magazine speaks of it. And the reader who has followed us—who has fairly and equitably appreciated our views of the war and of Emancipation—will not hesitate for an instant in pronouncing it as perfectlyfalsea verdict as was ever yet given against any one. We have never in any way looked upon the war as 'solely for the freedom of the nigger,' and we have been chid by the regular Abolition press because we didnotlook more to the welfare of the negro, or, as theLiberatoraccused us, of being willing to 'colonize the slave out of the way.' It was in theKnickerbockerand in these pages, and editorially, that the principle of the true Republican, Free White Labor Emancipationists, in the words, 'Emancipation for the sake of theWhiteMan,' first appeared. And while we advocate ultimate emancipation, it is not asthematter ofprimaryimportance that we do so. Slavery has inextricably entangled itself with the war, and no one who takes a broad, comprehensive view of the struggle, or of contemporary history, can fail to see that slavery must ultimately go, because it makes bad citizens of the masters, wastes soil, represses manufactures, neutralizes the proper development of capital, and, worst of all, degrades labor—man's noblest prerogative—and inflicts grievous wrong on the white working man. And does not every Southern journal and every Southern 'gentleman' prove what we say? 'Aristocrat,' 'Norman gentleman,' 'Yankee serf,' 'vile herd'—is it not enough to make the heart sick and the brain burn to hear the poor sons and daughters of toil, those whom God has appointed to be truly good and useful, cursed and reviled in this manner by the few owners of black labor? Is there not enough in the wrongs of thewhiteman to inspire all the headlong zeal and boldness with which the press credit us, without making the miserablenegrothe chief aim? Not but that we pity the latter, God knows! But it is the elevation of the dignity ofwhitelabor that we have in hand, and while we advocate 'emancipation to come' sooner or later, it is as a means of doing justice to the white man. Let us emancipate white labor from the comparison with slavery and from the sneers of an aristocracy whichwillbe 'Cæsar or nothing' among us.
The South has sinned against man and God by voluntarily, boldly, shamelessly reviling the poor, who are the chosen children of God. And for all this they shall be judged by those whom they have cursed and ridiculed. The most crushing tread of destiny is reserved for those who impertinently aid her in trampling the lowly. Does Christ, think you, whose whole teaching was one upholding of the poor and the hard-working, approve this scorn of the 'laboring scum'? So surely as this thing has been fevered to a war, so surely shall there be one last moment when dying Southern sin shall exclaim: 'Vicisti Galilæ!'
But what are we to think of the hangers-on and parasites and shadows and 'shadows of shadows,' as Plautus calls the vilest toadies to sycophants, who, hard-working men themselves, try to catch some faint reflection of sham gentility by 'talking pro-slavery because they think it aristocratic,' as Winthrop says? What of aneditor—the one who of all men works hard for indifferent reward—who forgets the nobility whichshouldsurround all who speak for and to the people, and beslabbers the meanest and most contemptible of even sham aristocracies, that which isself-conscious, self-glorifying by comparison and forgetful thatnoblesse oblige? Or what of him when he cunningly and with the vulgar 'cuteness which characterizes the most degraded snobbery, takes pains to make it appear that the labor of another on behalf of the poor white man is meant solely for the negro, and that the former is to be sacrificed to the latter!
We know, see, and feel clearly what we want and what we believe. It is the progress of the rights of free white labor, which correctly considered means all that is right. And if this were understood and felt, as itshouldbe by those most deeply interested, our police would be amply sufficient to punish thesoi-disantNormans of the South.
If we could speak a word to all men in or about to enter the army, it would be: 'Don't drink.' We know the fever and ague country, and assure our readers that all advice to the contrary notwithstanding, he who lets liquor alone will fare best in the end.Aproposof which we clip the following:
'Hall'sJournal of Healthrecommends to those writing to soldier friends to inclose a littlecapsicum(in the vulgar, simply strong cayenne pepper) in the letter. The editor declares that the effect of the slightest pinch in a glass of water, is better than quinine whisky. It prevents thirst, and wards off miasma; it protects from chills, and does not induce too much animal heat. It stimulates without leaving any depressing effect; all of which we most firmly believe. The weight is so small that enough to do a great deal of good may be put in tissue-paper and be inclosed in a single letter without cost additional to the regular postage rates.'
'Hall'sJournal of Healthrecommends to those writing to soldier friends to inclose a littlecapsicum(in the vulgar, simply strong cayenne pepper) in the letter. The editor declares that the effect of the slightest pinch in a glass of water, is better than quinine whisky. It prevents thirst, and wards off miasma; it protects from chills, and does not induce too much animal heat. It stimulates without leaving any depressing effect; all of which we most firmly believe. The weight is so small that enough to do a great deal of good may be put in tissue-paper and be inclosed in a single letter without cost additional to the regular postage rates.'
Every mail brings fresh proof of English antipathy to the Federal Union. It is now only a question of time when we are to be attacked by the great Abolition nation. John Bull is hammering away at his iron-clads and doing his best in every direction to aid the aristocratic and despotic principle, so dear to his soul—nay, whichishis very soul and self. In China he is helping the Imperialists, whose awful and heart-rending atrocities go beyond all belief—in the West, the slaveholder meets with his warmest sympathy. How well—how human—how Christian he looksnowwith his sheepskin thrown aside—this selfish, brutal savage, howling for cotton and trade and gold as though all truth, honor, and nobility were as dirt before them.
For all this, England will have its reward. In the history of nations, 1862 shall be marked as the year of British falsehood, infamy, and guilt.Upharsin!
Dear Continental: Curious fellows those Pre-Raphaelites!
Do you remember Holman Hunt's picture of the Light of the World? I remember that one evening at the Century, among a cheerful group of Leutze, Durand, Gifford, Mignot, and others, you once called it a pre-Raphaelight of the World!
Well, 'twas far away in Switzerland,tilly hi ho—tilly i o!all in the mountains high, several years ago, and I was touring and sketching somewhere along in the Oberland. I found at last a retired village without English. No—not without them altogether—there was one little man with abarba rossa, and he was pre-Raphaeliting round for a subject.
He found it at last in a small rock about nine inches by twelve—full of sentiment, tone, color, piety, feeling, reality, child-like faith and trustingness.
And he went to work to paint the rock.
Day after day he painted. When it rained he worked under an umbrella; when it sun-shone on him he toiled in the heat.
I pitied him. 'Smith,' said I, 'what do you do that for? Why don't you pick your stone up and take it home with you? Put it in your trunk and carry it back to London. It isn't a landscape, you know.'
'By Jove!' quoth he, 'I never thought of that. So I will, d'ye know. 'Ow very hodd! Vell! you Yankees are werry hinwentive, I must hadmit.'
And he did; and the portrait of the rock went into the 'Annual Exhibish,' and was thought to be the deepest-toned thing 'out.'
And it'strue.
Yours also,Galli Van T.
It is odd, but after all, the world seldom sees a real original letter. Letters of business, old letters, love-letters, and letters written for print, the world sees enough. But the real life-descriptive gossiping letter is rarely en-typed. More's the pity.
Here is one—from a never-seen friend—which has been lying for months inThe Continentalhis drawer. Shall we be pardoned for publishing it? We hope so, for we remember that it pleased us well when we received it, and what is good for the editor must be good for the reader. Let it go!
The Hermitage, May, 1862.
Dear Friend: Appearances—to make a very original remark—are deceitful. To the traveler who may chance to cast his eyes upon this little brown, house, a little brown house it will be to him, 'and nothing more.' He will not even notice the woodbines that are flinging their arms around the windows, nor will he dwell for an instant upon the thrifty cotton-woods that guard the door, or bestow more than a casual glance on the artistically arranged garden-beds, wherein I have anxiously watched tulips and radishes sprouting into existence. Anxiously—for winter has been writing a somewhat lengthy postscript to his annual message, and the modest, gentle-mannered spring retreats in lady-like fright before his furious blasts.
Now we are having an interval of hazy warmth—the really royal weather of the year—red sunshine, the hills purple and bluein the distance, and the still air savory with the smoke of brush-burnings and the wild breath of new-lifed vegetation. Lovelier than the Indian summer, for mingled with all things is the consciousness of the flowering and fruitingto come. The Indian summer has a sweet sadness. The spring is full of hope and promise, and theheartbuds with the flowers.
Out in the midst of all this country springtime freshness, our 'Hermitage' looks up from its shrubberies and rejoices within itself, and does not care for the traveler's careless glances. The traveler may call it stupid and ugly, if he calls it at all; our Hermitage still patiently wears its havelock of weather-beaten shingles, foritknows that beneath its lowly roof—radiant with whitewash and fresh paper—are cozy, coolly curtained rooms, where friendly books look down from the wall, and drowsy arm-chairs woo from the corners.
Yes, many Wisconsin banks have yielded up their lives in the past year, and in one of these fatal safes our little pile of 'ready' irrevocably evaporated! Ah! the palmy days! when we had rooms at the ——; when our tables were marble-topped and our mirrors presented full-length portraits of us; when every dinner was a feast for epicures; when servants awaited our nod or beck; when Davis's best turn-out bowled us away to the purple bluffs yonder, at every sunset, and bowled us back again happy in pocket and in heart! Those days have gemmed themselves in the past.
We find it necessary to 'put in for repairs,' as they say of a steamboat when her smoke-stacks are snapped off by a Lake Pepin gale, and she goes ashore. At no distant day we will again go out into the tide. From any quantity of 'wild lands'—which we have the felicity of paying taxes on—we have selected a ten-acre patch in the neighborhood of the city, and are living something after the style of Thoreau, except that we have a better cook!
From our modestly architectured porch we look out upon the broad, far-stretching valley of the Mississippi. It is a vast view—so that a shower becomes a part of the landscape, and it is delightful to watch it trailing over the hills. Alexander Smith is ahead of me in this idea, but no matter. East and west the picturesque bluffs mingle in hazy softness with the sky; the roofs and steeples of the city glimmer in the sunny distance; now and then, away through the wooded banks we see columns of pearly steam, as some stately boat goes gliding by. I shall always have a weakness for these proud, screeching steamboats, for there is one among them—the dear old 'Milwaukee'—for which I entertain a confirmed infirmity!Wewent honey-mooning in the 'Milwaukee.' Its musical and far-heard whistle is doomed for evermore to deluge my soul in a 'sea of soft-blue memories.'
Our carpets are of matting and oil-cloth, islanded here and there with a choice bit of rug. My little kitchen is exultant in shining tins, a glittering 'Hotspur,' patented 1860, and a capacious cupboard, through the glass doors of which shines forth a complete set of 'Ironstone.' On Mondays a little Bohemian—with surprising strength in her diminutive person—comes, and out from the fury of suds and steam issues a line of snowy, flapping clothes. She receives her 'tri shealing' and trots home. Aside from washing, I am addicted to that unpoetical, homely, dry, and utterly plebeian practice of doing my own work. Think you I could endure to have a poetic mood burst in upon by a red-faced girl, smelling of dish-water, exclaiming, 'The tay's out'? Besides, I never was born to, had thrust upon me, or achieved, any surplus amount of 'greatness,' consequently my laurels will not suffer from being in contact with sauce-pans and toasting-forks. (But fancy the idea of Mrs. Browning a-fryingflapjacks!) I have lived for the most part in the country, you know, and at the old home I was applauded on by an appreciative mamma to rare feats in this department of humble life. I combine the artist with the cook—the ideal with the material. I consult color and the nice shades of taste. Indeed, I make cooking and furniture-arranging an art. The emerald lettuce I mingle with the ruby radish; the carefully browned trout I surround with a wall of snowy and hot potatoes; the roseate shavings of beef and ham flank the golden butter, which is stamped in a very superior manner, I may say, with the American Eagle; the amber honey sides with the royal purple of grape-jelly; and the creamy biscuit contrasts with the deep chrome of the sponge-cake beside it, etc., etc. Of various pastries andentrees—of which I alone hold the original recipes—I will not speak. Suffice to say, that it may be of interest to some housekeepers to send me a prepaid envelope!
Should you go Minnehahaing this summer, I shall hope that you may fail to make connections with the St. Paul Packet Company, so that while waiting a boat you may find it convenient to immortalize 'The Hermitage' by breaking fast beneath its humble roof.
Hermetically thine,Marie.
We would that we could. Alas! there is very little 'ha-ha-ing' of any kind this serious 'battle-summer'—least of all for us toward the rosy West. Well, a timemaycome, and when it does, of a verity the Hermitage shall become well known to 'EsquireContinental.'
Acorrespondent, whose style, by the way, is quaint enough to be printed with black-letter, thus favors us with his protest against certain merely 'bread-and-butter' notions of Woman:
I object to the current newspaper 'Advice for Girls.' A woman may know how to cook, sweep, sew, tend babies; but isthiswhat a young man—Spanish,virgen—most looks, or cares for, or thinks of, when he seeks life-companionship—a Somebody to get him dinner, tidy his room, fasten his shirt-buttons, and bear him children? 'Tis not for spread tables, kept house, mended clothes, nor pleasure, that the young man's soul thirsts. For sympathy, for love, for the object of his manliness, for its complement, for his wife—and not a servant, nor a mistress.He does indeed holily choose the mother of their little ones, but newspaper-notice hints nothing of that; it teaches bodily, not spiritually, and simply trains up a female able to bear offspring of healthy flesh.However, the husband requires a lover fit to join with him in spirit also, for the total benefit of posterity.The education which best suits a woman, then, is it carnal or soulful? to make a kitchen-drudge or a soft-eyed maiden? a prudent housewife or a thoughtful heartsweet? 'a special breeder' (Pope) or a trusted bosomer? Cattle and machinery are for this labor-saving. The true end of woman is feminity. Therefore, if she is any brighter and heartsomer for playing in the fields, any more pensive and sober for meditating there, who shall deny her God's free air and sunshine?If she is more delicate and softer to handle the light embroidery, or plan the curious patchwork, who shall restrict her busy ingenuity to garments ofwear—coarse jackets, trowsers, shirts?If she is more earnest and devoted for loving and suffering through a romance, who shall hinder from reading and writing, or limit the one toPilgrim's Progress, the other to a letter, or confine her pity to street-beggars, for whom alms-giving is act of charity not more than tears are for imagined woes?If she is more winning and tender by dwelling with old friendships and memorable passages of trial or happiness, who shall fetter her thoughts to the selfish indifference of the present, or the dull routine of daily toil called duty?If she is gentler and meeker, purer and loftier, Christlier, for contemplating God and the angels, who can bind her conscience to worship her husband or 'God in him'? (Milton.)Summarily and concisely, if she is morewomanly, in any sort, for doing, saying, thinking, whatsoever, howsoever, whithersoever, is not what she ought the term and measure of what she may? or else who shall presume to prescribe other bounds to her nature, and undertake to restrain its ongoings in this or that direction?Is female determined by male? woman's mind by the wind of man's caprice? or both mutually interdetermined by the law of their correlation, his wants and her capacities, her wants and his abilities? And if he preaches utility, but she follows taste, whether is to be concluded, that he needs more of practicality in her, or she more of æstheticality in him? Is it that women lack usefulness or that men lack beautifulness?The sterner sex, by assuming to itself superior desires, can stigmatize the other because the female disposition does not meet its own; but truth and right may be much upon the other side. Women may be nearerstandard, just in this land and age, than men; and their unsatisfied longings for handsome, chaste, and noble men are swifter witnesses than all the low complaint about feminine finery and extravagance. When men can seem to better understand that it is not necessarily madness to prefer (as Nero) a fortune in marble to a fortune in gold, or a Raphael's painting to 'money in the bank,' when they shall come to recognize the utility of beauty and holiness, then will not women be slow to acknowledge the use and usefulness of so much utility.
I object to the current newspaper 'Advice for Girls.' A woman may know how to cook, sweep, sew, tend babies; but isthiswhat a young man—Spanish,virgen—most looks, or cares for, or thinks of, when he seeks life-companionship—a Somebody to get him dinner, tidy his room, fasten his shirt-buttons, and bear him children? 'Tis not for spread tables, kept house, mended clothes, nor pleasure, that the young man's soul thirsts. For sympathy, for love, for the object of his manliness, for its complement, for his wife—and not a servant, nor a mistress.
He does indeed holily choose the mother of their little ones, but newspaper-notice hints nothing of that; it teaches bodily, not spiritually, and simply trains up a female able to bear offspring of healthy flesh.
However, the husband requires a lover fit to join with him in spirit also, for the total benefit of posterity.
The education which best suits a woman, then, is it carnal or soulful? to make a kitchen-drudge or a soft-eyed maiden? a prudent housewife or a thoughtful heartsweet? 'a special breeder' (Pope) or a trusted bosomer? Cattle and machinery are for this labor-saving. The true end of woman is feminity. Therefore, if she is any brighter and heartsomer for playing in the fields, any more pensive and sober for meditating there, who shall deny her God's free air and sunshine?
If she is more delicate and softer to handle the light embroidery, or plan the curious patchwork, who shall restrict her busy ingenuity to garments ofwear—coarse jackets, trowsers, shirts?
If she is more earnest and devoted for loving and suffering through a romance, who shall hinder from reading and writing, or limit the one toPilgrim's Progress, the other to a letter, or confine her pity to street-beggars, for whom alms-giving is act of charity not more than tears are for imagined woes?
If she is more winning and tender by dwelling with old friendships and memorable passages of trial or happiness, who shall fetter her thoughts to the selfish indifference of the present, or the dull routine of daily toil called duty?
If she is gentler and meeker, purer and loftier, Christlier, for contemplating God and the angels, who can bind her conscience to worship her husband or 'God in him'? (Milton.)
Summarily and concisely, if she is morewomanly, in any sort, for doing, saying, thinking, whatsoever, howsoever, whithersoever, is not what she ought the term and measure of what she may? or else who shall presume to prescribe other bounds to her nature, and undertake to restrain its ongoings in this or that direction?
Is female determined by male? woman's mind by the wind of man's caprice? or both mutually interdetermined by the law of their correlation, his wants and her capacities, her wants and his abilities? And if he preaches utility, but she follows taste, whether is to be concluded, that he needs more of practicality in her, or she more of æstheticality in him? Is it that women lack usefulness or that men lack beautifulness?
The sterner sex, by assuming to itself superior desires, can stigmatize the other because the female disposition does not meet its own; but truth and right may be much upon the other side. Women may be nearerstandard, just in this land and age, than men; and their unsatisfied longings for handsome, chaste, and noble men are swifter witnesses than all the low complaint about feminine finery and extravagance. When men can seem to better understand that it is not necessarily madness to prefer (as Nero) a fortune in marble to a fortune in gold, or a Raphael's painting to 'money in the bank,' when they shall come to recognize the utility of beauty and holiness, then will not women be slow to acknowledge the use and usefulness of so much utility.
Honor to Sigel! honor to Heintzelman! Whatever may have been said or sung against others, there is no doubt as to the ability, faithfulness, perseverance, and courage of these gallantDeutschers, and with them of many others of their glorious nation who have followed their national and instinctive hatred of tyranny, and taken part with us in battle against the South. Hurrah then for our German Generals.Sigel soll leben, vivat hoch!
Wir geh'n die Waffen in der Hand,Zu retten unser Vaterland,Und unser Kampf ist Sieg.Wir tragen nicht Erober-Schwerdt,Wir schützen Weib und Kind und Heerd,Gerecht ist unser Krieg.(ENGLISH.)'We go with weapon in our hand,And all to free our Father-land,A victory is our fight.We seek to win no foreign earth,We fight for wife and child and hearth:God knows our cause is right.'
How many hundreds of thousands of Germans are there to whom these lines have become as applicable in this our 'Trans-Atlantic Germany' as when sung of old under the oaks of the Teuton father-land. When this battle shall be over, let every one bear in mind the good and faithful aid they gave us. Nor shall the Irish be forgotten, who with such desperate courage have contributed so largely to swell our armies. They are in every regiment, they have been foremost in every battle, their dead lie on every field. Let those deny it who will, we should have fared badly enough had it not been for the Irish. They have shown themselves from the beginning as presenting
'First fut on the flure,First stick in the fight.'
They gave us the poet-warrior O'Brien, and the brave and generous Kearney, and the noble Corcoran—but the list is too long. Honor to them all.
There are many very good sort of people who will tell you, 'I don't like Germans,' or 'I don't like Irish!' We trust that this war will drive all such dislikes among us out of existence. Those who indulge in them are generally narrow-minded, un-cosmopolite sort of people. The principles of our day and of our war—the Republican principles—are opposed to all such illiberality. The Southerner, indeed, proposes to exclude all foreigners—it is his 'policy'—the Republican would give to the brain and muscle of every living being the fullest chance for developmentevery where. Free Soil and Free Labor forever!
Literature and religion have of late sustained a great loss in the death of Benjamin J. Wallace, D.D., which took place in Philadelphia August first. The deceased was a descendant of the great Harris family, which may be almost said to have founded Western Pennsylvania, and which gave a name to its largest city. Originally educated at West-Point, he subsequently studied divinity at Princeton, distinguished himself as a New-School clergyman in many States, especially in the West, was at one time a professor at Delaware College, Newark, and was well known during the later years of his life as editor of and contributor to that very able magazine, the PresbyterianQuarterly Review.
We had frequent opportunities of becoming familiar with the scope of Mr. Wallace's abilities, and can testify that they were truly remarkable. Apart from his theological learning he was a thorough and extremely varied student of general literature; one familiar to a degree rare in this country with Greek genius; a most able and ready writer; and above all, a man of strong belief; one who touched no subject on which he did not write with sincerest interest.
Mr. Wallace left a large circle of friendsand a family to mourn a loss which all the friends of religion and of culture share in common with them. It is seldom that the journalist is called on to record the death of any one who to natural gifts, aided by most excellent education, added such a life of conscientious and modest industry. He was a true Christian and gentleman in all things.
The writer of the letter excerpted from in the following story, will accept our sincere thanks for the 'De Bow,' which, as he will find 'other wheres,' has been turned to account by us:
New-Orleans, August 13th, 1862.
Dear Continental: Let me give you a true version of an anecdote touching the 'contraband' question: it may do for the Drawer.
A rascally slave-jockey of this habitat procured an order for the rendition of a fugitive, who was supposed to be in the Quartermaster's employ at the Custom-House, addressed to that functionary. Meanwhile the negro, who had doubtless been there, had taken refuge in the hospital, whither Jew pursued him with the same order, not doubting that the Major-General's order was as good for one place as another. But Dr. Smith, it seems, thought otherwisely, for he coolly informed the applicant thathewas not Quartermaster, and declined to pay any attention to an order on that officer. Back to head-quarters travels 'Shylock,' with his dishonored order and his complaint. The paper is forthwith returned with a curt indorsement and the assurance that 'that will make it all right.' Thus fortified, he returned to the charge, and triumphantly displaying the back of the paper only to Dr. Smith, demanded his 'nigger.' Dr. Smith looked at the writing presented to him and read:
'Dr. Smith: You will turn this man out at once.'
Then to the Jockey: 'Here, I am ordered to turn you out of my house. Get out, sir, get out; get out of my house!' And as he stood petrified with astonishment at the apparent disrespect shown to the General's order, Dr. Smith called out to the guard: 'Orderly, put this man out at the door, and see that he is not admitted again.' The fellow found his tongue at length, but the Doctor, who is no admirer of slave-hunters, would not hear a word of remonstrance, and the discomfited trader was hustled down the stairs, shaking his order behind him, and spluttering out his wrath and disappointment.
'Grasp thy happiness and bear it with thee.' Is that Sanscrit or Persian? He who said that, had grasped a great truth. The Beautiful never perishes to him thatwills.
No matter when: enough that moon and starsShone as they shine to-night;That tales of desolation and of wars,Of struggle and of blight,Like the low mutterings of a troublous dream,Flitting across the still and peaceful night,Glanced o'er my heart and thine!The music of the pine—The silver, witching streamAn impress deeper, left upon our hearts.The murmuring song fell soothing on our ears;The silver stream with beauty charmed our eyes;And so we bade the tales of spears and darts,With all their train of agony and tears,Go to the winds; and leave us golden skies,And brooks, and reaching hills, and 'lovers' leaps,'With bold and rugged steeps;And all the romance of 'enchanting scenes;'For thou and I were—midway in our teens!Once! breathe it softly, softly, O my heart!And thou—my waiting one!My unforgotten! wheresoe'er thou art—My heart's unfading sun!My guiding light beneath the storms and clouds;My solace when the woods and hills are lone;And the dark pine breathes out its saddening moan;And when the night the misty mountain shrouds,Breathe it still gently, wheresoe'er thou art,Light of my fainting heart!'Once!' stop, O wheels of time! upon the word!Gather it in a knot of silken blue;Bind it all fondly—with a nuptial cord,Unto the widowed present! bear it throughAll change—all chance! Love, friendship! hold it fast:Let it no more be wedded to the past!And human hearts through all life's checkered scenes,Shall ever tarry 'midway in their teens'!
We find the following paragraph floating through our exchanges: