EDITOR'S TABLE

The English journals and statesmen, in their excessive anxiety to regulate every thing for the world in general and for America in particular, quite lose sight of the fact, that before interfering in a neighbor's affairs, it is best to know what the state of affairs may really be. Of late, we have seen these makers of public opinion making mischief through gross ignorance, to a degree well-nigh unparalleled in history. On the strength of flying rumors, unfinished events imperfectly reported, and through Secession slanders, their great leaders, both representative and editorial, have ventured to spread before the masses statements which must unavoidably tend to greatly exasperate and alienate the people of our respective nations. They are blindly running up scores of hatred, which at some day may call for fearful settlement. Their influence is very great on the rank-loving multitude in their own country—a multitude which, after all, is, in the majority, more miserable and nearly as ignorant as that of any realm in Europe, or even the East, for there are fewer paupers in Turkey or Syria than in wealthy England. Yet, quite unheeding this, they continue to express sympathy for the South, declare with Brougham that the bubble of Democracy has at length burst, and chuckle over every Northern defeat. All of which shall be duly remembered.

The grossest error into which these men have fallen, is that of continually regarding our war not as a struggle between two great principles, or as an unavoidable necessity, but simply as a strife between two factions. Nearly every London editorial which we have seen for weeks proves this. 'What will the North gain if it conquers the South? What will the South make? What are WE to benefit by a victory of either?' It is perfectly natural, however, for a monarchy, virtually without 'politics,' devoid of great progressive ideas, and smothered by 'loyalty' and faith in an aristocracy, to see, as men did in the middle ages, nothing but a dispute of rival forces in every battle. It is 'Brown vs. Brown' to them, and nothing more. With the exception of Bright and his friends, no one in England seems to comprehend that our North has in itself the vital, progressive energy which must give it victory—the same spirit which enables English civilization to gain on the Hindoo or the New-Zealander—the spirit of science and intelligence, which conquers ignorance.

The fact that English statesmen can talk so calmly of the possibilities of Southern victory, and weigh with such equanimity the claims of the combatants, simply proves their ignorance of the real condition of the United States. And they are indeed very ignorant of us. Perhaps ignorance and thoughtlessness were never more decidedly manifested than in Brougham's late rhodomontade on the failure of Democracy in this country. For, in fact, there is not difference enough between the representative power of England and that of America to make a question. Between Commons and our House of Representatives—the most influential legislative bodies—there is no such great difference. English writers have asserted that our government is actually the strongest monarchy of the two, because our President possesses far greater power of patronage and personal influence than the Queen. The real difference is not between the forms of government, but between the innate flunkeyism of the Briton and the independence of the American. If we had the British government in every detail, and if John Bull were to adopt our system, the countries would stand where they were, and each gradually 'reform' itself, according to its ideas of reform, back into the old routine. The Englishman, needing 'my Lord' and 'Her Gracious Majesty,' and as unable to live without his golden calves of 'superiors' as bees are to exist without a queen, would soon create them; while the American blood, sprung from the republican Puritan, and developed into strength on a continent, would very soon, after a nine days' féte to his new fétish, kick it over, and instituting caucuses and primary ward-meetings, or 'town-meetings,' (a ceremony which no European in existence, save the Russian, is capable of properly managing,) would soon have all back again in the old road.

Democracy among the 'Yankees' as well as all North-Americans who are free from a servile respect for simple rank and money, is something very different from that mere form which Brougham, and with him nearly all Europe, believe it to be. We are not Frenchmen, or Englishmen, or Orientals, to quietly sit down under any kind of government which chance may impose, and exclaim: 'It is fate.' Democracy with us is not the mere form which they imagine. It is, like the English government, like the German, like the Pachalik of the Oriental, something as much a part of us as our national physiognomy. A very great proportion of the Englishmen who come here, remain flunkeys to the end—an American, other than a soul-diseased disciple of Richmond sociology, or some weak brother or sister dazed by court ball-tickets—quite as generally remain a despiser of men who acknowledge other men as their betters by mere birth. A love of freedom is in our blood, in our life, in our habits. We are fond, it is true, of temporarily lionizing great people, but we soon reduce them to our own level. America has shaken down more eminencies into notorieties than any other country in the world—it is a severe and terrible ordeal for great foreigners. Our eagerness to behold them is simply a keen curiosity and a natural love of amusement which is soon appeased. An American would crowd foremost to see Queen Victoria for the first time in his life—the second opportunity would be neglected. But the London shop-keeper who has seen that lady perhaps hundreds of times, still rushes out in wild haste, with eyes wide open, to behold her when she drives past. 'They can never get enough of it.' As one of their own writers has observed, a London tradesman may have been swindled a hundred times by real or sham noblemen, and yet no sooner does some flaunting cheat with the air noble enter his shop, than the cockney bows low and implores patronage with a cringing zeal only equaled by his 'uppishness' to humbler customers.

The truth simply is, that English thinkers wrongly judge our people to be like their own, and as capable of promptly submitting to acknowledged superiors. In the same blindness and ignorance, they see only two parties, equal in all respects in this war, and realize nothing of the innate vitality and irresistibly accretive power of free-labor, science, and progress, when brought into opposition with a conservatism which scorns every thing pertaining to the rights of the majority. Misled by their associations, they believe that the 'Aristocratic' party must triumph in the end, forgetting that even in their own country capital is gradually destroying the old land-marks which divided the privileged classes from the masses. We who virtually occupy a higher stand-point in history, though, perhaps, we are newer dwellers in our domain and not as yet as comfortable in it as they in theirs, can, however, afford to laugh at their opinions and threats. A nation, whose utmost effort could not raise above thirty thousand men for a war in which the point of honor between themselves and the French was at stake, is not the one to lay down laws to the American North, which could—probably without drafting—bring its million into the field. It is worth remembering that, had they sent us their Warrior, as they threatened after the Mason and Slidell difficulty, she would have met with the Monitor!

Three hundred thousand men are wanted—and that right early!

Let there be meetings, speeches, subscriptions—let every thing that is vigorous and impulsive and patriotic thrill the people forthwith: Let there be no lagging in the good cause. Never since the war begun was there a time when a fierce rally was more needed. We have it in our power to crush this rebellion to atoms, if the people will but once arouse in their might. Even this draft for three hundred thousand, when we come to portion it off among those remaining in our counties, becomes quite trifling.

'More than shooting goes to making war.' All who are in the North can fight to good purpose, if they will, every man and woman of them, do their best to raise soldiers, equip them and take care of their families.

Men! rise up and go forth. You will acquire a patent of nobility by serving in this war, which will be worth more to you and yours in coming days than any title on earth. You go to great risks—but not to any thing which can outweigh the good you can do for this truly holy cause. Have you lived lives 'of no great account'—now is the time to rise to a position—to be some body, and make your mark. Have you been a mere cipher in the great sum of life—a neglected trifle—now is the time to raise yourself to a real value. It can never be said of a man who served in this war that he was of no great account.

Has your life been stained—by misfortune or your own faults? Now is the time to wipe out the old score and begin afresh. What cautious, timid Peace rejects as bad, bold, hearty War grasps at with eagerness and makes good and great.

Are you poor, and dragging out a dull, base life, more sluggishly than your abilities deserve? Go to the war—in God's name, go to the war! Who knows what changes in life you may live through—what new opportunities may open before you! In that wide Southland lie a million homes, and there will be those left behind who—if you fight bravely—will give the matter no rest till you are richly rewarded. There is not a soldier in this war at this instant who is not acquiring what may be a fortune. Somebody must occupy the lands left vacant in the South!

Are you a lover? Make her proud of you.

Do not fear the risks. That is a poor, wretched life which has never run the chances of death.

'Fast in battle the bullets fly, But many a soldier the bullets pass by.'

Arise all! Up, Guards, and at 'em! Let there be a general up-stirring and a hearty good-will in this matter. The enemy have brought every white man among them into the field—they are kept alive solely by the blacks. One tremendous effort, such as we are capable of making, would sweep them from the face of the earth. Another struggle and we reach the shore.

Many years ago, the South began to alienate itself from the Union, by blindly abusing every thing pertaining to the North as 'Abolition.' They wanted a grievance; they would have one, and so yelled 'Wolf! wolf!' till the wolf came in roaring earnest. In like manner, the Democratic dabblers in mischief are now yelling 'Radical,' abusing emancipation, and doing all in their power to hoist themselves into notoriety. They are determined to force separate parties into existence, and they will end by accomplishing their purpose, by being in a losing reactionary minority, which will bear the brand in later days of having been the most unprincipled, narrow-minded, and desperately selfish faction which this country has ever known.

Gentle reader, accept the following from a friend in the quaint spirit in which it is written, and understand not by bad company aught that is evil—for if we read the word of the enigma, the 'bad' among her 'friends of the future' is indeed goodness-that saving salt which is often found among many who are too hastily banned as lost in the world. So, we pray you, judge it kindly:

FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE.

'There is no real amusement except in bad company.'—Italian Proverb.

Reprehensible but real sentiment of your humble servant, O dearly beloved reader! Your lips reprove me, but your heart forgives and sympathizes! And that heart rebels with mine against that adverse Past which has given to us so little of 'real amusement' from 'bad company,' and demands, like mine, reparation from the Future for the sufferings we have endured from unexceptionable and perfectly good company!

The representative men and women of that small and select bad company, (who have made the desert of our lives to blossom with roses, violets, strawberries and cream,) how distinctly they stand out on the horizon of memory! I see them—I count them, as easily as those few stately pines on yonder hill-top—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. No more? What! not a delightful eight? Who has translated the murmur of the summer wind among the pines as 'No more?' 'No more?' Alas! to-day they give that answer to me, as I seek for one other in that bad and beloved company! 'But he cometh'—adveniat—he cometh in the future. O eighth! your morning will yet dawn.

Welcome, O Friend of the Future I whatever thy sex. Welcome! whether in cashmere and graceful crinolineaments, or in gray-suit and grecio!—only be 'more of the same sort.' Heaven is not so cruel! to give us five hundred dear twin-friends, on whom one has to tie five hundred different colored bows (I assure you, Monsieur, the ribbon-florists have this season produced five hundred colors) in order to distinguish one from another! Heaven would not do this cruel wrong without offering some apology—some mitigation.

Ah! you sigh. Your heart, then, does forgive me—I knew it would. Give me your hand, (such a soft, white hand!) I confess the proverb did sound a little naughty, but it's not really so. At all events, it is the truth—and, you know, we

'Can not tell a lie!' G. W.

Ah! this hand, though soft and white, is no longer plump and unconscious; it has suffered! You, too, have been bored—ah! I must kiss it.

'I, too, am human.'

I also have been bored! Come, now, you mistrust me no longer-and I—I love you! I love you, and, therefore, I want to amuse you; perhaps, by Heaven's blessing, I may prove 'bad company' myself!

For I can not but believe that somewhere in the purple Future, or latent amid the green leaves of the possible Fairy-dom, (in which some rich enchanter of an uncle is to lea-re us all an heritage,) there bide, waitingly, certain dear friends—delightful, daring, witty, and wicked creatures—like yourself, O reader I—with whom I am destined to be, spiritually, 'very much married indeed;' or if the expression sound too polygamatical, let me simply say lié. [For Heaven's sake, accept that as French, warm with an accent, and not as English, cold without one.] Lié means 'bound'—anchored, so to speak, to an intimate in an amicable manner. And it is in their friendship—in their kind and tender words and courteous deeds, and winsome ways, that I most truly live.

Where these dearmost ones may bide, I know not. Seven—yes—seven I have met, whom I cherish like diamonds of delight in the cotton of memory. It is worth noting, my dear, in this connection, that sev-en is one of the conjugations in Turkish of the root sev, or 'loving,' and 'them old Turks,' you know—but I am digressing. Are there not still to come seven—yea, seventy times seven, (I have mislaid my Koran, in which the number is more accurately stated,) of my Friends of the Future!

But I know what they are like. Oh! the charming, delightful wretches, how I enjoy looking at them—in fact, 'I admire to see' them—as they sweep along through the golden halls of my Schloss Dream-berg. Such nice clothes as they wear—the ducks! Such good things as they say—such—such—

It is too warm to-day to attempt superlatives. It were better to drink—say, iced lemonade, in which—for you, dear reader—by some mistake a little sherry has been cobblered. Sherrare est humanum. The Rabbis, we are told, forbade the children of Israel to puff the fire on the Sabbath with bellows, though they might keep it going by blowing through a straw. Wherefore, to this day, certain of the devout 'keep it a-going' by means of a straw—only by some strange mistake in interpretation, or by some vowel-points getting mislaid, they, instead of blowing from them in the straw, suck toward them. And their 'society' is a large one.

But we were talking of 'good company,' as they say in 'good society'—not of 'good society,' as they say in 'good company.' And, therefore, although not 'a retired clergyman,' and devoutly hoping that my 'sands of life' are not by a very long while 'run out,' (for I want to see my future friends,) I would yet (without these advantages) offer you 'some slight relief,' and would seek to assuage your sufferings resulting from too much good company; and since we have so few friends in the past who have amused us, turn we our 'regards' to the possible

FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE.

First among whom is

BAGNOLE. Face such as would-be Byron youths all crave, Impenetrable, gloomy as the grave; Voice, a 'French-gray,' the promise of the face, You'd swear he thought to laugh, a deep disgrace. Behold the mask of a bacchantine soul, Drinking deep draughts from life's enchanting bowl. Whether the bowl be from Cellini's hand. If rude, still crowning it with Fancy's flowers, Laughing at Time, and flirting with her Hours. He is not pious, and to church won't go; He says he can't—'tis so extremely slow.' Bagnolè! with the 'goats' you're set apart' And yet, how can we wish a 'change of heart' In one like thee—great-minded, brave, and true! Ah! what a world, if all were such as you! But I forget—he's tender to the weak: To the sad Magdalene he'll kindly speak Words of pure gold—not that base metal thing Which falls like lead and gives no friendly ring; Opening the wound, to see if it is deep, Arousing thought, to see if' tis asleep! 'Tendir and treue,' us Douglas was of old, How far they see, who call thee 'tame and cold'! Tame! as a tiger: cold! as hot as flame! Where does he board, and what, oh! what's his name?

L'INCONNUE. Dark Passion-flower, with keen mimosa-leaves, Into my life your fate her shuttle weaves. How long those wistful eyes have haunted mine— Brown eyes of earth—they have no light divine. Brown eyes! ye fill my soul with burning love— No Pantheon soul—lighted from above! O sister mine! you'll come to me at last— That shall atone for all our weary past. So pure thou art, with soul so joyous, free. The world could not forgive—and hated thee! To be 'unlike the world,' is thy dark sin. You or 'the world'? the 'you' my heart shall win. Within that shrine, so delicately fair, Burns a bright spirit which 'a world' can dare; She mocks 'the world,' but she would die for me. Her heart is fathomed by eternity; And yet she's always 'in the fashion' dressed, And 'wants a cashmere,' (she to me confessed.) Oh! you can see her, almost any day, Hat of pale violet, dress of silver-gray. She goes to parties and the 'Music-Hall;' She eats her dinner, and she gives a ball. You nod and smile: 'We know her now—we see!' Perhaps! Alas! she's quite unknown to me!

MARIE. How can I tell you if her face be fair, While the gay sunshine of her smile is there? How can I tell you of a brilliant mind, When every word she speaks is angel-kind? Need I describe her voice, so melting sweet? Or the small mouth, which is its passage meet! I only know, while for her voice I wait, I see fair pearls behind that rosy gate. But when she speaks, her diamond-wit's so bright, All other beauties vanish from our sight. No need for her to fear 'the world's rebuff! Too much of Marie's always just enough I She is 'bad company,' yet e'en 'the good' Can find no flaw in her fair maidenhood. The saints don't doubt that she is in their fold— It makes me laugh to think how they are 'sold.' Nice, naughty folks are sure, she's of their creed, Yet she's no hypocrite, in word or deed. What is she, then—this gem without a flaw? She is—she is—a maid-en made of 'straw'!

Reader, have you in your house a vivarium or aquarium, or any other variety of animal curiosity-shop, under care of the younger members? If so, the subjoined sketch may awaken in your mind more than one vivid souvenir, We know, at all events, that some of its 'features' were founded on facts; that is, if a 'feature' can be 'founded.' However, we take the phrase from—but no, we are sufficiently abused by the Democratic editors, as it is.

Editor of the Continental: Among the lesser joys of maternity, that of having your children interested in a vivarium is one of the least—in fact, it is an elephantine sorrow.

James, my eldest son, is a genius; before he was twelve years old, he invented a rat-trap, which not only caught rats, but cut off their tails and—let them go. At thirteen, he spoke Italian so fluently that he caused a hand-organ grinder to throw a brick at him. At fourteen, he came home one day with six large panes of glass, some tin and putty, and made a vivarium, a thing full of mud, water, leeches, dirty weeds, and other improvements.

When James had finished his glass case, he placed it in the front drawing-room window, so that the public might behold that exquisite process of nature, tadpoles turning into spring water-chickens, as they call frogs on hotel bill of fares. Unfortunately, the gold fish he put in with them killed the tadpoles while they still wiggled, and a pickerel that he had bought of a fellow-school-boy for half-price, its tail being ragged, ate up the gold-fish.

If at any time vegetables bought for the table were missing, we all knew where they went to; in fact, that vivarium, from the time green peas came until cabbages were ripe, resembled a soupe à la Jardinière, and in summer-time a second course of boiled fish might easily have been found there.

One evening, when I had a little company, and while Fanny Schell was singing an aria, he caused her to conclude with an unusually high scream, by announcing at the top of his voice, while he pointed to the vivarium:

'Ma, the leeches have all crawled out!'

Imagine the feelings my little company had the rest of the evening.

I shall never forget the fright James gave me one hot night in July; it was Saturday, I remember well, for that was one of my son's holidays, and he returned home toward night unusually covered with mud, from a long walk in the country, evidently having been taking practical lessons in ditching. He was so very quiet after he returned, that I might have known he was in mischief. However, when his bed-time came, he kissed me good-night, and said:

'O ma! I have such a surprise for you in the morning.'

Unfortunately, I had the surprise that night. Business called my husband away from the city that morning, and I was alone. Waking up from a sound sleep about midnight, I distinctly heard somebody working on an anvil, like a blacksmith, 'ching-a-ling! ching-a-ling!' It evidently came from the drawing-room, and my fears at once told me it was a thief trying to break into the house. Next I heard some one whistle, like a man calling a dog, 'wheh! wheh! wheh!' Finally a dog barking, 'woo, woo, wooh!' Thoroughly alarmed, I sprang to the front-window, and called: 'Police! thieves!' until I managed to arouse the neighbors. I had the key of the front-door in my chamber; this I threw down to a police-officer, and in company with two others he boldly entered the house, lit the gas, and found—that vivarium full of bull-frogs!

My son banished the frogs and introduced cat-fish, (or, as they call them in Boston, 'horn-pouts.') One night, my great Angora cat, a cat born in the Rue de Seine, educated in the best French École des chattes, and brought to this country by my husband, fell a victim to la gourmandise, by falling into the vivarium while fishing for cat—horn-pout—fish. James found her there in the morning, drowned, and partially eaten up by those she had hoped to eat. She went into the boudoir to Pout, and 'had done it.'

That finished the vivarium. I sincerely hope these trials to mothers will never again become the rage, and that something dry will next tempt our children's mania for home amusements. Cornelia.

'The Kansas John Brown Song,' which lately appeared in these columns, and which we credited to the Kansas Herald—following the lead of the newspaper where we found it—was written by the Rev. William W. Patton, of Chicago, for the Tribune of that city.

Though so often trampled down by the heel of patriotism, the old serpent of treason and disunion still keeps lifting his head and hissing venomously. In New-York, Fernando Wood—that incarnation of Northern secession—the man who dared to issue a proclamation recommending the inhabitants of the city of which he was mayor to go off with the South, is plotting and planning (unpunished, of course) with spirits of kindred baseness, to build up the old order and reestablish the rule of corruption. At Washington, all the timid, time-serving, and place-hoping members of Congress have been holding 'Conservative' meetings, at which the most insolent or timid propositions have been put forth; some of the traitors manifesting clear as day their undisguised sympathy for the rebels, others speaking only to preserve their tattered characters as Unionists. The upshot of all was given in a resolution that Congress has no power to deprive a person of his property, unless that person has been duly convicted by a trial by jury.

We are not through the war as yet. Possibly, ere the end come, the country may have something to say as to the propriety of our representatives holding meetings to protect and favor rebels in their 'rights.'

What's in a name? There was a great puzzle once in one name, as appeareth from the following:

Dear Sir: In a certain village not unknown to you, dwelleth one Alwright.

It is a good thing to have a good name. His, you observe, is 'petter as goot.'

Not long ago, A. went to an auction and bought things.

'What name, sir?' inquired the man with the hammer.

'Alwright.'

'What name, I say?' was the irritated reply.

'Alwright, I say.'

'All wrong, you mean. 'Spect you'll make it all right in the morning, hey?'

'Al-wright!' cried the purchaser.

'Yes, all right!' cried the crowd, taking the joke. 'All right-go ahead, old knock 'em down.'

The auctioneer began to be profane.

'A-l, Al,' began Alwright.

'Hold your tongue! Go——' continued the auctioneer.

'A-l Al, w-r-i-g-h-t wright,' continued the buyer.

'O—h, thunder!' exclaimed Hammer, on whom the laughter of the mob began to operate. 'That's it, is it! Beg pardon. James, put this gentleman's name down. All right, sir. Go ahead. Gentlemen, allow me to call your attention to this fine lot of leather. Did I hear twenty-five?—five—five—five—an' an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f, an' a ha'f—gone!'

Yours truly,

Constant Reader.

There is often some fun at auctions. One of the queerest ever reported to us was held in a French-Spanish be-Germanized village on the frontier, where business was transacted in something of a polyglott manner, as follows:

'Gentlemen-Messieurs-Senores y meine Herrne, I've got here for sale—a vender—a vendre zum verkaufen eine Schöne Büchse a first-rate rifle un fusil sans pareil, muy hermosa! Do I hear fifty pesos, cinquante Thaler ge-bid pour this here bully gun? Caballeros mira como es aplatado—all silvered up, in tip-top style—c'est de l'argent fin messieurs—s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fünfzig, fünfzig, fifty do I hear, and a half an' a half an' a half e un demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb' un medio y tin medio—wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun, good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another with—madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos—first-rate to kill a Greaser—womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten. Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir—cinquante deux—Merci, Monsieur! Wer sagt drei und fünfzig—ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres quartos—quelqu'un a dit fifty-three—fifty-four—going, going, gone, sir—at fifty-four—America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'

It would take some time, we should think, to be able to reel it off in such a quadruple thread.

Two 'after-Norse' poems are ours this month-the first from an esteemed Philadelphia correspondent—the second from another of the same State, but more inland. The following, we may observe, is written in the measure which most prevails in Icelandic poems:

THE VIKINGS. Through the brown waters Dash the swift prows; At the helm Valor stands, Death at the bows: Vainly the foeman shrinks, Palsied in fright, Vain are his struggles, yet Vainer his flight. Triple defenses— Fire, water, and steel, Guard the gate of the West From the Northerner's keel. Though defiant at midnight, Ere morning the wrath Of the terrible sea-kings Has leveled a path. Rampart and heavy gun From o'er the bay, Whose broad waters stretch 'Twixt the ships and their prey: But shattered the rampart lies, Silent the gun, As the circle of living fire Madly rolls on. Wide yawn the timbers, Wild waters rush in, As the ship settles fast Mid the fierce battle-din: Yet her guns hurl defiance, As, stern to the last, The sea sucks her in With her flag on the mast. Sons of the Northman, Whose banner of old Spread the shadow of terror From each grisly fold, Of his broad heritage Worthy are ye: Win it and wear it well, Kings of the sea.

The next 'Norse' is longer. We find in it a brave ring of true poetry:

1861. 'Oh! dark and true and tender is the North.'

Loud leaps the strong wind forth, Fierce from the caves of the mighty North, Ages untold, O'er town and wold, That rest 'neath a softer sky, Swept that blast in anger by, And in his wrathful eddies bore The fiery song of Odin and Thor. Then little avail, 'Gainst the Vi-king's arm, The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail, Or the priestman's charm. And o'er the bright South-land A shadow of dread was the North wind's course, Whene'er his surging currents fanned The raven banner of the Norse. Years pass, and time new rays has brought, Yet still the Northman's heart is warm; But light on his soul a change has wrought, And he loves the calm as he loved the storm. Another god than the fearful Thor In heaven's blue he saw, And he gave to Peace his might in war— His anger to the law. And the strong hand holds the sickle now, The anvil rings at morn; And waving sunbeams tinge with gold The hues of the ripening corn. And the land he loves in peace has grown To be mighty in wealth and name; But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown, And evil men to its councils came. And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep, While treason walked in her halls of state, And good men grieve, but hopeless weep, And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate. 'The nation must pass away. For the Northman's blood is cold, And little he recks of honor or name, If his hand may clutch the gold. 'Work treason—work your will— Divide our Fatherland; Hearts are craven, souls are base— 'Tis fit for the traitor's hand. 'Fear no more the Northman's rage, The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn; No ancient mem'ry can stir him now, To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.' The words half-sung in silence fall, Hushed in dread by a mightier call, That stays the hand—that throbs the heart; Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note— The traitor's foot is on your flag, His bayonet at our throat. And hark! the North-wind's sullen moan Rises high to a sterner tone, That sinks away, then bursts anew In joy, as 'mid its surges grew The shout, the stroke, the cannon's peal, The tread of countless number. For the flash of a traitor's steel Has broken the nation's slumber; And sighing breeze and southern gale, Seized by the fierce wind's grasp, are torn From gentle haunt by hill or dale, And in the whirling vortex borne. There murm'ring on his hollow breast, And wond'ring at his wild unrest, Their shrieking echoes sounding far, Loud swelled the Northman's shout to war; For with death's dark shadows flitting by, And the day as dark as night, A nation's hands are raised on high To hold their ancient right. And the ages are rolled from the record of time; For the years of peace with its soft'ning beam, That soothed in love the Northman's heart, Are now but the mists of a warrior's dream. And the tinsel of life is burned in the glow That flames in his heart as in years long ago, When Norman sea-kings swept the wave, Who loved the night, the storm, and bloody grave. And through all the blue of heaven's vault, Rolls the Vala's mystic charm, Swelled with strains of the mighty past— Victory strikes with the Northman's arm. F.

Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the battle-call:

'Northmen, come out! Forth into battle with storm and shout, He who lives with victory's blest; He who dies gains peaceful rest. Living or dying, let us be Still vowed to God and liberty! Northmen, come out!'

The following poem is certainly not behind the times:

PAYING THE SHOT.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin, Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot; Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,' Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.' We 'owe them one!' and now's the time to settle, And finish up the business to a dot; A half a million men, upon their metal, Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.' We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers; Master or slave no more shall treason plot. We've settled that account with steel and triggers, And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.' We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil, Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot; We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil, That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.' There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books; That must be paid, each tittle and each jot; A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks, But strikes his balance fair, and 'pays the shot.' There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs, We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;' In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar, Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.' So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers! Wipe out this treason now, nor leave one blot; When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;' Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'

War stories and war songs are in vogue—for instance:

MY JOHNNY IS GONE FOR A SOLDIER.

The accomplished, fascinating, talented, and beautiful Miss H——, as Jinkings calls her in his last Saratoga letter, has engaged her affections to Mr. John G——, and they are to be married some time. In the mean time, she has done all in her power to induce her lover to go and fight the battles of his country; so far unsuccessfully, since Mr. John G—— deems it his duty to stay at home and keep things steady, especially billiards, which, as we all know, is an erratic game, requiring great watching.

The other evening, Miss H——, while assisting at a sociable at Madame V——'s, was asked to sing. Seated at the piano, to the horror of expectant hearers of classic music, she began, with loudest voice, to sing:

'I'll trace these gardins o'er and o'er, A med-i-tating on atche swate flowir, A thinking on each bewcheous hour; Oh! Johnny is gone for a sol-di-er.'

She then put her handkerchief to her eyes, pretended to sob bitterly, arose from the piano-stool, and sought an arm-chair.

Solicited by her confidential friend, Miss Belrose, to confide her affliction, she only answered:

'Oh! my Johnny G——'s gone for a soldier—to play billiards with him! And—and I know that that fast Lieutenant Gamble will keep him there for hours and hours.'

Young gentlemen, this is the time for bullets and not for balls; for cannons and not caroms; for rifle-pits to hole yourselves in, and not for 'pockets' wherein to hole your adversary. Apropos of which, listen to

THE WRONG KIND OF A BAND.

Colonel X—— raised a regiment in the Ri-too-lal Rural districts of New-Jersey, including a by no means bad brass band.

Arrived in Washington with his force, he was unfortunate enough to meet with a wag, who at once told him he was afraid that he, the Colonel, would meet or rather come to grief shortly.

'How so?' asked Colonel X—— excitedly.

'H'm!' answered the wag, 'don't you see that those rural musicians of yours will be regarded as country-band of war?'

The Colonel saw it!

Do our readers remember a beautiful poem on Gottschalk's playing—Los ojos Criollos—which appeared some time since in the Home Journal? They will not regret to see a lyric in our pages by the writer of the first referred to:

THE OLD SURGEON'S STORY.

BY ELEANOR C. DONELLY.

'Twas in a Southern hospital, a week ago or more, (God save us! how the days drag on, these weary times of war!) They brought me, in the sultry noon, a youth whom they had found Deserted by his regiment upon the battle-ground, And bleeding his young life away through many a gaping wound. 'Dark-haired and slender as a girl, a handsome lad was he, Despite the pallor of his wounds, each one an agony. A ball had carried off his arm, and zig-zag passage frayed Into his chest—so wild a rent that, when it was displayed, I, veteran surgeon that I was, turned white as any maid. ''There is no hope?' he slowly said, noting my changing cheek; I only shook my head: I dare not trust myself to speak; But in that wordless negative, the boy had read his doom, And turned about, as best he could, and lay in silent gloom, Watching the summer sunlight make a glory of the room. ''My little hero!' said a voice, and then a woman's hand Lay like a lily on his curls: 'God give you self-command!' 'Mother!'—how full that thrilling word of pity and alarm— 'You here? my sweetest mother here?' and with his one poor arm He got about her neck and drew her down with kisses warm. ''All the long, sultry night, when out—'(He shuddered as he said)— 'On yonder field I lay among the festering heaps of dead; With awful faces close to mine, and clots of bloody hair, And dead eyes gleaming through the dusk with such a rigid stare; Through all my pain, O mother mine! I only prayed one prayer. ''Through all my pain—(and ne'er I knew what suffering was before!)— I only prayed to see your face, to hear your voice once more; The cold moon shone into my eyes—my prayer seemed all in vain.' 'My poor deluded boy!' she sobbed; her mother-fount of pain O'erflowing down her gentle cheeks in drops like thunder-rain. ''Accursed be he whose cruel hand has wrought my son such ill!' The boy sprang upright at the word, and shrieked aloud, 'Be still! You know not what you say. O God! how shall I tell the tale! How shall I smite her as she stands!' and with a moaning wail He prone among the pillows dropped, his visage ashen pale. ''It was a bloody field,' he said, at last, like one who dozed; 'I know not how the day began—I know not how it closed; I only know we fought like fiends, begrimed with blood and dust, And did our duty to a man, as every soldier must, And gave the rebels ball for ball, and paid them thrust for thrust. 'But when our gallant General rode up and down the line, The sunlight striking on his sword until it flashed like wine, And cried aloud (God bless his lips!) with such a cheery laugh, 'Charge bayonets, boys! Pitch into them, and scatter them like chaff!' One half our men were drunk with blood, and mad the other half. ''My veins ran fire. O Heaven! hide the horrors of that plain! We charged upon the rebel ranks and cut them down like grain. One bright-haired man ran on my steel—I pierced him through and through; The blood upspirted from his wound and sprinkled me like dew. 'Twas strange, but as I looked I thought of Cain and him he slew. ''Some impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell, I turned him o'er—I saw his face—the sight was worse than hell! There lay my brother—Curse me not!—pierced by my bayonet!' O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget— Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet. 'And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she, Dropped down among us, in a swoon, from very sympathy. 'I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had died In those old days of innocence!) was ever by my side, At bed or board, at school or play, so fresh and merry-eyed! ''And now to see it white and set—to know the deed was mine! A madness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine. I did not heed the balls which fell around us thick as rain, I did not know my arm was gone; I felt nor wound nor pain, I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again. ''O Louis!' (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside,) 'O Louis! brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide! By the bright heaven where thou stand'st—by thy big-hearted faith— By these the tears our mother sheds—by this my failing breath— Forgive me for that murd'rous thrust which wounded thee to death. ''Forgive me! I would yield my life to give thee thine, my brother! What's this? Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother. The air blows sweet from yonder field! Dear Lou, put up your sword. Let's weave a little daisy-chain upon this pleasant sward—' And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.'

Such are the tragedies of civil war, the fearful probability of such events. But who has not heard of families with sons in either army, especially on the border, in Philadelphia, and Baltimore? We have heard seven such instances enumerated by one lady of the former city. Let us turn from tragedy to comedy:

CAPPED THE CLIMAX.

The ladies of Christopher's Church, Philadelphia, have worked like true-hearted women for the wounded soldiers. Many a poor fellow has blessed them for their contributions to alleviate his pain and make the old hospital comfortable for him. In the congregation, one elderly maiden lady, who had so far given nothing, was called on by one of her energetic sisters in the church, and implored to do something for the poor soldiers. She was told that any thing that would render their sufferings less would be gratefully received.

She promised to send a donation. Nothing more was heard from her for a couple of weeks, when one morning the ladies assembled in the vestry-room of the church received a large basket from the elderly maiden lady. On opening it, they found three dozen starched muslin, night-cape, with frills all round them, bows and long strings.

'Did you ever?' asked Miss G——. 'I declare Miss—— has set her Caps for the soldiers in earnest this time.

We select the following as the best proposed completion of the unfinished poem by Fitz-James O'Brien, published in our July number:

Detroit, Mich., June 22d, 1862.

Editors of Continental: As you do not give the conclusion of that 'Watching the Stag,' I propose to finish it in this wise:

'Watching my face with half-closed eyes,' As I lean my head on the dappled stag That stiffens beneath a windward crag. His flanks are black with the hardened sweat, And a film has clouded his eye of jet; While a round, red wound that oozes still,' Tells of his fate and my marksman's skill. Oh! the granite crags shall no longer feel His fleet hoofs ringing like steel on steel, And shepherd shall never again espy His antlers painted against the sky! The mountain tarn, so lone and cold, The delicate shadow no more shall hold; The fleetness has died in each rigid limb, And never shall dun hound follow him! Stanch Hela blinks as she half recalls That savage chase through the mountain-walls, And growls as she dreams how her white teeth sank With a thirsty grip in his shuddering flank. Dream on, good dog! through the night so chill, Till sunrise surges over the hill, Till the heather glows and the peaks are gay, And then for our mountain-home hurra!

We are indebted to L. H. Brook, of Cambridge for a version of

MARGARET'S SONG.

FROM 'FAUST.'

Meine Ruh' ist hin,My peace is gone;

Mein Herz ist schwer,My heart is sore;

Ich finde sie nimmerI find it never

Und nimmermehr.And nevermore.

Wo ich ihn nicht hab',Where him I crave,

Ist mir das Grab;To me's the grave;

Die gauze WeltThe world and all

Ist mir vergällt.Seems turned to gall.

Mein armer KopfMy wretched head

Ist mir verrückt,Seems going mad;

Mein armer SinnMy wretched mind

Ist mir zerstückt.Is torn and sad.

Nach ihm nur schau' ichFor him I look

Zum Fenster hinaus,The casement out;

Nach ihm nur geh' ichHim only seek

Aus dem Haus.The town about.

Sein hoher Gang,His lofty step,

Sein' edle Gestalt.His noble form;

Seines Mundes Lächeln,The smile of his mouth,

Seiner Augen Gewalt.His eye's strong charm.

Und seiner RedeAnd in his voice

Zauberfluss,The magic bliss,

Sein Händedruck,His clasping hand,

Und ach! sein Kuss.And ah! his kiss.

Meine Ruh' ist hin,My peace is gone;

Mein Herz ist schwer,My heart is sore;

Ich finde sie nimmerI find it never

Und nimmermehr.And nevermore.

Mein Busen drängtMy bosom swells

Sich nach ihm hin;Toward him when near

Ach! dürft' ich fassenAh! might I fold

Und halten ihn!And hold him there!

Und küssen ihnAnd could I kiss him

So wie ich wollt',While I may,

An seinen KüssenUpon his kiss

Vergehen sollt'!I'd die away!