Volume 2 — CHAPTER IV. (continued 4)

Ye Philadelphienne spekythe more slowlie in hir speeche than dothe ye New-Yorkere, and ever callyth a calf a cäff, and a laugh a läff, which soundeth far more sweetlie, even like the lingua Toscana in bocca Romana. Shee loveth ye opera even as shee loveth ye ice-creme, whych shee buyeth at Mrs. Burns's, or old Auntie Jackson's, where shee often goeth of warm sumer-nightes. Shee is graceful in hir miene, and gracious in hir manner—trulie, in all ye worlde I know of none sweeter in this laste itemm. And thatt shee may ever keepe up hir pleasante fame for beinge ladyly, gentyll, and fayre, is the herte's prayere of

Clerke Nicholas.

Galli Van T is again active in setting forth the rural trials and troubles of artists—which it seems are many. Listen!

Dear Continental: 'Twas in the merry summer-tide, some seven years since, when I went with a friend catching trout and sketching scenery in the valley of the Connecticut.

We thought we knew the value of a lovely view.

We didn't.

True, we could appreciate it to a dollar, when transferred to canvas. Otherwise we had much to learn.

C. Pia, Esq., and myself were hard at it one morning—making such beautiful sketches, and doing it all with nothing but just a lead-pencil and some paper—as a young admirer of our works was wont to assure her friends. Suddenly appeared a man of great muscle, with pie dish shirt-collar, and a canister-shot-eyed bull-terrier, gifted with seven-tiger power of biting.

'Stop that are!' was his courteous salutation.

'Stop what?'

'Stop making them are d—d picters. I don't have no such doings reound here!'

I looked at C. Pia—he was venomous and unterrified, and I felt encouraged. So I firmly asked the intruder what he meant.

'I mean what I say. There's property there that I'm a goin' to buy. I know what you're arter. You're makin picters of the place for that are in-fernal Kernal Smith who owns the land, so's he can show 'em round and pint out the buildin' lots. And I'll jest lick you like —— if you dror another line!'

'See here, young man,' quoth I, 'I've something to say to you. In the first place you're a scamp who would keep a gentleman from getting a fair price for his own property. Secondly, you're an ignorant fellow and don't know what you're talking about. I never heard of your Colonel Smith—I'm not drawing up real estate lots or plots of any kind. Thirdly, I solemnly swear by Minos, Alianthus, Rhododendron, Nebuchadnezzar, and all the infernal gods, that if you touch a hair of our heads I'll see Colonel Smith—I'll map the whole property and advertise it in every newspaper in New-York and Boston till it brings ten thousand dollars an acre. Now sail in—dog or no dog—we'll settle you, any how.'

The glare of fury in our visitor's eyes died away as he listened to this oration.

'Thunder!' he exclaimed; 'what a lot you city fellers with l'arnin' into you do know! Ten thousand dollars an acre! Ad-ver-ti-sin'! What an idee! I guess I'll buy the land on a morgidge right away. Hee, hee, hee—it's a first-rate notion—and I a-dopt it. Mister, if you want a drink o' cider, you can get it at that are red house you see down yander. Good-mornin'!'

And off he went.

'You've made that fellow's fortune—when you ought to have caved his head in,' remarked C. Pia as the two brutes disappeared.

'It is the mission of the artist to benefit every body except himself,' I rejoined. And refilling my pipe I went on with my 'picter.'

Yours truly, Galli Van T.

Truly 'Art is—well—a—it's a great thing, and hath its many lights and shadows,' as Phoenix or some body once ascertained. And we trust that Galli Van T. will continue to depict the same in his peculiarly affecting style.

Among the curiosities of literature which the war has brought forth, one of the most piquant is a little pamphlet entitled, Southern Hatred of the American Government, the People of the North, and Free Institutions, recently published by R.F. Wallcut, of Number 221 Washington street, Boston. It consists entirely of selections from the columns of Southern newspapers—all of them rabid, and we may very truly add, ridiculous; especially since the fortunes of war have made so much of their Bobadil bluster appear like the veriest folly. Many of them are old acquaintances—who, for instance, can have forgotten the following, from the Richmond Whig?

'This war will test the physical virtues of mere numbers. Southern soldiers ask no better odds than one to three Western and one to six of the Eastern Yankees. Some go so far as to say that, with equal weapons, and on equal grounds, they would not hesitate to encounter twenty times their number of the last.'

As regards those who go so far, it may be remarked that by this time they have illustrated Father O'Leary's remark of the people who, not 'belaving in Purgathory, wint further and fared worse.' But there is more of this 'chivalric' spirit in the same article. For instance, it doubts 'whether any society since that of Sodom and Gomorrah' [Paris is entirely too mild an example] 'has been more thoroughly steeped in every species of vice than that of the Yankees.' Infanticide is hinted at as prevailing as extensively as in China. The Yankees 'pursue with envy and malignity every excellence that shows itself among them unconnected with money; and a gentleman there stands no more chance of existence than a dog does in the Grotto del Cano!'

The elegance and refinement of the same editorial from the Whig, appears from the following. A portion, which we omit, is too foully indecent for republication:

' ... The Yankee women, scraggy, scrawny, and hard as whip-cord, breed like Norway rats, and they fill all the brothels of the continent.... But they multiply—the only scriptural precept they obey—and boast their millions. So do the Chinese; so do the Apisdæ, and all other pests of the animal kingdom. Pull the bark from a decayed log, and you will see a mass of maggots full of vitality, in constant motion and eternal gyration, one crawling over one, and another creeping under another, all precisely alike, all intently engaged in preying upon one another, and you have an apt illustration of Yankee numbers, Yankee equality, and Yankee greatness.

'We must bring these unfranchised slaves—the Yankees—back to their true condition. They have long, very probably, looked upon themselves as our social inferiors—as our serfs; their mean, niggardly lives—their low, vulgar, and sordid occupations, have ground this conviction into them. But of a sudden, they have come to imagine that their numerical strength gives them power—and they have burst the bonds of servitude, and are running riot with more than the brutal passions of a liberated wild beast. Their uprising has all the characteristics of a ferocious, fertile insurrection.... They have suggested to us the invasion of their territory, and the robbery of their banks and jewelry-stores. We may profit by the suggestion, so far as the invasion goes—for that will enable us to restore them to their normal condition of vassalage, and teach them that cap in hand is the proper attitude of a servant before his master.'

These extracts are from the Richmond Whig—a paper beyond all comparison the most respectable and moderate in the whole South, and by no means of so little weight or character that its remarks can be passed by as mere Southern vaunt and idle bluster signifying nothing. It speaks the deep-seated belief and heartfelt conviction of even the most intelligent secessionists—for the editor of the Whig is not only one of these, but one of the most honest and upright men to be found in Dixie.

'But,' the reader may ask, 'if the man really believes that Yankees are serfs, slaves, vassals of the South, where are his eyes, ears, and common-sense?' Gently, dear reader. When we reflect on the toadying to the South by Northern doughface Democrats in by-gone years—when we recall the abominable and incredible servility with which every thing Southern has been hymned, homaged and exalted—when we remember how vulgar, arrogant, ignorant Southrons have been adored in doughface society where gentlemen whom they were not worthy of waiting on were of but secondary account—when we think of the shallow, pitiful meanness which induces Northern men to rant in favor of that 'institution' which they, at least, know is a curse to the whole country—when we see even now, how, with a baseness and vileness beyond belief, 'democratic' editors continue to lick the hands which smite them, we do not wonder that the Southerner, taking the doughface for a type of the whole North, characterizes all Yankees as serf-like, servile cap-in-hand crawlers and beggars for patronage. For if we were all of the pro-slavery Democracy, and especially of those who even now continue to yelp for Southern rights and grinningly assure patriots that 'under the Constitution they can do nothing to the South,' we should richly deserve all the scorn heaped on us by the 'chivalry.'

We doubt not that, during this bitter war, many incidents have occurred, or will occur, quite like that described in the following simple but life-true ballad:

FRANK WILSON.

'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun Shot his last red arrow up in the west; Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth, And chased the flush from the mountain's crest. Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold, And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost, As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold. The chores were finished; and farmer West, As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug, Toasted his feet in calm content, And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug. Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms, And softly humming a love refrain; With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose, Washed and warbled his daughter Jane. She was the gift that his dear wife left, When she died, some nineteen Mays before; The light and the warmth of the old farm-home, And cherished by him to his great heart's core. A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much The fashion of feature that made her so; 'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes, And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow. Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed; Then from the mantle she took some work, 'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed. Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts Than ever were bodied in word or sound, Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes, As she knit in the dark yarn round and round. A neighbor's rap at the outer door Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!' And he came, with stamping of heavy boots, Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin. Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night. What news do you get from the village to-day? Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged. What news do you get from our Company K?' 'Bad news!—bad news!' He slowly unwinds His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes. 'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night, And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.' O God! give strength to that writhing heart! Fling the life back to that whitening cheek! Let not the pent breath forever stay From the lips, too white and dumb to speak! 'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad—too bad, The finest young man, by far, in this town; Such are the offerings we give to war, Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.' Neither did notice her faltering step; Neither gave heed to her quivering hand, That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door, And spilled the cider upon the stand. But the father dreamed, as he slept that night, That his darling had met some fearful woe; And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans, And her slow steps pacing to and fro. II. 'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring, The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep, The windows were open to sun and breeze, The hills were dotted with snowy sheep. The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves Softly over the old brown roof, And the sunshine, red with savory smoke, Fell graciously through their emerald woof. Sounds—spring sounds—which the country yields: Voices of laborers, lowing of herds, The caw of the crow, the swollen brook's roar, The sportsman's gun, and the twitter of birds, Melted like dim dreams into the air; 'Twas the azure shadow of summer, Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood, And brought new gladness to eye and ear. But a face looks out to the purple hills, A wasted face that is full of woe, Wan yet calm, like a summer moon That has lost the round of its fullest glow. The smooth brown braids still wreathe her head; Her simple garments are full of grace, As if, with color and taste, she fain Would ward off eyes from her paling face. 'Tis a morning hour, but the work is done; The house so peacefully bright within, And the wild-wood leaves on the mantel-shelf Tell how busy her feet have been. She sits by the window and watches a cloud Fading away in the hazy sky; And 'Like that cloud,' she says in heart, 'When summer is over, I too shall die.' The door-yard gate swings to with a clang, She must not sadden her father so; She springs to her feet with a merrier air, And pinches her face to make it glow. But ah! no need; for a ruddier red Than pinches can bring floods brow and cheek; She stands transfixed by a mighty joy; For millions of worlds she can not speak. Frank Wilson gathers her close to his heart, With brightening glance, he reads that glow, And draws from the wells of her joy-lit eyes The secret he long has yearned to know. 'Frank Wilson! living and strong and well; Were you not killed by the rebels? say!' 'Thank God! I was not. 'Twas another man— There were two Frank Wilsons in Company K.' The one church-bell in the distant town Chimes softly forth for twelve o'clock; Another clang of the door-yard gate, A sudden hush in the tender talk. She flies to meet him—the transformed child!— Her heart keeps time to her ringing tread; 'O father! he's come!' and she needs no more To pinch her cheeks to make them red.

Marie Mignonette.

A friend who doth such things has kindly jotted down for us the following 'authentics':

Sometimes I have thought that the reply our Irish girl gave the other day, was of the nature of her usual blunders, and again that it meant a good deal. On her return from a funeral, where a man, who had previously lost his wife, had buried his only child, an infant a few weeks old, I asked her how the father appeared?

'Oh! he was a dale sorry; but I guess he's glad to get rid of it!'

It was only a way he had.—Whiggles, on being told that a boy down-town, only sixteen years old, weighed six hundred and fifty pounds, was further enlightened by the information that he weighed that amount of coal on a platform Fairbanks.

The Southern press has proposed that, even in case of defeat, the wealthy class shall retire to their plantations, 'live comfortably' on what they can raise, let cotton go for two years, and thereby starve Europe and the North into a conviction that Cotton is King.

But how will the poor whites of the South like this? What is to become of them? Or what, indeed, is to become of us, if no cotton be forthcoming? The truth is, and every day makes it more apparent, the raising of cotton must pass into other hands. The army has its rights—the right to land-grants—and the only effectual means of putting an end to our dependence on the South will be found in settling soldiers in the cotton country. Texas would be, perhaps, best suited for the purpose, and other regions may be selected as opportunity may suggest. With this course fully determined on, it would hardly be necessary to further agitate Emancipation, it would come of itself, and slave-labor would yield to the energy of the free Northern farmer.

Very little has been said as yet on this subject of properly rewarding our troops. But it is destined to rise into becoming the great question of the day; and if the Democratic pro-slavery party sets itself in opposition to it, it will be ground to powder. Events are tending to this issue with irresistible and tremendous power, and the days of planterdom are numbered.

FOOTNOTES

Maine,1 in3-1/3

New-Hampshire,"3-1/2

Vermont,"3-1/3

Michigan,"3-1/3

Ohio,"3-3/4

New-York,native-born,"3-3/4

aggregate"4-1/2

Massachusetts,native-born"3-1/4

Aggregate,"4-1/2

Rhode-Island,"4-1/2

Connecticut,"4-1/2

Indiana,"4-1/2

Illinois,"4-1/2

Iowa,"5-1/2

Florida,"10

Louisiana,"8

Texas,"8

Virginia,"8

Alabama,"7

Arkansas,"7

Georgia,"7

Maryland,"7

South-Carolina,"7

Mississippi,"6-1/2

Kentucky,"6

Missouri,"6

New-Jersey,"5-1/2

North-Carolina"5-1/2

Wisconsin,"5-1/2

Tennessee,"5

Delaware,"5

EUROPEANSTATES.

Denmark,1 in4-1/2

Sweden,"5-1/2

Saxony,"6

Prussia,"6-1/4

Norway,"7

Great Britain,"8-1/2

actually reciving instruction,"7

Ireland,"14

Belgium,"8-1/2

France,"10-1/2

Austria"13-3/4

Holland,"14-3/4

Greece,"18

Russia,"50

Portugal,"81

Spain,Not known.

FREECOLORED POPULATION——UNITED STATES.

Maine,1 in 5

Rhode-Island,"6-1/2

Massachusetts,"6-1/4

New-Hampshire,"7

Vermont,"8

Connecticut,"6

Pennsylvania,"8

New-York,"9

It may be seen, by the foregoing table, that a thorough system of education for the masses requires that one third of the aggregate population should be kept at school for a goodly portion of the year. This is essential, under Democratic Government, in order to bring each generation up to the appreciative point.

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, III.

"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, Oberlle, 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. SURLTON 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 t 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.

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CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY has passed its experimental ordeal, and stands firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period when any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine. Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation, for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has found favor in quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where opposition only was looked for. While holding firmly to its own opinions, it has opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERS of widely different views, and has made a feature of employing the literary labors of the younger race of American writers. How much has been gained by thus giving, practically, the fullest freedom to the expression of opinion, and by the infusion of fresh blood into literature, has been felt from month to month in its constantly increasing circulation.

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WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money. This work which will excel the previous brilliant productions of this author.

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GENERAL AGENT.

CONTENTS.—No. VIII.

Among the Pines. (Concluded,)127

Southern Rights,143

Maccaroni and Canvas,144

Glances from the Senate-Gallery,154

The Last Ditch,159

Rewarding the Army,161

John McDonogh, the Millionaire,165

Helter-Skelter Papers,175

Sketches of the Orient,179

Witches, Elves, and Goblins,184

A True Romance,190

Huguenots of New-York City,193

The Bane of our Country,198

The Molly O'Molly Papers,200

Wounded,206

Astor and the Capitalists of New-York,207

Thunder all Round,217

Was he Successful?218

A Merchant's Story,232

Corn is King,237

Literary Notices,238

Editor's Table,241

A MERCHANT'S STORY,

By the author of 'Among the Pines,' which is begun in this number, will be continued in each issue of THE CONTINENTAL until it is completed. It will depict Southern White Society, and be a truthful history of some eminent Northern Merchants, who are largely in 'the cotton trade and sugar line.'

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by JAMES H. GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

JOHN A. GRAY, PRINTER.