Part 5 — Editor's Table.

Step by step the vast net is closing in on the enemy,—little by little the vice is tightening,—and if no incalculable calamity overtake the armies of the Union, it is but fair to assume that at no distant day the rebel South will find itself in the last extremity, overwhelmed by masses from without and demoralized by want of means within. Government at present holds the winning cards,—if they are only skillfully played the game is its own. It is impossible to study the map and the present position of our forces with our resources, and not realize this. 'Hemmed in!' is the despairing cry from Southern journals, which but the other day insolently threatened to transfer the war to Northern soil, and to sack New York and Philadelphia; and, with their proverbial fickleness and fire, we find many of them half rebelling against the management of Mr. JEFFERSON DAVIS and his coadjutors.

This is all encouraging. On the other hand, we are beginning to feel more acutely the miseries of war, and its enormous cost. The time is at hand when the whole country will be called on to show its heroism by patient endurance of many trials, and by living as well as dying for the great cause of liberty and Union. Let it all be done patiently and without a murmur. Every suffering will be repaid tenfold in the hour of triumph. Let it be remembered that as we suffer our chances of victory increase, and that every pain felt by us is a death-pang to the foe. Now, if ever, the Northern quality of stubborn endurance must show itself. We, too, can suffer as heroically as the South boasts of doing. It is this which in the course of events must inevitably give us the victory, for no spirit of chivalry, no enthusiasm, can ultimately resist sturdy Saxon pluck. The South, foolishly enough, has vaunted that it is inspired by the blood and temper of the Latin races of Southern Europe, and it can not be denied that their climate has given them the impulsiveness of their ideal heroes. In this fiery impatience lies the element which renders them incapable of sustaining defeat, and which, after any disaster, must stimulate dissension among them.

It should also be borne in mind that the most direct causes of our sufferings all involve very practical benefits. The Southern press taunts our soldiers with enlisting for pay. Let us admit that vast numbers have truly been partially induced by the want of employment at home to enter the army. It is a peculiar characteristic of all Northern blood that it can and does combine intelligence and interest with the strongest enthusiasm. No man was ever made a worse soldier by being prudent, any more than by being a religious Christian. Taunts and jeers can not affect the truth. The Protestant mechanic soldiery of Germany during the wars of the Reformation, the men of Holland, and the Puritans of England, were all reviled for the same cause—but they conquered. God never punishes men for common-sense, nor did it ever yet blind zeal, though it may prevent zeal from degenerating into sheer madness. The war, while it has crippled industry, has also kept it alive,—it has become a great industrial central force, giving work to millions. Again, in the creation of a debt we shall find such a stimulus to industry as we never before knew. Taxation, which kills a weak country crippled by feudal laws and nightmared by an extravagant court and nobility, simply induces fresh and vigorous effort to make additional profits in a land of endless resources and of vast territory, where every man is free to work at what he chooses. Taxation may come before us like a raging lion, but, in the words of BEECHER, we shall find honey in the carcass. Let us only cheerfully make the best of everything, and uphold the administration and the war with a right good will, and we shall learn as we never did before the extent of the incredible elasticity and recuperative power of the American.

It is evident that the present war will have a beneficial result in making us acquainted with the real nature of this arrogant and peculiar South-land. It was said that the Crimean struggle did much good by dispelling the cloudy hobgoblin mystery which hung over Russia, and, while it destroyed its prestige as a bugbear, more than compensated for this, by giving it a proper place abreast of civilized nations in the great march of industry and progress. Just so we are learning that the South is perfectly capable of receiving white labor, that it is not strangely and peculiarly different from the rest of the cis-tropical regions, that the negro is no more its necessity than he is to Spain or Italy, and that, in short, white labor may march in, undisturbed, so soon as industry ceases to be regarded as disgraceful in it. We have learned the vital necessity of union and identity of feeling between all the States, and found out the folly of suffering petty local state attachments to blind us to the glory of citizenship in a nation, which should cover a continent. We have learned what the boasted philanthropy of England is worth when put to the test of sacrifice, and also how the British lion can put forth the sharpest and most venomous of feline claws when an opportunity presents itself of ruining a possible rival. More than this, we have learned to be self-reliant, to take greater and more elevated views of political duty, and to be heroic without being extravagant. Since we were a republic no one year has witnessed such national and social progress among us as the past. We have had severe struggles, and we have surmounted them; we have had hard lessons, and we have learned them; we have had trials of pride, and we have profited by them. And as we contend for principles based in reason and humanity and confirmed by history, it follows that we must inevitably come forth gloriously triumphant, if we but bravely persevere in enforcing those principles.

The large amount of political information regarding the South and its resources which has been of late widely disseminated in the North, is a striking proof that, disguise the question as we will, the extension of free labor is, from a politico-economical point of view (which is, in fact, the only sound one), the real, or at least ultimate basis of this struggle. The matter in hand is the restitution of the Union, laying everything else aside; but the great fact, which will not step aside, is the consideration whether ten white men or one negro are to occupy a certain amount of soil. There is no evading this finality, there is no impropriety in its discussion, and it SHALL be discussed, so long as free speech or a free pen is left in the North. So far from interfering with the war, it is a stimulus to the thousands of soldiers who hope eventually to settle in the South in districts where their labor will not be compared with that of 'slaves,' and it is right and fit that they should anticipate the great and inevitable truth in all its relations to their own welfare and that of the country.

We cheerfully agree with those who try with so much energy that Emancipation is not the matter in hand, and quite as cheerfully assent when they insist that the enemy, and not the negro, demands all our present energy. But this has nothing to do with the great question, whether slavery is or is not to ultimately remain as a great barrier to free labor in regions where free labor is clamoring for admission. That is all we ask, nothing more. The instant the North and West are assured that at some time, though remote, and by any means or encouragements whatever, which expediency may dictate, the great cause of secession and sedition—will be removed from our land, then there will be witnessed an enthusiasm compared to which that of the South will be but lukewarm. That this will be done, no rational person now doubts, or that government will cheerfully act on it so soon as the fortunes of war or the united voice of the people strengthen it in the good work. And until it is done, let every intelligent freeman bear it in mind, thinking intelligently and acting earnestly, so that the great work may be advanced rapidly and carried out profitably and triumphantly.

The leading minds of the South, shrewder than our Northern anti-emancipation half traitors and whole dough-faces, foreseeing the inevitable success of ultimate emancipation, have given many signs of willingness to employ even it, if needs must be, as a means of effectually achieving their 'independence.' They have baited their hooks with it to fish for European aid—they have threatened it armed, as a last resort of desperation, if conquered by the North. Knowing as well as we that the days of slavery are numbered, they have used it as a pretense for separation, they would just as willingly destroy it to maintain that separation. Since the war began, projects of home manufactures, and other schemes involving the encouragement of free labor, have been largely discussed in the South,—and yet in spite of this, thousands among us violently oppose Emancipation. In plain, truthful words they uphold the ostensible platform of the enemy, and yet avow themselves friends of the Union.

We have said it before, we repeat it: we ask for no undue haste, no unwise measures, nothing calculated to irritate or disorganize or impede the measures which government may now have in hand. But we hold firmly that Emancipation be calmly regarded as a measure which must at some time be fully carried out. Be it limited for the time, or for years, to the Border States, be it assumed partially or entirely under the modified form of apprenticeship, be it proclaimed only in Texas or South Carolina, it has in some way a claim to recognition, and must be recognized. Its friends are too many to be ignored in the day of settlement.

It is proper that every detail of contract corruption should be brought fully to light, and the country owes a debt of gratitude to Mr. DAWES for his manly attack on the wretches who have crippled the war, robbed the soldier, swindled the tax-payers, and aided the enemy by their wicked rapacity. Let it be remembered that whatever his sentiments may have been, every man who has been instrumental, directly or indirectly, in cheating the treasury and the my during this period of distress, has been one of its enemies, and far more deadly than if he had been openly enlisted under the banners of JEFFERSON DAVIS. Were we anything but the best-natured and most enduring public in the world, such revelations as have by the been made would long since have driven these rapacious traitors beyond sea or into the congenial Dixie for which they have indirectly labored.

We have been accustomed to read much since infancy of the sufferings of our army during the Revolution,—how they were hatless, ragged, starved, and badly armed. We have shuddered at the pictures of the snow at Valley Forge, tracked by the blood from the feet of shoeless soldiers. Yet, in the year 1861, with abundant means and with all the sympathy and aid of a wealthy country, there has been more suffering in the army than the Revolution witnessed, and it was due in a great measure to men who hastened to the spoil like vultures to their prey. If the army has not in advanced, if proper weapons are not even yet ready, let the reader reflect how much the army is still crippled owing to imperfect supplies, and have patience.

It is not the soldier alone who has been robbed by the contractor. The manufacturer who sees only a government order between himself and failure, and who is willing to do anything to keep his operatives employed, is asked to supply inferior goods at a low price. He may take the order or leave it,—if he will not, another will,—and with it is expected to take the risk of a return. When a man sees ruin before him, he will often yield to such temptations. The contractor takes the goods, sells them if he can, and pockets the profits, sometimes ten times over what the manufacturer gains. He thereby robs outright, not only the soldier, but also the operatives who make the goods, since the manufacturer must reduce their wages to the lowest living point, in order to save himself.

It will all come to light. There is a discovery of all evil, and there is a grace which money cannot remove, neither from the thief nor from his children. And we rejoice to see that so much is being made known, and that in all probability the public will be fully informed as to who were principally guilty in these enormous and treasonable corruptions.

It is stated, on good authority, that the only objection urged by the President to adopting the policy of Emancipation, is the danger which would be thereby incurred of effectually losing the allegiance of the loyal slave-holders in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Missouri.

The obvious answer to this is, that by paying these loyal slave-holders for their chattels they could not fail to become firmer friends than ever. When we reflect on the extremely precarious tenure of all such property on the Border it becomes apparent that the man must be a lunatic indeed to hope for the permanency of the institution in the tobacco States. Since the war began nearly the two-thirds of the slaves in Missouri have changed their habitat,—about one-half of the number having been 'sold South,' while the other moiety have traveled North, without reference to ownership.

The administration need be under no apprehension as to the popularity of this measure. It would be hailed with joy by millions. The capitalists of our Northern cities, who now await with impatience some indications of A REGULAR POLICY, will welcome with enthusiasm a proposition which would at once render the debatable land no longer debatable, and which would effectually disorganize the entire South, by rendering numbers desirous of selling their slaves in order to secure what must sooner or later be irrecoverably lost. If government has a policy in this matter, it is time that the public were informed of it. The public is ready to be taxed to any extent, it is making tremendous sacrifices; all that it asks in return is some nucleus around which it may gather,—a settled principle by which its victories in war may be made to form the basis of a permanent peace.

The English press, statesmen and orators have been pleased to regard our democratic government as a failure.

But we have at least one advantage. When an enormous wrong is perpetrated on the people by a secretary, he can be hustled out of the way, and the accomplices be punished.

In England we have seen of late the most enormous political and social outrage of the century coolly committed, without the slightest regard to consequences, and without the slightest fear of any punishment whatever.

The truth has come to light, and every investigation, in the opinion of the ablest and most sagacious men, confirms the assertion that the late MASON and SLIDELL difficulty was simply an immense stock-jobbing swindle, played in the most heartless manner on this country and on England, without heed as to the terrible consequences.

The London Times, as is well known, is the organ of the ROTHSCHILDS. During the late iniquitous war-flurry it acted perfectly in concert with Lord PALMERSTON. While that gentleman kept back for three weeks dispatches, which, if published, would have had the immediate effect of establishing a peaceful feeling, his Hebrew accomplices bought literally right and left of securities of every kind. Grand pickings they had; everything had tumbled down. England was roused by the Times to a fury; a feeling of fierce injury was excited in this country, which an age will not now allay; and right in the midst of this, when one word might have changed the whole, the official ministerial organ explicitly denied the existence of those 'peace' dispatches which have since come to light!

Let us anticipate some of the results of this precious Palmerston-Hebrew-Times swindle.

It has cost England twenty millions of dollars.

It has aroused such a feeling in this country against England as no one can remember.

It has effectually killed the American market for English goods, and put the tariff up to prohibition en permanence.

It has, by doing this, struck the most deadly blow at English prosperity which history has ever witnessed; for all that was needed to stimulate American industry up to the pitch of competing with England in foreign markets was such a prohibitory tariff as would compel us to manufacture for ourselves what we formerly bought.

Who will say now that a republic does not work as well as a monarchy?

We have read with pleasure a recently written and extensively republished article by SINCLAIR TOUSEY, of New York, condemnatory of the proposed stamp tax, and in which we most cordially concur; not because it is a tax materially affecting the interests of publishers, but because, as Mr. TOUSEY asserts, the diffusion of knowledge among the people is a powerful element of strength in government itself. In these times, it is essential, far more than during peace, that the newspaper should circulate very freely, stimulating the public, aiding government and the war, and keeping the mind of the country in living union. Nothing would more rapidly produce a torpor—and there is too much torpor now—than a measure which would have the effect of killing off perhaps one half of the country press, the great mass of which is barely able to live as it is. 'Let the press be as free as possible. Let it be free from onerous taxation, and left unfettered by special duties to do its just work.' This is a war for freedom, and the test of freedom is a free press.

We are indebted to a valued correspondent in Illinois for the following communication, setting forth the state of affairs in Southern Missouri during the past summer. Few of our readers are ignorant that since that time the region in question has been 'harried and shorn' even to desolation by the brigands of Secessia.

In conversing lately with Dr. R., who fled for his life, last July, from Ripley County, Southern Missouri, I collected some information which may not be unacceptable to your readers.

Dr. R. states that early last summer the citizens of Southern Missouri began gathering into companies of armed men opposed to the general government, and that it was a fear that the general government would not protect their lives and property which induced great numbers of really Union men to take sides with the rebels. They saw their country thronging with secession soldiers; were told it was the will of the State government that they enlist for the protection of the State: if they did not do this voluntarily, they would be drafted; and all drafted ones would in camp take a subordinate position, have to perform the cooking and washing, in short, all the drudgery for those who volunteered. This falsehood drove hundreds of the ignorant Missourians into the rebel ranks. Captain LOWE, afterwards Col. LOWE, who was killed at the battle of Fredericktown, was the recruiting officer in Ripley and its adjoining counties. He arrested Dr. R. on the 4th of July, on a charge of expressing sentiments 'dangerous to the welfare of the community.' Dr. R. was tried by a court-martial, in presence of the three hundred soldiers then assembled. Witnesses against the Doctor were produced, but he was not allowed time to summon witnesses in his behalf, nor to procure counsel. One novel circumstance in the trial was occasioned by the absence of any justice of the peace to administer the usual oath to the witnesses. None were procurable, from the fact that all had resigned, refusing to act officially under a government they had repudiated. In this dilemma the prisoner came to their relief. 'Gentlemen, I am a justice of the peace, as most of you already know, and, as I have not yet resigned, I will swear in the witnesses for you.' 'Wall, I reckon he kin act as justice afore he's convicted,' suggested one of the crowd. So the Doctor administered the oath in the usual solemn manner. This self-possession and fearlessness seemed to have an effect on his judges, for, after the testimony, he was permitted to cross-question the witnesses and plead his own cause. He was able to neutralize some of the charges against him. The jury, after an absence of fifteen minutes, returned verdict that 'as there was nothing proved against the prisoner which would make him dangerous to the community, he was permitted to be discharged. But,' added the foreman, 'I am instructed by the committee to say they believe Dr. R. to be a Black Republican, and to tell him that if he wants to utter Black Republican sentiments, he has got to go somewhere else to do it.' It was well known the Doctor had voted for DOUGLAS. But here followed an animated conversation between the prisoner and LOWE'S men as to what constituted Black Republicanism; the result of which was, as the Doctor turned to depart, Captain LOWE informed him he was re-arrested!

By the influence of some of the soldiers, the prisoner succeeded next day in effecting his escape. Traveling by night and concealing himself by day, he finally reached the federal lines in safety. His family were not permitted to follow him, and did not succeed in eluding the vigilance of their enemies and joining him until the middle of January. When a Union man escapes them, the rebels are always opposed to the removal of his wife and children, as, by retaining them, they hope to get the husband and father again into their hands. And, as all communication by letter is cut off, many a man, during the last six months, has stolen back to see his family at the risk of his life, and lost it.

Dr. R. was the first man arrested in Ripley County; but LOWE immediately began a lively persecution of suspected Unionists. Some escaped with life, their enemies being satisfied with scourging and plundering them, but scores were hung. LOWE'S soldiers furnished and equipped themselves by robbing Union houses and the country stores.

Many suspected Union men shielded themselves by denouncing others, giving information of the property of others, and being forward in insulting and quartering lawless soldiers upon defenceless families. So that, Dr. R. states, there are created between neighbors, all through that section, feuds which will never cease to exist. Many a man has suffered family wrongs from his neighbor which he thirsts to go back to revenge, which he swears yet to revenge, and which he feels nothing but the blood of the offender can revenge! And should peace be declared to-morrow, a social war would still exist in Missouri!

People dwelling in the free States, where the schoolhouse is not abolished, where the laws still live and restrain, can have no conception of the state of society where the whole community has returned suddenly to savage life; a life wherein the reaction from a former restraint renders the viciously disposed far more intensely barbarous than his red brother of the plain.

LOWE'S men, and all similarly recruited by order of ex-Governor JACKSON, remained in service six months, and were to be paid in State scrip. But as that was worthless, they never received anything in rations, clothing, or money, but what they plundered from their fellow-citizens. Many of these state rights soldiers have since enlisted in the Confederate army; but Confederate paper being fifty per cent. below par, and not rising, the legitimate pay of the Southern soldier is likely to be small.

In Northern Arkansas, all males between fifteen and forty-five years of age have been ordered to be ready for the Confederate service when called upon. This has caused a fear of failure in next year's crops from scarcity of men in that section. There is great suffering among them now. Salt rose to $25 a sack. The authorities prohibited the holders from charging more than $12, the present price. Pins are $1.50 per paper; jeans $5 per yard; and everything else in proportion.

One word in comment. Every additional fact of the deplorable condition of things in the slave States is an additional reason why the North should firmly meet the cause of this misery. If the North should have the manhood to strike a blow at slavery now, still a generation must pass before harmony would ensue; but if the North evades and dallies, scores of generations must live and die before America sees unbroken peace again.

While the war goes on, the contrabands go off. A writer in the Norfolk Day Book complains that slaves are escaping from that city in great numbers, asserting that they get away through the instrumentality of secret societies in Norfolk, which hold their meetings weekly, and in open day. No one can doubt that this war is clearing the Border of its black chattels in double-quick time. Why not strike boldly, and secure it by offering to pay all its loyal slave-holders for their property? Of one thing, let the country rest assured—the friends of Emancipation will not brook much longer delay. It MUST and SHALL be carried through,—and we are strong enough to do it.

Thurlow Weed grows apace, and occasionally writes a good thing from London—as, for instance, in the following:—

At breakfast, a few days since, a distinguished member of Parliament, who has been much in America, remarked, with emphasis, that he had formerly entertained a high opinion of 'JUDGE LYNCH,' looking with much favor upon that species of impromptu jurisprudence known as 'Lynch law,' but since it failed to hang FLOYD, COBB and THOMPSON, of BUCHANAN'S cabinet, he had ignored and was disgusted with the system.

What would the distinguished member have said had he been familiar with the Catiline steamer case, the mysteries of shoddy contracts, the outfitting of the Burnside expedition, and innumerable other rascalities? The gentleman was right,—Lynch law has proved a failure; and, if we err not, another kind of law has of late months been not very far behind it in inefficiency. Our Southern foes have at least one noble trait—they hang their rascals.

'Non dum,' 'not yet,' was the motto of a great king, who, when the time came, shook Europe with his victories. 'Not yet,' says the Christian, struggling through trial and temptation towards the peace which passeth understanding and a heavenly crown. 'Not yet,' says the brave reformer, fighting through lies and petty malice, and all the meanness of foes lying in wait, ere he can convince the world that he is in the right. 'Not yet,' says the soldier, as he marches his weary round, waiting to be relieved, and musing on the battle and the war for which he has pledged his life and his honor—and they are a world to him. 'Not yet,' says every great man and woman, laying hands to every noble task in time, which is to roll onward in result into eternity. Wait, wait, thou active soul,—even in thy most vigorous activity let thy work be one of waiting, and of great patience in thy fiercest toil. There will come a day of triumph, when the fresh wind will banish the heat, and fan the laurel on thy brow. Such is the true moral of the following lyric:—

FALLEN.

BY EDWARD S. RAND.

Blow gently, Oh ye winter winds,

Along the ferny reaches,

Nor whirl the yellow leaves which cling

Upon the saddened beeches;

And gently breathe upon the hills

Where spring's first violets perished,—

Died like the budding summer hopes

Our hearts too fondly cherished.

Oh memory, bring not back the past,

To brim our cup of sorrow;

The drear to-day creeps on to bring

A drearier to-morrow.

Can streaming eyes and aching hearts

Glow at the battle's story,

Or they who stake their all and lose

Exult in fame and glory?

Oh, lay them tenderly to rest,

Those for their country dying,—

Let breaking hearts and trembling lips

Pour the sad dirge of sighing.

Yet louder than the requiem raise

The song of exultation,

That the great heritage is ours

To die to save the nation.

In patience wait, nor think that yet

Shall Right and Freedom perish,

Nor yet Oppression trample down

The heritage we cherish!

For still remember, precious things

Are won by stern endeavor,—

Though in the strife our heart-strings break,

The Right lives on forever.

When you write let your chirography be legible. Strive not overmuch after beauty of finish, make not your a's like unto u's or your o's like v's; let not your heart be seduced by the loveliness of flourishes, and be not tempted of long-tailed letters. Above all, write your own name distinctly,—which is more than many do, and much more than was done by the gentleman described in the following letter from a kindly correspondent:—

MADISON, WIS.

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

The holder of any considerable quantity of Wisconsin currency is liable not only to the occasional loss consequent upon the absquatulation of a tricksy wild-cat, but also to great perplexity as to the name of the gentleman who countersigns the bills. These inscrutable counter-signatures are accomplished by ROBERT MENZIES, our excellent Deputy Bank Comptroller. His cabalistic 'R. Menzies' does not greatly resemble a well-executed specimen of copperplate engraving. The initial 'R' is always plain enough, but the 'Menzies' is sometimes read Moses, and sometimes Muggins, and is always liable to be translated Meazles.

Mr. MENZIES is a Scotchman, brimful of Caledonian lore and enthusiasm. His penmanship is not always so sublimely obscure as his performances on bank-paper would indicate; but in its best estate it is capable of sometimes more than one reading. Witness the following instance: In the winter of 1858 and '9, Mr. MENZIES delivered a very interesting lecture, before a literary society, in Prairie du Chien; subject, THE SONG-WRITERS OF SCOTLAND. Mr. M. not residing at Prairie du Chien, the lecture was, of course, the subject of a preliminary correspondence. At the meeting of the society next previous to the one when the lecture was delivered, Elder BRUNSON, the president, announced that he had received a letter from Mr. MENZIES, accepting the invitation to lecture before the society, and naming as the subject of his lecture 'THE LONG WINTERS or SCOTLAND.'

Readers who are afflicted with the isothermal doctrine may experience some benefit from the perusal of a letter for which we are indebted to a friend not very far 'out West:'—

SPRINGFIELD, MASS.

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

I have a friend who would be sound on the goose, as I verily believe, and a patriotic anti-Jeff Davis platform Emancipator, if he hadn't unfortunately picked up a fine learned word. That word is

ISOTHERMAL.

And that word he carries about as a hen carries a boiled potato—something too big to swallow but nice to peck at. And he pecks at it continually.

'I could admit that the slaves should be free,' he says, 'but then nature, you know, has fixed an isothermal line. She has isothermally deemed that south of that line the black is isothermally fitted to isothermalize or labor according to the climate as a slave.'

'Good,' I replied. 'So you admit that all anthropological characteristics as developed by climate are quite right?'

[He liked that word 'anthropological,' and assented.]

'Good again. Well, then, you must admit that to judge by statistics there is an isothermal line of unchastity, or "what gods call gallantry," and further north, one of drunkenness? How much morality is there in a tropical climate? How many temperate men to the dozen in Scandinavia or Russia?'

My isothermalist attempted a weak parry, but failed. When he recovers I will inform you.

YOURS TRULY.

P.S. I am preparing a series of tables by which I hope to prove the existence of the following isothermalities:

A Lager-beer line.

A Tobacco-chewing line.

A reading of TUPPER and COVENTRY PATMORE line.

A CREAM CHEESE line.

A Doughface line.

And a Clothes line.

We are indebted to R. WOLCOTT for the following sketch of War Life:—

'TAKEN PRISONER.'

It was a terrible battle. Amid the rattle of musketry and whistling of bullets, the clashing of sabres, the unearthly cries of wounded horses and the wild shouting of men, the clear voice of Lieutenant Hugh Gregory rang out: 'Rally! my brave boys, rally, and avenge the Captain's death!'

'Not quite so fast, sir,' quietly remarked a rebel officer, bringing his sword to a salute; 'you observe that your men are retreating and you are my prisoner.'

Hugh saw that it was so, and with a heavy heart gave himself up.

'Hurrah for the stars and stripes!' shouted a brave young soldier, attempting to raise himself upon his elbow, but falling back, exhausted from the loss of blood.

'Damn you, I'll stripe you!' exclaimed a brutal fellow, rising in his stirrups and aiming a blow at the wounded man.

'Dare to strike a helpless man!' shouted his commander; and he warded off the blow with a stroke that sent the fellow's sabre spinning into the air. 'Now dismount, and help him if you can.' But it was too late; the brave soul had gone out with those last words.

'Lieutenant,' said the rebel officer, whom we will know as Captain Dumars, 'I see that you are wounded. Let me assist you upon this horse, and one of my sergeants will show you the surgeon's quarters.' And he bound up the wounded arm as well as he could, helped him upon the horse, and, with a playful Au revoir, rode on.

Hugh's wound was too painful, and he was too weak and tired, to wonder or to think clearly of anything; he only felt grateful that his captor was a gentleman, and quietly submitted himself to the sergeant's guidance.

The battle was ended,—in whose favor it does not matter, so far as this story is concerned,—and Captain Dumars obtained permission to take Lieutenant Gregory to his mother's house until he should recover from his wound or be exchanged.

When Hugh found himself established in a pleasant little chamber with windows looking out upon the flower-garden and the woods beyond, fading away into his own loved North land, he thought that, after all, it was not so terrible to be a prisoner of war. He was decidedly confirmed in this opinion when he occasionally caught a glimpse of the lithe form of Annie Dumars flitting about among the flowers; and being somewhat of a philosopher, in his way, he determined to take it easy.

The presence of one of the 'Hessians' at Mrs. Dumars' house gave it much the same attraction that is attached to a menagerie. Feminine curiosity is an article that the blockade can not keep out of Dixie, and many were the morning calls that Annie received, and many and various were the methods of pumping adopted to learn something of the prisoner,—how he looked, how he acted, how he was dressed, and so forth.

'Impertinence!' he heard Annie exclaim, as one of these gossips passed through the gate, after putting her through a more minute inquisition than usual. And he heard dainty shoe-heels impatiently tapping along the hall, and when she brought in a bouquet of fresh flowers he saw in her face traces of vexation.

'I seem to be quite a "What-is-it?"'

'Shame!'—and she broke off a stem and threw it out of the window with altogether unnecessary vehemence.

'Splendid girl!' thought Hugh; 'where have I seen her?'

And he turned his thoughts back through the years that were past, calling up the old scenes; the balls, with their mazy, passionate waltzes, and their promenades on the balcony in the moonlight's mild glow, when sweet lips recited choice selections from Moore, and white hands swayed dainty sandal-wood fans with the potency of the most despotic sceptres; the sleigh-rides, with their wild rollicking fun, keeping time to the merry music of the bells and culminating in the inevitable upset; the closing exercises of the seminary, when blooming girls, in the full efflorescence of hot-house culture, make a brief but brilliant display before retiring to the domestic sphere—Oh, yes—

'Miss Dumars, were you not at the —— Institute last year?'

'Yes.'

'Then you know my cousin,—Jennie Gregory?'

'Yes, indeed:—and you are her cousin. How stupid in me not to recollect it.'

And she told him how that 'Jennie' was her dearest friend, and how in their intimacy of confidence she had told her all about him, and shown her his picture, and—in short, Hugh and Annie began to feel much better acquainted.

It was a few days after this that Hugh sat by the open window, listening to Annie reading from the virtuous and veracious Richmond Enquirer. Distressed by what he heard, not knowing whether it was true or not, he begged her to cease torturing him. She laid aside the paper with an emphatic 'I don't believe it!' that could not but attract his attention, and he looked up in surprise.

'I must tell you, Mr. Gregory—I have been tortured long enough by this forced secrecy—I am a rebel!'

'That is the name we know you by,' he replied, smiling.

'But I am a rebellious rebel. Yes,' she added, rising, 'I detest with all my heart this wicked, causeless rebellion. I detest the very names of the leaders of it. And yet I am compelled to go about with lies upon my lips, and to act lies, till I detest myself more than all else! I have consoled myself somewhat by making a flag and worshiping it in secret. I will get it and show it to you.'

'This,' she continued, returning with a miniature specimen of the dear old flag, 'a real flag, the emblem of a real living nation, must be kept hidden, its glorious lustre fading away in the dark, while that,' pointing to where the 'stars and bars' were fluttering in the breeze, 'that miserable abortion is insolently flaunted before our eyes, nothing about it original or suggestive—except its stolen colors, reminding us of the financial operations of Floyd! Oh, if hope could be prophecy—if a life that is an unceasing prayer for the success of the federal arms could avail, it would not be long before this bright banner would wave in triumph over all the land, its starry folds gleaming with a purer, more glorious light than ever!'

And as she stood there, with eyes uplifted as in mute prayer, and fervently kissed the silken folds of the flag, Hugh wished that his station in life had been that of an American flag.

Time passed on, and the prisoner was to be exchanged for a rebel officer of equal rank. Captain Dumars brought him the intelligence, and was surprised at the seeming indifference with which he received it.

'You don't seern particularly elated by the prospect of getting among the Yankees again.'

'I am eager to take my sword again; but my stay here has been far from unpleasant. You, Captain, have been away so much that I have not been able to thank you for making my imprisonment so pleasant. I am at a loss to know why you have shown such favor to me especially.'

'This is the cause,' replied the Captain, laying his finger upon a breast-pin that Hugh always wore upon his coat, at the same time unbuttoning his own; 'you see that I wear the same.'

It was a simple jewel, embellished only by a few Greek characters, but it was the emblem of one of those college societies, in which secrecy and mystery add a charm to the ties of brotherhood. And it was this fraternal tie, stronger than that of Free-Masonry, because more exclusive, that made Hugh's a pleasant imprisonment, and made him happy in the love of one faithful among the faithless, loyal among many traitors. For of course the reader has surmised—for poetic justice demands it—that Hugh fell desperately in love with Annie, and Annie ditto Hugh. How he told the tender tale, and how she answered him,—whether with the conventional quantity of blushes and sighs, or not,—is none of your business, reader, or mine; so don't ask me any questions.

It was the evening of the day before Hugh's departure. They, Annie and Hugh, sat in the little porch, silent and sad, watching the shadows slowly creeping up the mountain side towards its sun-kissed summit, like a sombre pall of sorrow shrouding a bright hope.

'And to-morrow you are free.'

'No, Annie, not free. My sword will be free, but my heart will still linger here, a prisoner. But when the war is over, and the old flag restored—'

'Then,' and here her eyes were filled with the glorious light of prophetic hope, 'I will be your prisoner.'

And still Hugh is fighting for the dear old flag; and still Annie is praying for it, and waiting for the sweet imprisonment.

There has been many as sweet a romance as this, reader, acted ere this, during the war. Would that all captivity were as pleasant!

'I would not live alway,' says the hymn, and the sentiment has, like every great truth, been set forth in a thousand forms. One of the most truly beautiful which we have ever met is that of

The City Of The Living.

In a long-vanished age, whose varied story

No record has to-day,

So long ago expired its grief and glory—

There flourished, far away,

In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all measure

A city fair and wide,

Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and pleasure

And never any died.

Disease and pain and death, those stern marauders,

Which mar our world's fair face,

Never encroached upon the pleasant borders

Of that bright dwelling-place.

No fear of parting and no dread of dying

Could ever enter there—

No mourning for the lost, no anguished crying

Made any face less fair.

Without the city's walls, death reigned as ever,

And graves rose side by side—

Within, the dwellers laughed at his endeavor,

And never any died.

O, happiest of all earth's favored places!

O, bliss, to dwell therein—

To live in the sweet light of loving faces

And fear no grave between!

To feel no death-damp, gathering cold and colder,

Disputing life's warm truth—

To live on, never lonelier or older,

Radiant in deathless youth!

And hurrying from the world's remotest quarters

A tide of pilgrims flowed

Across broad plains and over mighty waters,

To find that blest abode,

Where never death should come between, and sever

Them from their loved apart—

Where they might work, and will, and live forever,

Still holding heart to heart.

And so they lived, in happiness and pleasure,

And grew in power and pride,

And did great deeds, and laid up stores of treasure,

And never any died.

And many yers rolled on, and saw them striving

With unabated breath,

And other years still found and left them living,

And gave no hope of death.

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity,

Craving a boon like this—

Mark how the dwellers in the wondrous city

Grew weary of their bliss.

One and another, who had been concealing

The pain of life's long thrall,

Forsook their pleasant places, and came stealing

Outside the city wall,

Craving, with wish that brooked no more denying,

So long had it been crossed,

The blessed possibility of dying,—

The treasure they had lost.

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals

Swelled to a broader tide,

Till none were left within the city's portals,

And graves grew green outside.

Would it be worth the having or the giving,

The boon of endless breath?

Ah, for the weariness that comes of living

There is no cure but death!

Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity,

Were that sweet rest denied;

And few, methinks, would care to find the city

Where never any died!

Does the reader recall DEAN SWIFT'S account of the immortal Strudlbrugs and their undying miseries—it is in the City of Laputu, we believe. Their life was passed as if in such a city. Ah, death! it is, after all, only birth in another form. And to step to the ridiculous, we are reminded of an

Epitaph In A Dedham Churchyard.

I've paid the debt which all must pay,

Though awful to my view,

On frightful rocks where billows poured,

And broken buildings flew.

The cruel Death has conquered me;

The victory is but small,

For I shall rise and live again,—

And Death himself shall fall.

There are not many of those who 'read the papers,' who have not met from time to time with the quaint experiences of THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR,—a gentleman who, in the columns of the Buffalo Republican, and more recently in the spicy Cleveland Plain Dealer, has often wished that his too, too solid flesh would melt. It is with pleasure that we welcome him to our pages in the following original sketch:—

THE 'FAT CONTRIBUTOR' AS A GYMNAST.

'But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks.'

RICHARD III.

Says the cardinal in the play—'In the bright lexicon of youth there's no such word as fail.' Without stopping to discuss the reliability of a lexicon that omits words in that careless manner, I must say that in the dictionary of fat men who aspire to gymnastics that word distinctly occurs. I had my misgivings, but was over-persuaded by my friends. They said gymnastics would develop muscular strength, thus enabling me to hold my flesh in case it attempted to run away. They added, as an additional incentive, that the spectacle of a man who weighs nearly three hundred pounds, doing the horizontal ladder, climbing a slack-rope hand over hand, or suspending his weight by his little finger, would be a 'big thing.' I asked them how I was to attain that end. 'By practice,' was the reply; 'practice makes perfect.' It did;—it made a perfect fool of me, as you shall see.

I never had much taste for feats requiring physical effort, except lifting—lifting with my teeth. The amount of beef, pork, mutton and vegetables that I have lifted in that way is immense. After hearing Dr. WINSHIP lecture, I practiced lifting a flour barrel with a man inside of it, and finally succeeded in holding it out at arm's length. [I may remark incidentally that the barrel had no heads in it.]

To return to the case in hand (and a case in hand is worth two in the bush): I was deluded into purchasing a season ticket in the gymnasium, and one afternoon I sought the locality. A number were exercising in various ways, and I laid off my coat preparatory to 'going in.' As I bent down to adjust a pair of slippers, I heard some rapid steps behind me, and the next instant a pair, of hands and a man's head fell squarely on my back, a pair of heels smote together in the air, and with a somersault the gymnast regained the ground several feet in advance of me. I assumed an indignant perpendicular, when the fellow turned with well-feigned amazement and stammered forth an apology. Bent over as I was, he had mistaken me for a heavily padded 'wooden horse,' which formed a portion of the apparatus.

Desiring to be weighed from time to time, in order that I might note the effect of gymnastics upon my tonnage, I asked one, who was resting after prodigious efforts to wrench his arms off at a lifting machine, if there were scales convenient. He surveyed me for a moment—looked puzzled—and finally replied hesitatingly,—'Y-e-s, I think we can manage it.' He led the way to a window overlooking the Ohio canal. 'Do you see that building?' said he, pointing to a low structure on the heel path side, extending partly over the canal. I intimated that the fabric in question produced a distinct impression on the optic nerves, and inquired its use. 'Weigh-lock' he shrieked; 'go and be weighed!'

'Go and be d——d!' I yelled, furious at being thus victimized; but my angry and profane rejoinder was lost in the shout of laughter that went up from the assembled athletes.

Natural abhorrence of jokes, practical or otherwise, is a trait among my people; it runs in the family, like wooden legs. I immediately sought the boss gymnaster and related the manner in which I had been introduced to his elevating establishment. I told him I had come there neither to be made a horse of by one nor an ass of by another. He pledged his word that the like should not occur again, and I was appeased.

I first attempted the parallel bars, but they were never intended for men of my breadth. My hands giving way, I became so firmly wedged between the bars that it was necessary to cut one of them away in order to release me. A wag pronounced it a feat without a parallel.

The horizontal bar next claimed my attention. I had seen others hang with their heads down, suspended by their legs alone, and the trick appeared quite easy of execution. I succeeded in suspending myself in the manner indicated, but—revocare gradum—when I attempted to regain the bar with my hands, it was no go. I was in a perspiration of alarm at once; my legs grew weak; my head swam from the rush of blood; twist and squirm as I would, I couldn't reach the bar with the tip end of a finger even. My head was four or five feet from the ground, so that a fall was likely to break my neck, and when my frantic efforts to clutch the bar with my hands failed, I shrieked in very desperation. Men came running to my aid. They raked the tan bark, with which the ground was strewn, in a pile beneath me, to break my fall as much as possible, and, relaxing my hold of the bar, I came down in a heap, rolled up like a gigantic caterpillar, and dived head and shoulders into the tan bark, where I was nearly smothered before I could be extracted. It was a terrible fright, but I escaped with a few bruises.

My brief career as a gymnast terminated with the 'ladder act.' I felt unequal to the task of drawing myself up the ladder (which was slightly inclined from the perpendicular), as I had seen others do, but once at the top I believed I could lower myself down. A purchase was rigged in the roof, by which I was hoisted to the top of the ladder, some thirty feet from the ground, when, grasping a round firmly with my hands, the purchase was disconnected from my waist belt, and I began the descent. It was very severe on the arms, and I desired to rest myself by placing my feet on a round, but my protuberant paunch would not permit it. When I had accomplished about half the distance in safety, a round snapped suddenly with the unusual weight. I remember clutching frantically at the next, which broke as did the other; then followed a sensation of falling, succeeded by a collision as between two express trains at full speed, and I knew no more. When I recovered consciousness, I was in my own bed, and four surgeons were endeavoring to set my broken leg with a stump extractor. Gymnastics are a little out of my line.

FAT CONTRIBUTOR.

Unlike BRUMMEL, we know who our fat friend is, and shall be happy to see him again.

'Talbot,' of Washington, one of those who keep the many chronicles of government, gives us the following from his repertoire:—

Shortly after the inauguration of President Lincoln, and during the period in which the throng of office-seekers was greatest, an applicant for a clerkship in one of the departments received notification to appear before the 'examining committee' for examination as to qualifications. In due time he appeared, and announced himself 'ready.' The aforesaid 'committee,' supposing that they had before them a decidedly 'soft one,' determined to enjoy a little 'sport' at the poor fellow's expense. After having put a great many questions to him, none of which in the least applied to the duties he would be expected to perform, he was asked how he would ascertain the number of square feet occupied by the Patent Office building. This question aroused in him suspicions that 'all was not right,' and, with a promptness and emphasis that effectually dampened the hopes of his questioners, he replied, 'Well, gentlemen, I should employ an experienced surveyor.'

The same correspondent tells us that—

In one of the rural towns of Illinois lived, a few years agone, a very eccentric individual known as 'DICKEY BULARD,' whose original sayings afforded no little amusement to his neighbors.

DICKEY had his troubles, the saddest of which was the loss of his only son. Shortly after this event, in speaking of it to some friends, he broke out in the following pathetic expression of feeling:

'I'd rather a' lost the best cow I have, and ten dollars besides, than that boy. If it had been a gal, it wouldn't a' made so much difference; but it was the only boy I had.'

On another occasion, in referring to the death of his grandmother, who had been fatally injured by a butt from a pet ram, DICKEY gave vent to his feelings as follows:

'I never felt so bad in all my life as I did when grandmother died. She had got so old, and we had kept her so long, we wanted to see how long we could keep her.

It is the 'turn of the tune' which gives point to the far-famed legend of 'The Arkansaw Traveler,'—which legend, in brief, is to the effect that a certain fiddling 'Rackensackian,' who could never learn more than the first half of a certain tune, once bluntly refused all manner of hospitality to a weary wayfarer, avowing with many an oath that his house boasted neither meat nor whisky, bed nor hay. But being taught by the stranger the 'balance' of the tune,—'the turn,' as he called it,—he at once overwhelmed his musical guest with all manner of dainties and kindnesses. And it is the 'turn of the tune,' in the following lyric, from the soft tinkle of the guitar to the harsh notes of the 'beaten parchment,' which gives it a peculiar charm.

The Guitar And The Drum.

By R. Wolcott, Co. B., Tenth Illinois

Evening draws nigh, and the daylight

In golden splendor dies;

And the stars look down through the gloaming

With soft and tender eyes.

I sit alone in the twilight,

And lazily whiff my cigar,

Watching the blue wreaths curling,

And thrumming my old guitar:

Old, and battered, and dusty,—

A veteran covered with scars;

Yet to me the most precious of treasures,

The sweetest of all guitars.

For a gentle spirit dwells in it,

That speaks through the trembling strings,

And in echo to my thrumming

A wonderful melody sings.

As I softly strike the measures,

The spirit murmurs low

A song of departed pleasures,

A dream of the long ago.

And like a weird enchanter

It paints in the star-lit sky

Pictures from memory's record,

Scenes of the days gone by.

And as the ripples of music

Float out on the evening air,

There comes to me a vision

Of the girl with the golden hair.

Kindly she turns upon me.

Those lustrous, violet eyes,

And my heart with passionate yearnings

To meet her eagerly flies.

Nearer she comes, and yet nearer,

At the beck of the spirit's wand,

And I feel the gentle pressure

On my brow of her warm, white hand—

Tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum, tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum!

'Tis the warning voice of the rolling drum.

Through the awakened night air come

The stern command and the busy hum

Of hurried preparation.

'Tis no time now for idle strumming

Of light guitars: in that loud drumming

Is fearful meaning; the hour is coming

That for some of us will be the summing

Of all life's preparation.

Quick, quick, my boys: fall in! fall in!

Now is the hour when we begin

The battle with this monstrous sin.

Onward to victory!—or to win

A patriot's martyrdom!

Stay no longer to bandy words;

Trust we now to our gleaming swords;

For foul rebellion's dastardly hordes

A terrible hour has come.

By all that you love beneath the skies;

By the world of cherished memories;

By your hopes for the coming years;

By the tender light of your loved one's eyes;

By the warm, white hands you so highly prize;

By your mothers' parting tears,

Swear the horrible wrong to crush!

What though you fall in the battle's rush,

And the velvet leaves of the greensward blush

With your young life's crimson tide?

The angels look down with pitying love,

And your tale will be told in the record above:

'For his country's honor he died.'

The gentle strings of the light guitar,

Waking soft echoes from memory's chords,

And tender dreams of home—

The noise, and the pomp, and the glitter of war;

The furious charge, and the clashing swords;

The song of the rolling drum.

How many a young heart has, in these later days, been turned from soft guitar-tones of idleness, to the brave, rattling measures of drum-life! It will do good, this war of ours; and many a brave fellow will, in after years, look back upon it as the school in which he first learned to be a thoroughly practical and sensible MAN.

We are indebted to a gossiping and ever most welcome New Haven friend for the following anecdote of one of the men who, clothed in a little brief authority, 'go about 'restin' people:'

Our village we consider one of the most pleasant in the country; our boys full of life and activity, and our officers men of energy and perseverance, and men who understand their importance. In proof of these assertions, I offer the following sketch of an occurrence a few years ago.

DICK BARNES was a blacksmith, and a man of considerable notoriety in those days, and from the peculiar prominence of his front upper teeth he had derived, from the boys of the village, the singular nick-name of 'Tushy.' For two or three successive years he had been elected constable, and the duties of this great public office appeared to demand that he should neglect his legitimate private business, so that it was said that the safest place for him to secrete himself—the most unlikely place where he would be sought—would be behind his own anvil. Like many others 'clothed with a little brief authority' he was not overmodest in showing his importance.

The boys were then, as they are now, fond of skating, and there was a large pond near the centre of the village on which they used to have fine times on moonlight evenings, and especially Sunday evenings, and, as a natural consequence, when large numbers of boys are engaged in sport, they were somewhat noisy.

One Sunday evening, when the ice was very smooth and the boys were enjoying themselves, BARNES made his appearance on the ice and ordered them off, in tones, and exclamations of authority. The boys did not like this interference in their sports and couldn't see the justice of his demand. 'That's old Tushy,' says one, and the cry of 'Tushy,' 'Tushy,' soon passed among the crowd of skaters, till BARNES began to think it personal, and was determined to catch one of them and make of him an example. The ice was 'glib,' as they termed it, and as they all had skates except 'Tushy,' they were rather rude in their behavior towards him,—a not very uncommon circumstance,—and though they were careful to keep out of harm's way, they kept near enough to him to annoy him. Finding all efforts to catch one of them fruitless, with the advantage they had,—for 'the wicked stand on slippery places,'—he announced his determination to catch one of them anyhow, and started for the shore.

Boys are usually quicker in arriving at conclusions than older people, and one of them suggested that he had gone for his skates. 'Good! now we'll have some fun, boys,' says Phil Clark, who was a good skater, and withal a good leader in a frolic. 'You follow me and do as I tell you, and I don't believe old "Tushy" will follow us far.' By general consent he led them to the dry, sandy shore, and such as had them filled their handkerchiefs, and such as could not boast of that superfluity filled their caps, with sand. 'Now,' says Phil, 'when he comes back, and it won't be long, we'll form a line and wait till he gets his skates on, when he'll put chase for some of us. If he gets near any of us, some one sing out "Bully," and every boy drop his sand, and if he catches any one we'll all pitch in.'

'Tushy' in a little while made his appearance, and soon had his skates strapped to his feet, and after a few stamps upon the ice, to see that they were properly secured, glided a few strokes and started off for the boys. The moon was shining 'as bright as day,' and old Tushy's movements were perfectly apparent. The pond was huge, and afforded a good opportunity for a trial of speed, and, though many of the boys were good skaters, 'Tushy' perseveringly determined to capture one of them, and started for the one nearest. This was 'Phil,' who was the master spirit of the frolic, and as 'Tushy' approached with almost the certainty of capturing him, he would glide gracefully aside and let him pass on. He had almost caught up with a group of the smaller boys who were going at full speed, when 'Phil' shouted out the word 'Bully.' In an instant the contents of handkerchiefs and caps was deposited on the glaring ice, the boys continuing their flying course. 'Tushy,' elated with the prospect of capturing at least one of the urchins, increased his speed with lunger strides, and was in the act of grasping one, when the sparks from his steel runners, the sudden arrest of his feet and the onward movement of his body, convinced him that he was caught. The impetus he had acquired with the few last strokes on the smooth ice, and the sudden check his feet had received from the sand, sent him sliding headlong many yards towards an air-hole,—one of those dangerous places on ponds suddenly frozen,—and soon the ice began to crack around him. The water in the pond was not deep, but the ice continued to break with his efforts to extricate himself. He found that the boys had successfully entrapped him, and it was not until he had made a promise not again to interfere with their sport that they consented to assist him out. He kept his promise, and the boys ever after, when they designed any extra sport on the ice, had his nick-name for a by-word.

JAY G. BEE.

'Salt,' according to MORESINUS, 'is sacred to the infernal deities,'—for which reason, we presume, those who were seated 'below the salt' at the banquets of the Middle Ages were always 'poor devils.' Attic salt is always held to be more pungent when there is a touch of the diabolical and caustic in it,—and therefore caustic itself is known as lapis infernalis. 'Poor Mr. N——,' said a country dame, of a recently deceased neighbor who was over-thrifty, 'he always saved his salt and lost his pork.' 'Yes,' replied a friend, 'and now the salt has lost its Saver.' The reader has doubtless heard of the lively young lady, named Sarah, whom her friends rechristened Sal Volatile. Apropos—a New Haven friend writes us that—

My chum, Dr. B., is not a little of a wag. At a social gathering, shortly after he had received his diploma, the young ladies were very anxious to put his knowledge of medicine to the test. 'Doctor,' queried one of the fair, 'what will cure a man who has been hanged?' 'Salt is the best thing I know of,' replied the tormented, with great solemnity.

According to a cotemporary—the Boston Herald—the best Christians may be known by the pavements before their houses being cleaned of ice and snow. This reminds us of a spiritual anecdote. A deceased friend having been summoned through a medium and asked where he had spent the first month after his decease, rapped out,—

'I-n—p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y.'

'Did you find it uncomfortable?'

'Not very. While I lived I always had my pavements cleared in winter, and all the ice and snow shoveled away was given back to me in orange-water ices, Roman punch, vanilla and pistachio creams, frozen fruits, cobblers, juleps, and smashes.'

Somebody has spoken in an Arctic voyage of the musical vibrations of the ice. There is certainly music in the article. 'Take care,' said a Boston girl to her companion, as they were navigating the treacherously slippery pavement of our city a few days since; 'it's See sharp or Be flat.'

Somebody once wrote a book on visiting-cards. There is a great variety of that article; an English ambassador once papered his entire suit of rooms with that with which a Chinese mandarin honored him. MICHAEL ANGELO left a straight line as a card, and was recognized by it. Our friend H—— once distributed blank pasteboards in Philadelphia, and everybody said, 'Why, H—— has been here!' Not long since, a lady dwelling in New York asked her seven-year-old GEORGY where he had been.

'Out visiting.'

'Did you leave your card?'

'No; I hadn't any, so I left a marble!'

GEORGY'S idea was that cards were playthings. And cartes de visite are most assuredly the playthings for children of an older growth, most in vogue at the present day. Go where you will, the albums are examined, nay, some collectors have even one or two devoted solely to children, or officers, or literary men, or young ladies. The following anecdote records, however, as we believe, 'an entirely new style' of visiting-card:—

Madam X. was busy the other morning. Miss Fanny Z. 'just ran in to see her' en amie, without visiting-cards.

The waiter carried her name to Madam X. Meanwhile Miss Fannie, circulating through the parlors, saw that there was dust on the lower shelf of an étagére, so she delicately traced the letters

Smut

thereon and therefore. Waiter enters, and regrets that Madam X. is so very much engaged that she is invisible. Miss Fanny flies home.

In the evening she meets Madam X., who is 'perfectly enchanted' to see her. 'Ah, Fanny, dear, I am charmed to see you; the waiter forgot your name this morning, but I was delighted to see your ingenuity. Would you believe it, the first thing I saw on entering the parlor was your card on the étagére!'

The Naugatuck railroad, according to a friend of the CONTINENTAL,

Is in many places cut through a rugged country, and the rocks thereabout have an ugly trick of rolling down upon the track when they get tired of lying still. So the company employ sentinels who traverse the dangerous territory before the morning train goes through. One of these,—Pat K. by name,—while on his beat, met Dennis, whose hand he had last shaken on the 'Green Isle.' After mutual inquiries and congratulations, says Dennis, 'What are you doin' these days, Pat?' 'Oh, I'm consarned in this railroad company. I go up the road fur the likes o' four miles ivry mornin' to see is there ony rocks on the thrack.' 'And if there is?' 'Why, I stops the trains, sure.' 'Faith,' said Dennis, 'what the divil's the good o' that—wouldn't the rocks stop 'em?'

The Hibernian idea of a meeting is, we should judge, peculiar, and not, as a rule, amicable. 'What are ye doing here, Pat?' inquired one of the Green Islanders who found a friend one morning in a lonely spot. 'Troth, Dinnis, and it's waiting to mate a gintleman here I'm doing.' 'Waiting for a frind is it?' replied Dennis; 'but where is yer shillaly thin?' This was indeed a misapprehension, and of the kind which, as a benevolent clergyman complained, who was actively engaged in home mission work, was one of the most constant sources of his frequent annoyances. 'Why,' he remarked, 'it was only the other morning that I heard of a poor girl who was dying near the Five Points, and went to administer to her such comfort as it might be in my power to render. I met an impudent miss leaving the room, who, when I inquired for the sufferer by name, replied, "It's no use; you're too late, old fellow,—she's give me her pocket-book and all her things."'

A friend has called our attention to the following extract from an advertisement in a New York evening paper, and requests an explanation:—

STRABISMUS, OR CROSS-EYE, IN ITS WORST STAGES, CURED IN ONE MINUTE. READ!

NEWARK, August 14th, 1861.

Dear Doctor: I write to express my thanks for the great difference you have made in my appearance by your operation on my eye. I have had a squint, or cross-eye, since birth, and in less than one minute, and with VERY LITTLE PAIN, you have made my eyes perfectly straight and natural. Having consulted in Europe the greatest Aurists, I, therefore, can testify that your system of restoring the hearing to the deaf is at once scientific, safe and sure; and I confidently recommend all deaf to place themselves under your care.

W.T.

There's a nut to crack. Having had a cross-eye cured in one minute, Mr. T. can therefore testify that the system by which he was enabled to see is just the thing to enable the deaf to hear! But an instant's reflection convinced us of the true state of the case. There is an old German song which translated saith:

'I am the Doctor Iron-beer,

The one who makes the blind to hear,

The man who makes the deaf to see:—

Come with your invalids to me.'

We evidently have a Doctor Iron-beer among us. 'He still lives,' and enables people to outdo the clairvoyants, who read with their fingers, by qualifying his patients to peruse the papers with their auricular organs.

Walter will receive our thanks for the following æsthetic communication:—

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

Do you know the superb picture of Judith and Holofernes, by ALLORI? Of course. But the legend?

The painter ALLORI was blessed and cursed with a mistress, one of the most beautiful women in an age of beauty. He loved her, and she tormented him, until, to set forth his sufferings, he painted la belle dame sans mercy as Judith, holding his own decapitated head by the hair.

'She was more than a match for her lover,' said a young lady, who—between us—I think is more beautiful than the 'Judith.'

'Yes,' was the answer; 'the engraving proves that she got a-head of him.'

Of course it was Holofernally bad. I once heard a better one on the same subject, of scriptural be-head-edness. Where is a centaur first mentioned? John's head on a charger. The postage stamp on your lawyer's bill—mine especially—represents the same thing, with the substitution of General Washington for John. Rarey tamed Cruiser—I wonder if he could do anything by way of 'taking down' this legal 'charger' of mine.

Yours truly,

WALTER

Much has been written on oysters. There was a time when England sent nothing else abroad. 'The poor Britons—they are good for something,' says SALLUST, in 'The Last Days of Pompeii;' 'they produce an oyster.' In these days, they export no oysters, but in lieu thereof give us plenty of pepper-sauce. But to the point,—we mean to the poem,—for which we are indebted to a Philadelphia contributor:—

Oysters!

He stood beside the oysters. Near him lay

A dozen raw upon the half-shell: he

With fork stood ready to engulf them all,

When to his side a reverend gray-beard came.

Pointing his index finger to the Natives,

Slowly he spoke, with measured voice and low:—

'They are the same, THE SAME! I've eaten them

In London, small and coppery; at Ostend,

A little better; and in the Condotti,

Yea, in the Lepré—'tis an eating-house

Frequented by the many-languaged artists

Of great imperial Rome. At Baiæ: also

I've tasted that nice kind described by MARTIAL,

Who calls them ears of Venus;—there I've had 'em.

Also at Memphis—now I'm coming to it:

I've seen amid the desert sands of Egypt,

Exposed among the hieroglyphs, these Natives.

(The hieroglyphs, you know, are outward forms

Of things or creatures which unfold strange myths,

Read by the common eye in vulgar way,

But to the learned are types of truths gigantic.)

Thus unto you those oysters are but bivalves;

But unto me they're—P'raps you'll stand a dozen?'

'Well, I will, old hoss; it seems to me you need 'em!'

'Good! Then to me they are as hieroglyphs

Of our poor human state; as PLATO says,

"The soul of man, a substance different from

The body as the oyster from the shell,

Does stick to it, and is imprisoned in it.

Its weight of shell doth keep it down and force it

To stay upon its muddy bottom. So does

Man's body hold his soul in these dark regions,

Keeping it ever steadily from rising

To those superior heights where are abodes

More fitting its serene and noble nature."

Good as a quarter-dollar lecture. Boy! fork over.'

'Another "doz." to this old gentleman;

For I perceive he plainly hath it in him

To swallow down two dozen oysters' souls.

See what it is to be a philosopher!'

This is indeed finding sermons in 'shells.'

'Punning is a power,' according to somebody, and, like most power, is sadly abused. Take, for illustration, the following specimen of the 'narrative pun:'

The reader knows that BYRON once punned on the word Bullet-in, and was proud of it; distinctly proud, be it remembered. After which comes the following:—

Some years ago it was summer time, and in the office of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, one, as the French say, was preparing the daily paper. Along Third Street streamed Shinners, Bulls, Bears, and Newsboys,—in the sanctum, Editors wrote and clipped,—proof rose up and down in the dumb waiter,—there was the shrill scream of the whistle calling to the foreman far on high,—

Suddenly there was a tremendous run in the front office.

A maddened cow,—an infuriate, delirious, over-driven animal,—breaking loose from the cow-herdly creature who had her in charge,—careered wildly past the Ledger building.

One would have thought that the straw paper on which that sheet was then printed might have tempted her to repose.

It didn't.

Past FORNEY'S paper:—he was proprietor of the Pennsylvanian in those days. Those days!—when he was Warwick, the king-maker, and carried Pennsylvania for Old Buck. Bitter were the changes in aftertimes, and bitterly did Forney give fits where he had before bestowed benefits. On went the cow.

Right smack into the office of the evening paper, then engineered by ALEXANDER CUMMINGS, now held by GIBSON PEACOCK.

Rush! went the cow. Right into the next door—turn to the left, oh, infuriate—charge into the newsboys! By Santa Maria, little DUCKEY is down—ha! Saint Joseph! the beast gains the front office—she faceth streetwards—she jaculates herself outwards—she is gone.

By the door stood a Philadelphia punster.

The cow switched him with her tail; he heeded it not. His soul felt the morning gleam of a revelation,—the flash of a Boehmic Aurora,—

Far, far above the world, oh dreamer!—in the pure land of Pun-light, where the silent Calembergs rise in the sunset sea.

And he spake,—

'I see you have A COW LET OUT there, and a BULL LET IN HERE!'

This is going through a great deal to get at a pun, says some over-heated and perspiring disciple.

Well—and why not?

Have you never heard of the clergyman who preached an entire sermon on the slave-trade, and gave a detailed account of its head-quarters, the kingdom of Abomi?

And why?

Merely that he might ring it into them bitterly, fiercely, with this conclusion:

'My hearers, let us pray that this Abomi-Nation may be rooted out from the face of the earth.'

That was so. Consummatum est.

No wonder we hear so much of the sufferings and sorrows of the Third Estate—which is the editorial.

'Wine is sometimes wine, but not very often in these days:' what it very often is not when labelled 'Heidsick' and 'Rheims.' 'But then the cork proves it, you know,'—for, by a strange superstition, it is assumed that when the cork is correct the wine is not less so; a theory which is exploded by a revelation in the following by no means Bacchanalian lyric:—

Bogus Champagne.

Fill up your glass with turnip-juice,

And let us swindled be;

Except in England's cloudy clime

Such trash you may not see.

With marble-dust and vitriol,

'Twill sparkle bright and foam,—

Who will not pledge me in a cup

Of champagne—made at home?

We do not heed the label fair

That's stuck upon the glass;

It's counterfeit,—an ugly cheat,

That takes in many an ass.

The cork is branded right, and we

Know that it once corked wine;

They give the hotel-waiters tin

To save the genuine!

Think of this when you next 'wish you had given the price of that last bottle of champagne to the Tract Society,' as Cecil Dreeme hath it.

One of the best repartees on record is that of WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, who, having been reproached with inconsistency for having taken from his journal the old motto, 'The Constitution is a league with Death and a covenant with Hell,' replied that 'when he hoisted that motto, he had no idea that either death or hell intended to secede. Circumstances alter cases, and definitions modify both. Slavery, it now appears, is death, as every political economist claims, while the South is—the other place.

The following is from one who was not 'well off for soap:'—

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

It was my fortune, some time ago, while traveling through the New England States, to lose my trunk, on my way to a very thriving manufacturing village. Arrived at the principal hotel a few minutes before the dinner hour, I was shown up to my room, every article of furniture in which sparkled with newness,—its carpet shining like fireworks, curtains painfully stiff, and the air redolent of novelty.

One article of furniture, which I took to be a cottage piano or melodeon, turned out, on raising the lid, to be a wash-stand, amply munitioned with water, towels, and a new piece of soap. Having noticed that the article had never been used, and my own being lost with my trunk, I determined to put it to its legitimate destination.

I commenced rubbing it between my hands, immersing it in water, passing it quickly from one hand to the other, and using all other persuasive attempts to solve it into lather. Useless; it was un-lather-able, and hearing the gong sound for dinner, I gave it up as a hopeless job.

After dinner, in conversation with the landlord, he asked me how I liked my room. I told him that it pleased me very well, and that I had but one fault to find,—that was, that the soap in the wash-stand was the hardest I had ever seen, and I believed it was made of iron.

'Well,' said he, with a diabolical smile, 'it is hard soap, and it ort to be—it's iron-y—for it's Cast-Steel!'

The annexed may be read with profit by the charitable:—

H—— has never yet been known to give one cent in charity. A Christian called on him, the other day, and begged him to give something to a soup society.

'Ah-h-h!' said H., 'war times, now. Can't give anything.'

'The soup society is very poor, and would be thankful for the smallest sum.'

'Would it?' said H., cheerfully. 'Why, then, twice one are two. Good-morning.'

This, we presume, may be called figuring as a benefactor.

Our Arabic-studying friend has supplied us with a fresh batch of oriental proverbs:—

'A monkey solicited hospitality from devils. "Young gentleman," they replied, "the house is quite empty of provisions."'

'Eat whatever thou likest, but dress as others do.'

'Like a needle, that clothes people, and is itself naked.'

'He who makes chaff of himself the cows will eat.'

'Give me wool to-day, and take sheep to-morrow.'

'He is high-minded but empty-bellied.'

'Easier to be broken than the house of a spider.'

'He descends like the foot of a crow, and ascends (like) the hoof of a camel.'

But all yield in grim drollery to the last given:—

'There are no fans in hell.'

Which, as our friend declares, 'sounds as Western as Eastern.' Verily, extremes meet.

Many of our exchanges have spoken of the series entitled 'Among the Pines,' now publishing in this Magazine, as being written by FREDERICK LAW OLMSTED. In justice to Mr. OLMSTED we would state that he is not the author of the articles in question, and regret that the unauthorized statement should have obtained such general credence.

A statement has also appeared in many journals declaring that the literary matter of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY is the same with that published in the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine. We need not say that it is entirely false, as any reader may ascertain for himself who will take the pains to compare the two publications. Not one line has ever appeared in common in the Magazines. The Knickerbocker is printed and PUBLISHED in New York, at No. 532 Broadway, the CONTINENTAL in Boston, at No. 110 Tremont Street.

The editor of the CONTINENTAL begs leave to repeat that as the principal object of the Magazine is to draw forth such views as may be practically useful in the present crisis, its pages will always be open to contributions even of a widely varying character, the only condition being that they shall be written by friends of the Union. And we call special attention to the fact that while holding firmly to our own views, as set forth under the Editorial heading, we by no means profess to endorse those of our contributors, but shall leave the reader to make his own comments on these.

Readers will confer a favor by forwarding to us any pamphlets, secession or Union, on the war, which they may be disposed to spare.