The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, June, 1862
TekstA SONG OF THE PRESENT
BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR
Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie,
Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed,
Not to the moments that have hurried by,
Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.
Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwell
Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near,
Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel,
A land whose hopes find no fruition here.
But to the Present: be it dark or bright,
Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good;
Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light;
Its ills are blessings, rightly understood.
Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers;
Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays,
Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours;
A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise.
Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine;
Grief can not always last, joy's hour will come;
Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine,
And make thy heart the sunshine's constant home.
Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smile
Carries a magic nothing can withstand;
A cheerful look may many a care beguile,
And to the weary be a helping hand.
Be brave—clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms;
Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest,
The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms,
Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.
A STRANGE STORY—ITS SEQUEL
PREFACE
The often expressed wish of the American Press for an explanation of the meaning of 'A Strange Story,' shall be complied with. It is purely and simply this: Many novels, most of them, in fact, treat of the World; the rest may be divided into those vaguely attempting to describe the works of the Flesh and the Devil. This division of subjects is fatal to their force; there was need to write a novel embracing them all; therefore 'A Strange Story' was penned. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz personated the World, Doctor Fenwick the Flesh, and Margrave, alias Louis Grayle, certainly, I may be allowed to say, played the Devil with marked ability. To give a fitting morale to all, the character of Lilian Ashleigh was thrown in; the good genius, the conqueror of darkness, the positive of the electrical battery meeting the negative and eliciting sparks of triumphant light—such was the heroine.
Man, conscious of a future life, and endowed with imagination, is not content with things material, especially if his brain is crowded with the thoughts of the brains of ten thousand dead authors, and his nervous system is over-tasked and over-excited. In this condition he rushes away—away from cool, pure, and lovely feature—burying himself in the hot, spicy, and gorgeous dreams of Art. He would adore Cagliostro, while he mocked Doctor Watts! Infatuated dreamer! Returning at last, by good chance—or, rather, let me say, by the directing hand of Providence—from his evil search of things tabooed, to admiration of the Real, the Tangible, and the True; he will show himself as Doctor Fenwick does in this sequel, a strong, sensible, family-man, with a clear head and no-nonsense about him.
CHAPTER I
'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that Egyptian woman bore the last—positively the last—remains of Margrave, or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'
'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.
'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:
'FABER, No. 4.'
I believe it may belong to one of my family—lost, perhaps, in the ocean of commerce.'
'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung; let us enter the house.'
CHAPTER II
'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us how that cold chicken should be carved.'
Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket. Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.
'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.
'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and romantic dreams.'
'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs. Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken to filling her duties as housewife?'
'To be sure I do.'
The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a brown one, remarking:
'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale—we are nearly out.'
CHAPTER III
'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap—on-ly thrippence a tab-let—takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'
'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above.
'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin' soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben wurkin this lay long enough, I ham thinkin'.
Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails—two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account—the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits.
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled.
CHAPTER V
Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!
Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.
THE END
WHAT THEN?
BY J. HAL. ELLIOT
God's pity on them! Human souls, I mean,
Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt,
And bodies which no common sore can hurt;
All this between
Those souls, and life—corrupt, defiled, unclean.
And more—hard faces, pinched by starving years.
Cold, stolid, grimy faces—vacant eyes,
Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies;
But never tears!
Tears would not help them—battling constant jeers.
Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first,
Crouching through life forever in the dark,
Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark;
And no one durst
Deny their horrid dream, that they are curst.
And life for them! dare we call life its name?
O God! an arid sea of burning sand,
Eternal blackness! death on every hand!
A smothered flame,
Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.
And death! we shudder when we speak the word;
'Tis all the same to them—or life, or death;
They breathe them both with every fevered breath;
When have they heard,
That cool Bethesda's waters might be stirred!
They live among us—live and die to-day;
We brush them with our garments on the street,
And track their footsteps with our dainty feet;
'Poor common clay!'
We curl our lips—and that is what we say.
God's pity on them! and on us as well:
They live and die like brutes, and we like men:
Both go alone into the dark—what then?
Or heaven, or hell?
They suffered in this life! Stop! Who can tell?
The last stranger who visited Washington Irving, before his death, was Theodore Tilton, who published shortly afterward an account of the interview. Mr. Tilton wrote also a private letter to a friend, giving an interesting reminiscence, which he did not mention in his published account. The following is an extract from this letter, now first made public:
As I was about parting from Mr. Irving, at the door-step, he held my hand a few moments, and said:
'You know Henry Ward Beecher?
'Yes,' I replied, 'he is an intimate friend.'
'I have never seen him,' said he, 'tell me how he looks.'
I described, in a few words, Mr. Beecher's personal appearance; when Mr. Irving remarked:
'I take him to be a man always in fine health and cheery spirits.'
I replied that he was hale, vigorous, and full of life; that every drop of his blood bubbled with good humor.
'His writings,' said Knickerbocker, 'are full of human kindness. I think he must have a great power of enjoyment.'
'Yes,' I added, 'to hear him laugh is as if one had spilt over you a pitcher of wine.'
'It is a good thing for a man to laugh well,' returned the old gentleman, smiling. He then observed:
'I have read many of your friend's writings; he draws charming pictures; he inspires and elevates one's mind; I wish I could once take him by the hand.'
At which I instantly said:
'I will ask him to make you a visit.'
'Tell him I will give him a Scotch welcome; tell him that I love him, though I never have seen his face.'
These words were spoken with such evident sincerity, that Sunnyside will always have a sunnier place in my memory, because of the old man's genial tribute to my dear friend.
I am ever yours,THEODORE TILTON.
The following paragraph from the Boston Traveller, contains a few facts well worth noting:
'The secession sympathizers in the North have two favorite dodges for the service of their friends, the enemy. The first is, to magnify the numbers of the rebel forces, placing them at 500,000 men, whereas they never have had above half as many men in the field, all told, and counting negroes as well as white men. The other is, to magnify the cost of the war on the side of the Federalists. They tell us that our public war-debt, by the close of the current fiscal year, June 30, 1862, will be 1,200,000,000, (twelve hundred million dollars.) They know better than this, for that debt will, at the date named, be not much above $620,000,000, which would be no greater burden on the country than was that which it owed in 1815, perhaps not so great a burden as that was. People should not allow themselves to be frightened by the prophecies of men who, if they could be sure of preserving slavery in all its force, would care for nothing else.'
It is always easy to make up a gloomy statement, and this has been done of late to perfection by the demo-secessionists among us. It is an easy matter to assume, as has been done, the maximum war expenditure for one single day, and say that it is the average. It is easy, too, to say that 'You can never whip the South,' and point to Richmond 'bounce' in confirmation. It will all avail nothing. Slavery is going—of that rest assured—and the South is to be thoroughly Northed with new blood. Delenda est Dixie.
Our 'private' readers in the army—of whom we have enough, we are proud to say, to constitute a pretty large-sized public—may rest assured that accounts will not be settled with the South without very serious consideration of what is due to the soldier for his services 'in snatching the common-weal from the jaws of hell,' as the Latin memorial to Pitt, on the Dedham stone hath it. It has been said that republics are ungrateful; but in this instance the adage must fall to the ground. The soldier will be as much needed after the war, to settle the South, 'North it,' and preserve the Union by his intellect and his industry, as he now is to reestablish it by his bravery.
We find the following in the Boston Courier of March 29th:
'Our attention has been called to a statement in the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE, to the effect, that certain interesting 'Notes on the Gulf States,' which have recently appeared in this paper were reproductions, with certain alterations, of letters which were printed in the Knickerbocker Magazine several years ago. The statement made is not positive, but made with such qualifications as might lead to the inference that the comparison was not very carefully made. We can only say, that we have had no opportunity to confer with our distant correspondent, who handed us the whole series of 'Notes' together, in manuscript, for publication; nor had we any reason to believe that they were ever printed before, either in whole or in part. We can say nothing further, until we know more about the grounds for the intimation of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.'
We were guarded in our statement, not having at hand, when we wrote the paragraph referred to, more than three or four numbers of the Courier containing the Gulf States articles, and not desiring to give the accusation a needlessly harsh expression, knowing well that the best informed editor may have at times old literary notes passed upon him for new ones. What we do say, is simply that several columns of the articles which appeared as original in the Boston Courier, were literal reprints from a series which appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine in 1847.
THE OFFICIAL WAR MAP—NOW READY
HAZARD'S
RAILROAD AND MILITARY MAP OF THE SOUTHERN STATES
Compiled from the most authentic sources, and the United States Coast Surveys, by the Committee on Inland Transportation of the Board of Trade of Philadelphia, and superbly engraved in the finest style of map making.
The information for this map was recently obtained by A PERSONAL TOUR THROUGH THE SOUTH, as well as by the information given by THE PRESIDENT OF EVERY RAILROAD; the corrections make it COMPLETE TO THE PRESENT HOUR; and it gives so recent and such valuable facts concerning all the Railroads, that the War Department immediately authorized its publication, and distributed ONE THOUSAND COPIES among the Generals and Colonels of the Army; that order having been supplied, no further delay in issuing the map will occur, and subscribers can now be supplied at the following prices:
Several weighty reasons for purchasing "HAZARD'S RAILROAD AND MILITARY MAP OF THE SOUTHERN STATES."
1st. It is the official map; and therefore must be the best and the most reliable, which is everything, particularly at this time when a good map is of such universal interest. This is the ONLY MAP that has been officially adopted for Government purposes.
2d. The Coast is so distinct and accurate, it shows every little island and inlet, and is as correct as the large maps issued by the Coast Survey Office.
3d. It is very cheap. It is thirty-two by fifty-five inches, and is one of the best specimens of map engraving ever done in this country.
4th. It presents the whole Southern States at one view, and the railroads are so distinctly marked as to show at a glance the most important strategical points.
GENERAL MCCLELLAN has acknowledged in several communications the "great importance to his movements of the accurate information in regard to the Southern Railroads, conveyed in this map."
Testimonials of the same character have been received from Prof. A.D. BACHE, of the Coast Survey Department, as to the great accuracy of the coast line; and one hundred extra copies ordered "to distribute among the Commanders of the Atlantic and Gulf Squadrons," which have been furnished.
While ADOPTED FOR ITS ACCURACY by the MILITARY AUTHORITIES, as has been stated, it is yet more especially a COMMERCIAL MAP, and was at first intended expressly for that purpose. Hence, its value will be undiminished when the war is over, and renewed attention is directed to that section.
After what has been said of THE GREAT VALUE OF THIS MAP TO EVERY INTELLIGENT MAN, is there any one who will be without it? particularly since its price has been made as low as that of inferior maps, in order to keep up with the times. We are constantly told by those who already have several of the maps rushed upon the public, that they have laid them aside and use only this one.
ACCURACY AND DISTINCTNESS are the characteristics of this map, the only one sanctioned by the Government.
Just published and for sale by
CHAS. T. EVANS, General Agent for New-York State,532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK
WASHINGTON
LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY, NO. 98 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK
THIS COMPANY ISSUES POLICIES OF ALL KINDS UPON THE MOST FAVORABLE TERMS
CLAIMS PROMPTLY SETTLED
HOME INSURANCE COMPANY
OF NEW YORK,
OFFICE, . . . . . . . . 112 and 114 BROADWAY
THIS COMPANY INSURES AGAINST LOSS AND DAMAGE BY FIRE, ON FAVORABLE TERMS
LOSSES EQUITABLY ADJUSTED AND PROMPTLY PAID
WILCOX & GIBBS SEWING MACHINE
PRICE, $30
"Has evident points of superiority as a FAMILY MACHINE over all others."—Philadelphia Press
MANUFACTURED BY JAMES WILLCOX, No. 508 BROADWAY, opposite St. Nicholas Hotel, New-York
NOW READY
In one Vol., 12mo. $1.25
Undercurrents of Wall Street: The Romance of Business
BY RICHARD B. KIMBALL, AUTHOR OF "ST. LEGER."
Also, in one Vol., 12mo. $1.25. A new edition of
St. Leger
G. P. PUTNAM, 532 BROADWAY
Orders should be sent at once to secure a prompt supply
DESTINED TO BE THE BOOK OF THE SEASON
As published in the pages of THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, it has been pronounced by the Press to be
"SUPERIOR TO UNCLE TOM'S CABIN."
"FULL OF ABSORBING INTEREST."
"Whether invented or not, True, because true to Life."-HORACE GREELEY
WILL SHORTLY BE PUBLISHED,
In a handsome 12mo vol. of 330 pages, cloth, $1,
AMONG THE PINES,
by EDMUND KIRKE
Read the following Notices from the Press:
"It contains the most vivid and lifelike representation of a specimen family of poor South-Carolina whites we have ever read."—E.P. WHIPPLE, in the Boston Transcript.
"It is full of absorbing interest."—Whig, Quincy, Ill.
"It gives some curious Ideas of Southern Social Life."—Post, Boston.
"The most lifelike delineations of Southern Life ever written."—Spy, Columbia, Pa.
"One of the most attractive series of papers ever published, and embodying only facts"—C.C. HAZEWELL, in the Traveller, Boston.
"A very graphic picture of life among the clay-eaters and turpentine-makers."—Lorain News, Oberlin, Ohio.
"The author wields a ready and graphic pen."—Times, Armenia, N.Y.
"There are passages in it of the most thrilling dramatic power."—Journal, Roxbury, Mass.
"It is the best and most truthful sketch of Southern Life and Character we have ever read"—R. SHELTON MACKENZIE; in the Press, Philadelphia.
"Has a peculiar interest just now, and deserves a wide reading."—Dispatch, Amsterdam, N.Y.
"An intensely vivid description of things as they occur on a Southern Plantation"—Union Lancaster, Pa.
"The author is one of the finest descriptive writers in the country."—Journal, Boston, Mass.
"It presents a vivid picture of Plantation Life, with something of the action of a character that is more than likely to pass from story into history before the cause of the Rebellion is rooted out."—Gazette, Taunton, Mass.
"A most powerful production, which can not be read without exciting great and continued interest"—Palladium, New-Haven.
PUBLISHED BY
J.R. GILMORE,532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK,And 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON