EDITOR'S TABLE.

Another month of these most eventful times has passed by with mingled good and evil fortune, and we still find 'that great mystery, the American Republic,' strong and in good hope, careering in headlong speed, with accelerated motion, adown the great torrent of history. It is natural enough—yet it is still most unreasonable—that there should be so many who believe that every eddy and whirl should be its death-struggle or its final dart into the deep calm sea of safety. With every battle lost or won there are thousands who despair or exult—forgetting that, come what may, the cause of human progress is never backward, and that we might as soon hope to recall the middle ages as build up into prosperity the 'patriarchal' old slave South.

Every rebel's slave is free. Free on paper, if you will—theoretically free; but is that nothing? How many years will slavery, or the Southern system in its integrity, exist side by side with a rapidly growing free country no longer recognizing the existence of 'the institution?' How many months, in fact, when we shall have and hold—as we are absolutely determined to do—the whole west bank of the Mississippi and the confederate ports; which, by the way, should have all been secured at the outset at any cost? Let us win or lose in the field, we shall still, thanks to our fleet, hem them in. And will not that, with mere waiting, prove a complete victory? Whatever financial crises may be before the North, it will ever possess, in spite of the most terrible sufferings, its enormous recuperative power, and its old ability for hard work. But how is the exhausted, ruined South to arise, save through Northern aid? Will its poor whites labor in factories? They are expected to form a permanent standing army. The negroes? The day of slavery is passing away rapidly. Let the South gain battles, if it will—they are only defeats in disguise; and in the long run it will be found that God willed this war to be long and bitter, that by it the last stronghold of the wrongs of man might be the more thoroughly exhausted.

THE GOLDEN ROD.

Upon the waves that rise and die Along the banks of Severn's river, Amidst the blue of broken sky, I saw thy half-drawn image quiver In changing gleams of golden light, Now broadly spread, now vanished quite. Late Golden Rod! in thought I deem I still shall find thee swaying there, As if some naiad of the stream Gave to the wind her yellow hair, Or, leaning o'er the margin, sought The restless shape the waters wrought. Though swaying, yet in quietude, Thy beauty touched my very soul, Like the calm eye of womanhood, In stillness keeping all control. And lo! as under sudden spell, Thy presence shadowed all the dell. The valley took October's crown, I found thy glory still the same; The sumach flung his red leaves down, And lit his winter crest of flame; The early elm and maple gave Their burden to the patient wave. I sought thee in the later year, I sought, but found thee there no more; Only a rigid stalk and sere A withered head in silence bore, Or swung, responsive to the sigh Of the stray wind that passed it by. Now Severn's banks in snow are still, And Severn's stream is hushed and pale; The sun shines on the whitened hill, And glows like summer in the dale; And yet I come, and half in gloom And half in joy recall thy bloom.

Reader—do you want

SOMETHING NEW FOR DINNER?

It is not necessary to refer to a cook book to know what an excellent fish is the sheep's-head; you may find it in Noah Webster's large dictionary, where it is described as "the Sargus Ovis of Mitchell; esteemed delicious food"; or, you can find it in market.

Mr. Withers was married to a lovely young lady who once worked an entire piano cover with worsted. They had commenced housekeeping but a few months, when one morning the husband informed his wife that he should invite a friend to dine with him that day.

Mrs. Withers was in despair at this announcement, but she smiled and hid her grief; or at least her grief, in the shape of a Celtic cook, was at that time not to be seen, being employed in the kitchen, where she had invited two of her friends to "come in and ate."

Mr. Withers went down town; his wife then gave directions to the cook, Biddy O'Shaughshenny by name, to buy a sheep's-head, beef, game, and so forth.

'By the way, Bridget, have you ever cooked a sheep's-head before?'

'A shape's hid is it? Then I'm thinking, ma'am, I've cooked the likes of them minny a time and oft in the owld counthry when I bided with Mister Maginnis the grate counsillor in Dublin. I did.'

This was sufficient: Mrs. Withers was relieved of all care, and soon wended her way out shopping and making calls, until nearly the dinner hour. Home came Mr. Withers and friend, an Englishman by the name of Molesworth, with keen appetites. The dinner was served; oysters and soup finished, the waiter brought on a large dish covered.

'Ha, what have we here?' asked Withers, the husband.

'Something new, my dear,' answered Withers, the wife. 'I knew they were in season, and I ordered it for a surprise.'

Withers lifted the cover!

There WAS a sheep's head—with horns on.

However a Sheep's Head is like a turbot—for a turbot—according to Albert Smith's account of the Frenchman learning English—is not unlike a tire-botte (or a boot-jack) which has horns. Is'nt that a frantic conciliation of differences, and one which might have done honor to Petrus d'Abano, the Conciliator, himself?

There are many conscientious men whose consciences tear at the first pull—as is shown 'in the subsequent:'

CONSCIENTIOUS.

Dear Continental: Perhaps the following incident will cause a smile to ripple the good-natured features of some of your readers:—In the county of M——, the Draft Commissioner held an extra appeal for the 'conscientious men.' Now, in said county, there dwelt one Barney Mullen, who, not being exempted at the first appeal, on 'non-citizenship' grounds, was in 'great tribulation' in regard to the approaching draft. Some wag persuaded him to attend the second 'hearing,' telling him to swear that he was conscientious, and he would get his exemption papers. So Barney was at hand at the 'appointed time and place,' At last, 'it came to pass' that he got a hearing, and the Commissioner asked him what he had to say for himself.

'Shure, it's consyintious I am, an' exempted I want to be.'

The Commissioner had not forgotten Barney, so, to humor his whim, asked him if he would take the affidavit, having first read that paper to him.

'Afther David, the divil! It's me exemption papers I'm afther,' he replied.

'Have you conscientious scruples against fighting?' asked the Commissioner.

'Och, it's the schrupils an' dhrams both I have. I get 'em bad, too, yer honor.'

'Well, Barney,' said 'his honor'—putting the same question to him that he asked all others who offered the conscientious plea (and who always gave an affirmative answer)—'if your wife was being murdered, would you stand by a silent spectator?'

'Divil a silent spectator! D'yees take me fer a haythen? Be the howly! show me the scallywag that would harrum a hair o' the ole 'oman's hid, an' I'd give him sich a pelt on the gob, that he would think he'd got forninst a horse's hoof!'

'Then we can't exempt you, Mr. Mullen.'

'Mither ov Moses!' exclaimed Barney, as he left the room, 'not exempt a man because he wouldn't shtand by an' see the 'ole 'oman murdered!'

We are indebted to a friend—who is requested to call again—for the following from

Philadelphia, Nov. 1862.

Dear Continental:

Did you ever study the language of signs?

I have—and a queer language it is. It is divided into two great families.

The first is of street signs.

The second of signs manual, optical, and otherwise by gesture sign-ificant.

An excellent illustration of this latter class was witnessed lately in a police court of this city. I give it as narrated to me by a friend.

A deaf mute, whose banged and battered face spoke for itself, lately appeared before a local magistrate to complain of the sufferings inflicted upon him by certain iniquitarians to ye court unknown.

'He's deaf and dumb as a nadder, your honor,' remarked the solemn policeman who introduced the silent man. 'But he kin tell his story bully.'

And he did.

Striking an attitude the dumb one pointed to his bruises, and then struck out one, two and three à la Heenan, to signify that his sorrows had been caused by a pugilistic attack.

The court nodded its perfect comprehension of the business thus far.

Raising the two fingers of his left hand, the mute bowed them up and down, so that they seemed to be human beings with solidified legs, making salaams to the court.

The court nodded.

Then the two fingers precipitated themselves fiercely against the forefinger of the right hand, which at once fell down, and was danced upon and bumped in a variety of ways by the inhuman digits of the sinister party.

The court nodded. It understood that the dumb man had been attacked by two persons.

But who were the two?

Elevating the forefinger of the left hand, the plaintiff first pointed to its face—or the place most suggestive of one, and then pressed his own nose flat.

The court nodded. One of the assaulters had been flat-nosed.

'A nigger, your honor!' exclaimed the constable in breathless admiration.

Raising the second finger the dumb man after a second crossed his two forefingers, and made upon his breast the sign of the cross. It was catholically done.

The court nodded.

'An Irishman, your honor!' exclaimed the constable, who like the complainant argued very promptly from religion to nationality. An Irishman and a nigger—and I'll find out in ten minutes all about it.'

And he did—a warrant was issued, and the guilty men punished.

"Thus he by gestes made knowne hys sufferance."

Yours devoted, Jot.

IN THE BATTLE.

The drums are beat, the trumpets blow, The black-mouthed cannon bay the foe, Dark bristling o'er each murky height, And all the field is whirled in fight. The long life in the drowsy tent Fades from me like a vision spent;— I stand upon the battle's marge, And watch the smoking squadron's charge. Behold one starry banner reel With that wild shock of steel on steel; And ringing up by rock and tree At last the cry that summons me. I hear it in my vibrant soul, Deep thundering back its counter roll; And all life's ore seems newly wrought In the white furnace of my thought. No dream that made my days divine But flashes back some mystic sign; And every shape that erst was bright Sweeps by me garmented in light. High legends of immortal praise, Brows of world heroes bound with bays, The crownéd majesties of Time Rise visioned on my soul sublime. Dear living lips of love and prayer Come chanting through the blackened air; And eyes look out of marble tombs, And hands are waved from churchyard glooms. "Charge! charge!" at last the captain's cry! We pant, we speed, we leap, we fly; I feel my lifting feet aspire, As I were born of wind and fire! On! on! where wild the battle swims, On! on! no shade my vision dims; Transcendent o'er yon smoky wreath, I see the glory of great Death! Come flashing blade, and hissing ball! I give my blood, my breath, my all, So that on yonder rocking height The stars and stripes may wave to-night!

Our Art writer is awakened. Listen to him.

Dear Continental: You were kind enough to inform me that you would be much obliged if I would let you know if there was anything stirring in the world of Art.

The last thing which stirred in my world—I mean in my workshop in the Studio Building—was a German of the carpenter persuasion. At least he had a side pocket, and folding two-feet rule, with a shaving on his left curl.

'Bees you a poor-trait bainter?' he inquired.

'Truly I am!' I replied.

'I wants you to baint de likeness to my fader.'

'With pleasure. Bring him here.'

'Yas—see now, dat is not bossiple. He lies geburied in the purying crount in Stuttgart in Shermany.'

'Well, have you a photograph of him?'

'Nichtss photograb.'

'Or a bust?'

Nichts pust.'

'Or a drawing?'

'Nichts trawing.'

'Or an engraving?'

'Nichts craving.'

'Well, then—what have you got?'

'I got dis dings.'

Saying this, he brought forth a small book, greatly worn, which he slowly opened, and unfolded from it a broad leaf, adorned with German emblems, and cragged pot-hook inscriptions which looked like lager-bier signs.

'What is that?'

'Dis is mein fader's passport. Look ant readt! Plue eyes, proun hair, round kinn, pig mouf—und all dat, so fort. He hafe a goot deal of exbression like mine.'

(Where this latter could have been I could not imagine.)

'Yas—und he wear a plue gote.'

'Oh—a goatee, I suppose, on his chin?'

'No. It was a plue gote on his pack. He hafe a peard like mein, und look like mein. Put mein fader was a more older man dan me.'

'Ah, indeed!'

'Yas. Baint him mit a piple on a taple, und mit a girl on his hands.'

'What!!'

'Yas—mine leetle daughter. I prings her here to be colored.'

It was a bold thing to do; but on this small capital I went to work, and succeeded. At least, Jacobus Kirchelheimer said so—and he ought to know, for he was a first-rate fellow, and sent me over and above the price agreed upon, a dozen bottles of Rudesheimer. A suspicion seemed indeed to haunt his mind that the portrait resembled himself much more than it did the late Herr Kirchelheimer, pére,—but he speedily found comfort in the following reflection:

'Ven I kits to be more older it will do shoost as goot for mine bicture as for de old one.'

It wasn't very self-flattering—that of hoping to resemble the Old One; but I said nothing. And no more at present from

Yours truly, POPPY OYLE.

James Buchanan—not satisfied with hoping for the parings of a nomination to the Senate after having eaten the Presidential apple, has pushed his impudence so far as to attempt to vindicate Floyd from the charge of stealing, although the theft was by Floyd self-confessed and gloried in. This is proving more than the record. What will Floyd say for Buchanan?

The Raven said: 'Of birds I know, The very whitest is the Crow.' The Crow declared: 'While birds endure, The Raven will be whitest, sure!' The Raven said: 'I do believe The Crow knows not what 'tis to thieve.' The Crow inquired: 'Who ever heard The Raven was a stealing bird? 'He calls himself a thief, I know, But I can prove it is not so.' The Raven swore by wet and dry, The Crow was never known to lie. The Crow swore out by hot and cold, The Raven's word was good as gold. The Crow flew o'er an old oak tree; 'Caw me,' he croaked, 'and I'll caw thee.'

It is an old story, and one which will last while rogues endure—be they broken-down politicians, craving, like Buchanan, a little more paltry notoriety, or any other variety of the great family of the Dishonest. And they will go their way adown the road of time and into history, properly brandmarked. The truth ever comes to light.

'And that isn't all—either.' For even as we write, the following is handed us by a friend:

Take, oh, take his pen away, That so feebly runs on paper; Keep him quiet, or he'll play Other trait'rous prank and caper. Why apologize for treason, Or for stealing give a reason? Hide, oh, hide his pens and ink; Try to keep him silent: do! Would you let him lower sink, He'd defend the Devil too. Keep him silent, let him be: He has not escaped Scott-free.

Not he—nor the opinion of the whole world, either. There—let him go—his place in the future is at any rate decided on. And yet the vindicator of Floyd intends, we are told, to vindicate himself!

A late 'horrible and agonizing execution' of two murderers in cultivated and Christian England was witnessed by one hundred thousand people!—according to the London Times. In the first-class English journals a large space is always devoted to police reports, in which the vilest and most vulgar criminal cases are always given in full detail, to gratify the almost universal British craving for filth and cruelty. A drunken vagabond cannot maim his wife but all England must know all about it. Let it be borne in mind that while English writers are never weary of speaking of the blackguardism of the American press, nine tenths of our journals abandoned many years ago the abominable practice of regularly publishing police cases; and that, making every allowance, English newspapers at present publish on an average ten times as much demoralizing matter as the American.

We clip the following from the Boston Post:

'Speaking of the heathen names reminds the London Athenæum of what M. Salverte says with respect to that fairest of the heroines in that poem for all spring time, "Lalla Rookh." Everybody, in his happy turn, has been in love with that lady of the peerless enchantments: perhaps they will be taken a little aback when they hear that before the lord of the East gave her the name of Nourmahal, 'Light of the Harem,' or, in the later excess of his love, Nourdjihan, 'Light of the World,' she was known to her family and friends as Mher-ul-Nica, or, in equivalent Saxon, the 'Strapping Wench;' and that this 'tallest of women,' of whom it is said her lover, Djihanguyr,

——preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd Down her exquisite neck, to the throne of the world,

only became the light of his harem by the process of cutting the throat of her first husband. If this annotation, to be made in all copies of the poem, do not wring all charm out of the names by which the poet's lady is known to fame, then fiction again will prove stronger than fact.'

'And that isn't all, either.' For Noor-Mahal, albeit conventionally used as Light of the Harem, does mean Light of the Workshop in Arabic. We shouldn't in the least wonder if the lady in question, in her earlier and better-behaved days, had been chief engineer of a sewing machine at two shillings a day. However, we set that down to her credit side.

Reader—you have travelled? If so, did you ever suffer from too much landlord?

The last time we were at Mackinaw, we had our boots blackened, our clothes 'swept,' and our cigars diminished by a very funny halfbreed named Pierre, and noticed that when more cigars than usual were taken, we were always sure of receiving an extra amount of attention from him in the way of sweeping, brushing, and small talk.

'Mossu, how you lak Detroit?'

'I like it very well.'

'Zat fust-rate 'otel, ze Fiddle House; ze landlord he maks var' big fuss over ze grand persons as come zére—var' big fuss. Mamselle Grandrose she var splendid danseuse, she 'ave ze grande attentions: Madame COLSON she grande chanteuse 'ave ze grand care. Ah, bote zére comes zére oncet ze Marquis de Chouxfleurs, zen you should see zat landlord; he bows and he smiles, and he rons round all ze time, viz, 'Musshoe ze Markiss, vat you lak for to eat, for to drink, for to sleeps? can I do somesings fore you. At lass ze Marquis he call for his bill, and he goes for to leave ze hotel. Zen ze landlord he comes to ze door, and he bows, and he smiles, and he robs his hands togezzer, and says he:

'Musshoe ze Markiss, bone voyyaidge;' (you see he spiks ze French var' bad;) 'I hope you have been satisfy wiz my ho-tel?'

Zen ze Marquis smiles var' moch pleasaunt, and viz ze air off grand seigneur he lokes down on ze landlord and spiks slowlee:

'Ze eat is var' good, ze sleep is not so var' bad, bote I 'ave notice one sing—zére is entairely TOO MOCHE LANDLORD!'

In American hotels, as strangers declare, unless one be acquainted, the complaint is apt to be of too little landlord. Then—oh, then, 'all goes as it does with a divinity in France,' as the European proverb hath it—that is to say, very Paradisiacally indeed. Which reminds us of a letter on the coming of the Millennium, from a friend who declares it to be his conviction that those who are afraid of the immediate realization of this consummation devoutly to be wished for, may lay aside their apprehensions, since it is evident that nothing of the kind is to come off this year at least.

'Of which, dear Continental friend, there can be no doubt, albeit there may be somewhat pity. For I have lang syne awaited a millennium and a golden age, and, when Fernando Wood was kicked out of the mayoralty into Coventry, hailed it as the beginning. Now, however, the old serpent lifts his head—Fernando has gone to Congress, and the devil is let loose again for a little season—to give seasoning by his sin to the great sea of gruel of excessive virtue with which the world is inundated. Oh for the wings of a dove, to be 'out of this'—cut loose from all such 'carryin's on,' and fairly calm in some silent Lubberland or Atlantis fairy realm of peace!

'Where, with glasses ever clinking, The gentles, ever drinking To their lady loves in winking, Cry aloud in jubilo; And the jolly plump old president Calls out to every resident, And, when they answer, says he meant To pledge in gaudio: 'Where the bells all day are ringing, Where the world is ever singing, And the roasted ducks fly winging Their way into your mouth: Where doors are never banging, Where tongues are never clanging, Where the peach and grape while hanging Turn all sides toward the south: 'Where you find no foolish fussing, Where you hear no oaths or cussing, Where the babies need no nussing, But in smiles or sleep are found: Where they all own herds and flockses, Where we get in no 'bad boxes,' And where all the paradoxes Are made straight, or else come round. 'O land so sweet and sunny! O land of milk and money! O land of peach and honey! O land withouten peer! O land of good society! O land of great variety! And genial sobriety, Oh, would that thou wert here! 'Or that I were 'over yonder!' Free to rest and free to ponder, Free to print, and free to wander 'Mid the maidens short and tall! On 'the other side of Jordan,' Where all is tuned accordin' 'To your leastest wish, my lord,' in Every matter, great and small!

'Knowest thou, O Editor Leland, of aught such, where the board is cheap? Answer, I pray ye, forthwith. Sono stancato.'

Not we. When we hear of it, O friend, we will take passage for two—by the first boat.

A FRIEND communicates to us the following:

'Plato, I think, Pythagoras, I guess, and Fo-hi, as I suppose—to judge from his eight Kua—believed that all knowledge was capable of mathematical representation.

'I don't know Miss Brown,' quoth a lady lately, in my hearing, 'she isn't in my Circle.'

'And I don't know her,' added Miss Black, 'for she doesn't live in my Square—and I never visit out of it.'

Dr. Holmes has, however, declared that a person may be known by Triangulating the descent from the grandfather down.

From all of which I should judge that to mathematically set forth the knowledge of any person, it would be necessary to draw that slightly paradoxical figure popularly described as a triangular square with round corners!

Q.E.D.

Yes—we think we see it. Square—corner—tri—Here, Thomas—carry it off and have it set up. It's all right, we suppose. Somebody will find it out, at any rate. Let us continue by singing the following genial 'Soldier's Song,' which hath the good ring of the good old time, and which has just come to hand:

SOLDATENLIED.

The wide world is the soldier's home, His comrades are his kin; His palace-roof the welkin dome, The drum his mandolin. He gives to air All thought of care, And trolls his serenade To fiery Mars, The king of stars, That never love betrayed. The banner is the soldier's bride, The love of bold and brave; His wedding feast, the battle tide; His marriage bed, the grave. Where bullets sing, Death's leaden wing, Light as a dancing feather, When hero falls, To glory's halls, Wafts life and love together.

A teacher of the truly 'genial' stamp—that is to say one who takes delight, in exercising his or her genius, and in awakening that of the pupil is, we fear, a rarity; as much even in Art, as in any other branch of education. We believe, however, that we may claim as an exception Mrs. Eliza Greatorix of this city, whom we believe to be honestly and earnestly interested in her calling as an instructor in drawing, and one who endeavors to make Art 'a living language by educating the eye through the intelligence.' The method which she pursues is that of drawing from objects, beginning with Harding's series of blocks, and thereby accustoming both eye and hand to greater accuracy than can be acquired from copying the usual plane surface pictures, which in most cases makes of the pupil a mere facsimilist. Mrs. Greatorix may be found at Studio 12, No. 204, Fifth Avenue.

A WORD FOR THE TIMES.

There ne'er was harm in anything, But it came by misgoverning: For one word of evil guiding May lose a kingdom or a king! A sound truth this which all can feel From the romance of Sir Greye Stele. Ye rulers all who bear the bell, Weigh it, I pray you, wisely, well.

In this world nothing is constant save inconstancy. Nature changes all things, night and morn, and when she puts on again her former semblance, still it is only a semblance, and never the very same. Young ladies—when your lovers vow to be true forever to love—you may believe them; but whether they will be eternally true to you, admits of reflection. Such at least seems to have been the life-philosophy of him who penned the following poem:

BY THE STREAM.

Oh water that ever art roving! O fountain that never canst move! Oh fancy—some new flame still loving! O heart, ever constant to love! The waterfall rustled and glistened, Till it seemed like a musical flame, And I lay and I looked and I listened Till the nymph of the waterfall came. It was no Undine or Lurley (Though I thought her as beautiful still) That came in the evening early— But a bare-footed maid from the mill. The pitcher too frequently laden Must break and be lost at the worst, But the young heart, when full of a maiden, Of the twain will be broken the first. But the pitcher, when cracked by a tumble, Must be laid, till repaired, on the shelf, While the heart, although shattered and humble, Will be mended in time by itself. And we vowed that we loved—but with laughter, And we kissed with our feet in the brook; She left me—my whistle rung after, To win from the maid a last look. And months have flown by since I missed her, For afar with another she's flown; And now I wait here for her sister, To vow that I've loved her alone. Oh water that ever art roaming! Oh fountain that never canst move! Oh fancy—some new flame still loving! Oh heart ever constant to—love!

Sing it, reader, 'if thou canst sing.' A lady friend assures us that it goeth well unto voice and pianoforte.

YE JOLLIE POACHER.

'Twas I that kept a shoddy mill In starving Lancashire; And shaved the Yankees shamefully For many and many a year. The mill is stopped, I'm raving mad, As from the Times you hear; Oh it's my delight to bark and bite At all times of the year.