The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, June, 1862

And what can be more exhilarating than the innocent mirthfulness, the unaffected kindnesses, the witty speeches, the sprightly conversations which are universally incident to such occasions? No wonder Lycurgus decreed that the Spartans should eat in public. Ostensibly, it was for the sake of the grave conversations of the elders at such times, but really, I imagine, it was to keep the citizens (who had been at swords' points with each other) in a good humor, by bringing them around a common table.

He knew that if any thing would soften their mutual asperities and cultivate mutual good feeling, such a measure would. Would it not be well for modern times to take a hint here? Had I been appointed architect of the Capitol, I think I could have saved the feuds which long ago sprang up, and which have resulted in, and will yet bring about, alas! we know not how much bloodshed. I would have constructed a couple of immense dining-rooms, with all the necessary appurtenances. Just to think how different would have been the aspect of things in the chamber where Sumner once lay bleeding, and in the hall where a gentleman, in a mêlée, 'stubbed his toe and fell!' There would have been Mr. Breckinridge, in a canopied seat at the head of one of the tables, rapping the Senate to order with his knife-handle, and Mr. Orr at the head of the other, uncovering an immense tureen, with the remark that 'the House will now proceed to business!' How strange it would be to hear any angry debate at such a time! Imagine a Congressman helping himself to a batter-cake and at the same time calling his brother-member a liar! or throwing down his napkin, by way of challenge to 'the gentleman on the opposite side of the table!' Think of Keitt politely handing Grow the cream-pitcher, and attempting to knock him down before the meal was dispatched. Had the discussion of the Lecompton Constitution been carried on simultaneously with that of a couple of dozen roast turkeys, I sometimes think we might have avoided this war.

Not only in public but in private rejoicings, is the table the scene of chief enjoyment. When was it that the fatted calf was killed? On what occasion was the water turned into wine? What better way to rejoice over the return of a long-absent one than to meet him around the hospitable table? Ye gods! let your mouths water! There's a feast ahead for our brave soldiers, when they come home from this war, that will make your tables look beggarly. I refer to that auspicious moment when the patriot now baring his bosom to the bloody brunt of war, shall sit down once more to the table, in his own dear home, however humble, and partake of the cheerful meal in peace, with his wife and his little ones about him. Oh! for the luxury of that first meal! I almost feel as if I could endure the hardships of the fierce campaign that precedes it.

There is no memory so pleasant to me as that of the annual reünion of my aunts and uncles, with their respective troops of cousins, at the house of my dear grandmother of blessed memory. It was pleasant to watch the conveyances one by one coming in, laden with friends who had traveled many a weary mile to be present on the great occasion. It was pleasant to witness the mutual recognitions of brothers and sisters with their respective wives and husbands; to observe the transports of the little fellows, in their hearty greetings, after a twelve months' separation, and to hear their expressions of mingled surprise and delight on being introduced to the strange little cousins, whose presence increased the number considerably above the preceding census. But the culminating point was yet to come. That was attained when all the brothers and sisters had gathered around the great long table, just as they did when they were children, with their dear mother at the head, surveying the scene in quiet enjoyment, and one of the 'older boys' at the foot, to ask a blessing. There were the waffle-cakes, baked in the irons which had furnished every cake for that table for the last quarter of a century. There was the roast-turkey, which grandma had been putting through a generous system of dietetics for weeks, preparatory to this occasion. It rested on the same old turkey-plate, with its two great birds sitting on a rose-bush, and by its side was the great old carving-knife, which had from time immemorial been the instrument of dissection on such occasions. And there was maple-molasses from Uncle D–'s 'sugar-camp,' and cheese from Aunt N–'s press, and honey from Uncle T–'s hives, and oranges which Aunt I–, who lived in the city, had provided, and all contained in the old-fashioned plates and dishes of a preceding generation.

I discover I am treating my subject in a very desultory manner. Perhaps I should have stated that under the head of the complete genus, meal, there are three distinct species, public, social, and private. That the grand banquet, celebrating some great man's birth, or the success of some noble public enterprise, with its assemblages of the great and the good from every part of the country; the Fourth of July festival, in honor of our nation's independence, with its speeches, its drums, its toasts, and its cannon; the 'table d'hôte,' or in plain English, the hotel dinner-table, so remarkable for the multitude of its dishes and the meagreness of their contents; the harvest-feast, the exact opposite of the last-named, even to the mellow thirds and fifths that come floating over the valleys from the old-fashioned dinner-horn, calling in the tired laborers; its musical invitation in such striking contrast with the unimagined horrors of the gong that bellows its expectant victims to their meals; the family repast, where one so often feels gratified with the delicate compliment of a mother, a sister, or a wife, in placing some favorite dish or flower near his plate; the annual gatherings of jolly alumni; the delightful concourse of relatives and friends; the gleesome picnic lunch, with its grassy carpet and log seats; the luxurious oyster-supper, with its temptations 'to carry the thing too far;' the festival at the donation-party, which, in common parlance, would be called a dish of 'all sorts;' the self-boarding student's desolate corn-cake, baked in a pan of multifarious use: all these are so many modifications under their respective species.

Let me remark, in conclusion, that there are some meals from which I pray to be delivered. There is the noisy dinner of the country-town tavern or railroad station, where each individual seems particularly anxious that number one should be provided for, and where, in truth, he is obliged often to make pretty vigorous efforts, if he succeeds. Again, have you ever observed how gloomy is the look of those who for the first time gather around the table, after the departure of a friend? The breakfast was earlier than usual, and the dishes were suffered to stand and the beds to go unmade, and housemaid, chamber-maid, cook, and seamstress, all engaged in the mélée of packing up, and of course came in for their share of 'good-bys.' After the guests were fairly off, 'things took a stand-still' for a while. All hands sat down and rested, and looked very blank, and didn't know just where to begin. Slowly, confusion began to relax his hold, and order, by degrees, resumed her sway; (for the life of me, I can't bring myself to determine the genders in any other way.) But when, at last, the dinner-hour came, how strangely silent were the eaters! Ah! if the departed one have gone to his long home, how solemn is this first meeting of the family, after their return to their lonely home! It may be the sire whose place at the head of the table is now vacant, and whose silvery voice we no longer hear humbly invoking the divine blessing; or perhaps the mother, and how studiously we keep our eye away from the seat where her generous hand was wont to pour our tea. Perhaps the little one, the idol of the household, whose chirruping voice was wont to set us all laughing with droll remarks, expressed in baby dialect. How we miss the little high-chair that was always drawn up close by papa!' How our eyes will swim and our hearts swell up and choke us when we see it pushed back into the corner, now silent and vacant! Hast thou not wept thus? Be grateful. Thou hast been spared one of life's keenest pangs.

Thou speakest well. Dr. Doran has pleased us with his Table Traits, but a great book yet remains to be written on the social power of meals. The immortals were never so lordly as when assembled at the celestial table, where inextinguishable laughter went the rounds with the nectar. The heroes of Valhalla were most glorious over the ever-growing roast-boar and never-failing mead. Heine suggests a millennial banquet of all nations, where the French are to have the place of honor, for their improvements in freedom and in cookery, and Master Rabelais could imagine nothing more genial than when in the Moyen de Parvenir, he placed all the gay, gallant, wise, brave, genial, joyous dames and demoiselles, knights, and scholars of all ages at one eternal supper. Ah! yes; it matters but little what is 'gatherounded,' as a quaint Americanism hath it, so that the wit, and smiles, and good-fellowship be there.

It is stated in the newspapers—we know not on what authority—that Charles A. Dana, late of the New-York Tribune, will probably receive an important appointment in the army. A man of iron will, of indomitable energy, undoubted courage, and of an inexhaustible genius, which displays itself by mastering every subject as by intuition, Dana is one whom, of all others, we would wish to see actively employed in the war. We have described him in by-gone days as one who was 'an editor by destiny and a soldier by nature,' and sincerely trust that his career will yet happily confer upon him military honors. No man in America—we speak advisedly—has labored more assiduously, or with more sterling honest conviction in politics, than Charles A. Dana. The influence which he has exerted has been immense, and it is fit that it be recognized. Men who, like him, combine stern integrity with vigorous practical talent, have a claim to lead.

Among the most striking songs which the war has brought forth, we must class that grim Puritanical lyric, 'The Kansas John Brown,' which appeared originally in the Kansas Herald, and which is, as we are informed, extensively sung in the army. The words are as follows:

THE KANSAS JOHN BROWN SONGOld John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,While the bondmen all are weeping whom he ventured for to save;But though he lost his life a-fighting for the slave,His soul is marching on.Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!His soul is marching on.John Brown was a hero undaunted, true and brave,And Kansas knew his valor when he fought her rights to save;And now, though the grass grows green above his grave,His soul is marching on.He captured Harper's Ferry with his nineteen men so few,And frightened Old Virginia till she trembled through and through;They hung him for a traitor—themselves a traitor crew,But his soul is marching on.John Brown was John the Baptist of the Christ we are to see;CHRIST, who of the bondmen shall the Liberator be;And soon through all the South the slaves shall all be free,For his soul goes marching on.John Brown he was a soldier—a soldier of the LORD;John Brown he was a martyr—a martyr to the WORD;And he made the gallows holy when he perished by the cord,For his soul goes marching on.The battle that John Brown begun, he looks from heaven to view,On the army of the Union with its flag, red, white and blue;And the angels shall sing hymns o'er the deeds we mean to do,As we go marching on!Ye soldiers of JESUS, then strike it while you may,The death-blow of Oppression in a better time and way,For the dawn of Old John Brown is a-brightening into day,And his soul is marching on.Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!His soul is marching on.

There! if the soldiers of Cromwell and of Ireton had any lyric to beat that, we should like to see it. Among its rough and rude rhymes gleams out a fierce fire which we supposed was long since extinct. Verily, old Father Puritan is not dead yet, neither does he sleep; and to judge from what we have heard of the effects of this song among the soldiers, we should say that grim Old John Brown himself, far from perishing, is even now terribly alive. There is something fearful in the inspiration which can inspire songs like this.

'GALLI VAN T' is welcome, and will be 'welcomer' when he again visits us in another letter like this:

DEAR CONTINENTAL: I have a friend who is not an artful man, though he be full of art; and yesterday evening he told me the following:

'In my early days, when I took views of burly farmers and their bouncing daughters in oil, and painted portraits of their favorite horses for a very moderate honorarium, and in short, was the artist of a small country town—why, then, to tell the truth, I was held to be one of the greatest painters in existence. Since studying abroad, and settling down in New-York mdash;—'

'And getting your name up among the first,' I added.

'Never mind that—I'm not 'the greatest painter that ever lived' here. But in Spodunk, I was. Folks 'admired to see me.' I was a man that 'had got talent into him,' and the village damsels invited me to tea. There were occasional drawbacks, to be sure. One day a man who had heard that I had painted Doctor Hewls's house, called and asked me what I would charge to paint his little 'humsted.' I offered to do it for twenty dollars.

'He gave me a shrewd gimlet-look and said:

'Find your own paint—o' course?'

''Of course,' I replied. What color?'

''Why, the same color you now have,' was my astonished answer.

''Wall, I don't know. My wife kind o' thinks that turtle-color would suit our house better than Spanish brown. You put on two coats, of course?'

'I now saw what he meant, and roaring with laughter, explained to him that there was a difference between apainter of houses and a house-painter.

'One morning I was interrupted by a grim, Herculean, stern-looking young fellow—one who was manifestly a man of facts—who, with a brief introduction of himself, asked if I could teach 'the pictur business.' I signified my assent, and while talking of terms, continued painting away at a landscape. I noticed that my visitor glanced at my work at first as if puzzled, and then with an air of contempt. Finally he inquired:

'''S that the way you make your pictures?'

''That is it,' I replied.

''Do you have to keep workin' it in, bit by bit, slow—like as a gal works woosted-patterns?'

''Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.'

''How long 'll it take to learn your trade?'

''Well, if you've any genius for it, you may become a tolerable artist in two years.'

''Two—thunder! Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that time!'

''Very likely. There is not one man in a hundred, who can make shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.'

''Darn paintin'!' was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his club to depart—his hat had not been removed during the whole of the visit. 'Darn paintin'! I thought you did the thing with stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper. Mister, I don't want to hurt your feeling—but cordin' to my way o' thinkin', paintin' as you do it, an't a trade at all—it's nothin' but a darned despisable fine art!'

'And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned to go. I burst out laughing. He turned around squarely, and presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired abruptly, as he glared at me:

''Maybe you'd like to paint my portrit?'

'I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and answered:

''I don't paint animals.

'He gave me a parting look, and abscondulated.' When I saw him last, he was among the City Fathers! GALLI VAN T.'

A SONG OF THE PRESENT

BY EDWARD S. RAND, JRNot to the Past whose smouldering embers lie,Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed,Not to the moments that have hurried by,Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwellFair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near,Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel,A land whose hopes find no fruition here.But to the Present: be it dark or bright,Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good;Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light;Its ills are blessings, rightly understood.Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers;Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays,Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours;A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise.Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine;Grief can not always last, joy's hour will come;Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine,And make thy heart the sunshine's constant home.Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smileCarries a magic nothing can withstand;A cheerful look may many a care beguile,And to the weary be a helping hand.Be brave—clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms;Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest,The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms,Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.

A STRANGE STORY—ITS SEQUEL

PREFACE

The often expressed wish of the American Press for an explanation of the meaning of 'A Strange Story,' shall be complied with. It is purely and simply this: Many novels, most of them, in fact, treat of the World; the rest may be divided into those vaguely attempting to describe the works of the Flesh and the Devil. This division of subjects is fatal to their force; there was need to write a novel embracing them all; therefore 'A Strange Story' was penned. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz personated the World, Doctor Fenwick the Flesh, and Margrave, alias Louis Grayle, certainly, I may be allowed to say, played the Devil with marked ability. To give a fitting morale to all, the character of Lilian Ashleigh was thrown in; the good genius, the conqueror of darkness, the positive of the electrical battery meeting the negative and eliciting sparks of triumphant light—such was the heroine.

Man, conscious of a future life, and endowed with imagination, is not content with things material, especially if his brain is crowded with the thoughts of the brains of ten thousand dead authors, and his nervous system is over-tasked and over-excited. In this condition he rushes away—away from cool, pure, and lovely feature—burying himself in the hot, spicy, and gorgeous dreams of Art. He would adore Cagliostro, while he mocked Doctor Watts! Infatuated dreamer! Returning at last, by good chance—or, rather, let me say, by the directing hand of Providence—from his evil search of things tabooed, to admiration of the Real, the Tangible, and the True; he will show himself as Doctor Fenwick does in this sequel, a strong, sensible, family-man, with a clear head and no-nonsense about him.

CHAPTER I

'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that Egyptian woman bore the last—positively the last—remains of Margrave, or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'

'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.

'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:

'FABER, No. 4.'

I believe it may belong to one of my family—lost, perhaps, in the ocean of commerce.'

'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung; let us enter the house.'

CHAPTER II

'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us how that cold chicken should be carved.'

Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket. Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.

'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.

'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and romantic dreams.'

'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs. Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken to filling her duties as housewife?'

'To be sure I do.'

The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a brown one, remarking:

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale—we are nearly out.'

CHAPTER III

'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap—on-ly thrippence a tab-let—takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'

'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above.

'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin' soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben wurkin this lay long enough, I ham thinkin'.

Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails—two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account—the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits.

CHAPTER IV

Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled.

CHAPTER V

Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!

Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.

THE END

WHAT THEN?

BY J. HAL. ELLIOTGod's pity on them! Human souls, I mean,Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt,And bodies which no common sore can hurt;All this betweenThose souls, and life—corrupt, defiled, unclean.And more—hard faces, pinched by starving years.Cold, stolid, grimy faces—vacant eyes,Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies;But never tears!Tears would not help them—battling constant jeers.Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first,Crouching through life forever in the dark,Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark;And no one durstDeny their horrid dream, that they are curst.And life for them! dare we call life its name?O God! an arid sea of burning sand,Eternal blackness! death on every hand!A smothered flame,Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.And death! we shudder when we speak the word;'Tis all the same to them—or life, or death;They breathe them both with every fevered breath;When have they heard,That cool Bethesda's waters might be stirred!They live among us—live and die to-day;We brush them with our garments on the street,And track their footsteps with our dainty feet;'Poor common clay!'We curl our lips—and that is what we say.God's pity on them! and on us as well:They live and die like brutes, and we like men:Both go alone into the dark—what then?Or heaven, or hell?They suffered in this life! Stop! Who can tell?

The last stranger who visited Washington Irving, before his death, was Theodore Tilton, who published shortly afterward an account of the interview. Mr. Tilton wrote also a private letter to a friend, giving an interesting reminiscence, which he did not mention in his published account. The following is an extract from this letter, now first made public: