Various - Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

We are indebted to a Dawfuskie Island correspondent for the following
details relative to

THE FALL OF PULASKI.

'Come and dine with me next Sunday in Pulaski?' said the commandant
of a detachment of the Volunteer Engineer corps located on Tybee
Island, one bright morning in the early part of April. As the
invitation was given in all sincerity, and the officer who thus
spoke was assisting in the erection of the batteries commanding
that fort, the question which had so long occupied my mind, as to
when the bombardment would begin, was now, I fondly hoped, near its
solution. Time and again had rumor fixed the period of that event;
but as often were we disappointed. Nor was _the_ day now fixed; at
least, if so, it was not communicated to me; but as the coming
Friday of that week would be the anniversary of the attack on Fort
Sumter, the natural inference was, that on the morning of that day,
we should witness the opening of the long and anxiously-looked for
engagement.

Sad rumors had come to our camp, that eighteen soldiers who had
gone out skirmishing within the rebel lines, on Wilmington Island,
had been captured, and were prisoners within the walls of Pulaski.
How far this event may have hastened the attack, we know not; but
on Thursday, the tenth, instead of Friday, the eleventh, the
bombardment began, and the thunder of our mortars shook the earth
and rent the heavens with their roar. Pulaski returned the fire
with a promptness and energy that seemed to bid defiance to our
batteries. Throughout the whole day, the storm beat unceasingly
upon the doomed fort, raining shot and shell like hail against its
walls and upon its ramparts. Solid steel-pointed shot, from
columbiads and Parrotts, aimed with a precision that indicated not
only great skill but a knowledge of the point of danger in the
fort, perforated the walls and buried themselves in the thick and
heavy masonry. Once, twice, thrice, four times was the rebel flag
shot away; but as often was it replaced. At seven o'clock in the
evening, the firing ceased, and there was a lull in the storm,
only, however, to be renewed again at midnight, and kept up at
regular intervals until sunrise, when the engagement increased in
greater vigor than throughout the preceding day.

The morning was clear and beautiful, but not calm. A stiff breeze
came from the East, as if to bear the terrific reports of the
cannonading to Savannah, whose distant spires and towers gleamed in
the sun. Our blockading fleet, with accompanying transports, lay at
anchor in Tybee harbor. Here and there a gunboat, firing occasional
shots, could be seen moving about in Wilmington sound, while the
Unadilla, Hale, and Western World occupied their positions in
Wright and Mud rivers. Tatnall's fleet was no where to be seen, and
all things in the direction of Savannah seemed as quiet as though
that city was peacefully and securely reposing, as in other days,
under the broad folds of the American Union.

It was a sad and woful day to the cities of the South, when her
rebel princes renounced their allegiance to the government, and
raised the traitor arm of rebellion against its authority. Imagined
evils, in connection with the Union, were then converted into real
ones, and these have been augmented a thousand-fold in the
severance from that Union. When the South shall 'come to
herself'--if she ever does--like the prodigal son, she will find
her condition quite as pitiable, and in rags and wretchedness, she
will seek her father's house, willing, no doubt, to occupy a
servant's place in the national household. Nor until true and
genuine repentance shall come to her, can she hope for a father's
forgiveness and a prodigal's reception and restoration.

Boom! boom!! boom!!! as if the last great day of vengeance had
come, and you could hear the screeching of a thousand fiends in the
air hastening to their destiny, come upon the ear, as Tybee utters
her thunders, and pours out her vials of wrath. See that cloud of
dust which shoots up like a volcano, and looks as though the whole
east side of the fort had fallen in! Bolts of iron, like winged
battering-rams, are ploughing fearfully through her belabored side.
Before this cloud has passed away, you see, just above it, another,
not dark and angry, but in appearance white and spherical as the
moon. A shell has exploded, and rained its iron fragments into the
fort.

It is now past meridian of the second day. Pulaski still fires her
heaviest guns; but at greater intervals. The batteries from Tybee
have obtained so exact a range that nearly every shot does
execution. At length a breach is made in the vicinity of the
magazine. The fate of the fort and all its inmates is now suspended
upon a single, well-directed shot. There is but a step between the
besieged and death, and as all hope of raising the siege is
abandoned, the rebel flag is hauled down, and a white flag of
submission waves in its stead. Pulaski falls, and the day is ours.
The hope of Georgia is gone. In vain did the citizens of Savannah
offer a prize of one hundred thousand dollars for the relief of the
fort. Had that sum been increased to a million, it would have been
quite as unavailing. The same inevitable doom awaits all the other
forts and intrenchments of the rebel confederacy. With some of
these, the event may be delayed; but the day of doom will come, and
the broad flag of the Union will float over every inch of territory
from the hills of the Aroostook to the waters of the Rio Grande.

Just as the fort struck her flag, an incident occurred which was
somewhat remarkable. A sloop, which had been at anchor in Tybee
harbor, was broken from her moorings by the violence of the wind,
and driven by wind and tide, she floated up the Savannah river.
With her Union down, she passed immediately in front of Pulaski,
and turned into Wright river, where she was run ashore. Twenty
minutes earlier, and she would have been blown to atoms by the guns
of the fort.

An almost incredible amount of work has been done by our investing
army, in accomplishing this glorious result. Rivers and creeks had
to be sounded, obstructions removed, roads made through swamps on
marshy islands, where our officers and men had to work day and
night, often up to their waists in mud and water; heavy Parrotts
and columbiads had to be carried by hand across these swamps, and
erected on platforms inundated by rising tides; dykes and ditches
had to be made, while all the time our men were exposed to the fire
of the rebel fleet. When all this was accomplished, and
communication was cut off from Pulaski, then the nearest points on
Tybee were reached by our forces located on that island, and four
or five batteries were planted, which, in turn, have done their
work, and the result shows how wise were the plans and how
successful was the execution. The stars and stripes now float over
Pulaski, and may they never again be polluted by the touch of
traitor hands.

* * * * *

Those persons who 'collect' street literature (there be such) may be
pleased with the following:

PORTENTOUS PLACARDS.

_New-York, May, 1862._

Since the publication of the 'Bill-Poster's Dream,' and of the extracts
from Richmond papers containing the prophecies of the handwriting on the
wall relative to the accomplice States of America, few things have so
generally attracted pedestrian attention in our down-town streets as two
enormous placards. The first bore the following legend:

THERE'S
A TEMPEST
BREWING.

Persons given to cryptical studies were inclined to consider this an
esoteric form of advertisement, intended to convey to the initiated the
information that A. STORM had gone into the beer business. But
conjecture was set at naught by its fellow which appeared at its side on
the day after its posting, in this shape:

VIDELICIT

The Prophessor.

Puncanhed, who was the first to call my attention to the placard,
did so with the following statement:

''Tan't spelt right--and why couldn't the feller just as well use
the 'good old English' word _viz._, as _'videlicit?'_'

The query was unanswerable. But having some doubt as to the first
word in the Greek line, by using which instead of the article 'O,
the writer has shown not merely unconsciousness of the Greek
particle, but ignorance of a particle of Greek, I put the first
Hibernian who passed to the test of reading the sentence, which I
am forced to say the indignant Milesian scornfully declined. I
submit the whole question to the researches of your readers.
HEMIPLEGIUS.

Nay--we know not. 'The Professor' at the Breakfast-Table we do indeed
know, and it is no unwonted thing for us to meet him in Tremont street,
merry and wise as ever. But we have never seen him or any other
Professor 'driven to the wall' in any way whatever; and albeit we
suspect him of a knowledge of whist, we have beheld him pla-carded. We
pass.

* * * * *

Do we say too much when we call the following poem truly beautiful?

WITH FLOWERS.

MAY MORNING, 1862.

Reject them not! they come to plead for me;
When you are cold, 'tis _winter_ in my heart;
Till you are kind, 'sweet May' 'twill never be,
And if you smile, summer will ne'er depart!

'My heart is weary,--waiting for the May,'
_So_ sad and weary; will _you_ give it rest?
Not _love_, but _rest_: it is not _much_ to say:
'Poor, tired child! once more be thou my guest.'

Forgive my wild and wayward words, forgive!
"We are dying of our thirst--'my heart and I!'
Without love's sunshine, who can care to live?
And when love shines, oh I who can bear to die?

'Ah! this love!' 'There is not much of it in life,' says Heine; but that
little alone makes life tolerable. Rest, perturbed spirit, rest! In
another land, there is love enough for all.

CHIVALRY

By R. Wolcott; Tenth Regiment

Not long ago I happened to be one of a number of fair ladies and brave
men assembled at what is called a 'surprise-party.' It was my fortune to
be the attendant cavalier, for the time, of a damsel of romantic
disposition, and, I fear, of somewhat impaired digestive powers. And she
was lamenting, not boisterously, but in a subdued, conversational
manner, that the good old days were gone, 'the days of Chivalry,' when
my lady had her nice little _boo-dwah_ (for the life of me, I didn't
know whether that was something nice to eat or to wear; but I have since
learned that it is something French, and spelt, _b-o-u-d-o-i-r_,) and
was waited upon by handsome pages, and took her airing on a dappled-gray
palfrey, attended by trusty and obsequious grooms; when Sir Knight,
followed by his sturdy henchmen, rode forth in gay and gaudy attire,
with glittering helmet and cuirass, and entered the lists, and bravely
fought for his fair lady's fame. She spoke with fervid eloquence, and
with a glibness that betrayed a very recent perusal of the
tournament-scene in _Ivanhoe_. I was about to reply, and say something
in behalf of modern chivalry; but just then a gentleman claimed her hand
for a quadrille that was forming, and my remarks were cut short.

If my readers will bear with me, I will attempt to tell them what I was
going to say to my romantic young friend. The days of chivalry are _not_
gone. Let me remark that this assertion does not apply to the blatant,
nigger-driving article that whilom flourished in Dixie, for that is
about 'played out,' though they still rant and prate about the 'flower
of chivalry.' At Fort Lafayette, there is an herbarium of choice
specimens (rather faded and seedy) of that curious 'yarb;' and at the
old Alton Penitentiary, and at Camp Douglas, Chicago, there are
collections, not so choice and a great deal more seedy. Though
Simon--not he of other notoriety, but another man--Simon Bolivar
Buckner, a sweet-scented pink of Southern chivalry; though he must have
his little fling at us, and call General Grant 'ungenerous and
unchivalrous,' it does not strike me with stunning force that he,
ingrate that he is, and traitor to the government that educated him, is
exactly the one to teach us what chivalry is, or how it ought to treat
vanquished rebels. No, the days of chivalry are _not_ gone. While the
base counterfeit that has so often been thrust upon us by Southern
braggadocios, and indorsed by Northern sneaks and doughfaces, has been
detected, and, thank God! is being thrown out as fast as shot and shell
can knock it out, there never was a greater abundance of the genuine
metal than there is now and here in this land of ours.

Not alone in war and warlike deeds does modern chivalry show itself.
There is a chivalry in religion, that, in spite of the howlings of
creed-worshipers, dares to throw off the shackles of antiquated and
intolerant dogmas, and believe and teach the religion of humanity, of
'peace on earth and good-will to men.' It is the chivalry in religion
that has smitten and is daily smiting with its gleaming lance the host
of old prejudices, letting in upon us the glorious golden sunshine,
allowing us to revel in it and to see this world as it is, joyous and
beautiful. True, some of the old superstitions that burned the witches
linger in the path, like grim dragons, to frighten us. But they are weak
and toothless, and are fast losing their terrors; and the spirit of
chivalry in religion is marching on, and smiting them one by one, and
one by one they fall. But while men are emancipating themselves from the
ancient errors, it is sad to see that the same bugbears that infested
the path of our great grandparents in the pinafore period of their
existence, are brought to bear upon our children. Especially in
Sabbath-school literature is this manifest. Impossible patterns of piety
and propriety are set before a stout, healthy boy, and he, in the flush
of his lusty life, is taught to believe that the only road to paradise
lies through some pulmonary affection. For the sake of all these dear
little ones, and for the sake of the Master who loved them so well, do
let them have some more natural and healthy mental and moral food!

And this leads me to speak of literature in general. And have we not a
chivalry here that is working a revolution? And who is the bravest
knight in the field? Who but our own genial Meister Karl-Mace Sloper?
Isn't it glorious though, the way he rides into the lists, and with his
diamond-pointed lance pricks the tender skins of the lackadaisical
poetasters and lachrymose prosy-scribblers of our day! Again, O gallant
leader! smite them again. And fall in, ye who wield the pen! Let the
bugles sound the charge, and let our literature be cleared of Laura
Matildas and Martin Firecracker Splutters forever!

We approach now a topic that was once nauseating in the extreme, but
which is now robbed of many of its disagreeable features--medicine. Let
it be understood in the beginning, disciple of Hahnemann, I am not
upholding you and your pellets of sugar; by no means. But there have
been some knights of the pill-box who, without rushing into folly, have
leaped the barriers of ignorance and ancient custom that kept them in an
atmosphere odorous of villainous drugs and combinations of drugs, and,
untrammeled by old traditions, have sought and are seeking milder means
of mitigating our bodily ills. All honor to them. They have driven away
the old doctor of our childhood, whose most pleasant smile resembled the
amiable leer that a cannibal might be supposed to bestow upon a plump
missionary. The old curmudgeon, with his huge bottles of mixtures and
his immense boulders--I beg pardon, I should say, _boluses_ of
nastiness--has vanished like a surly ghost at the approach of daylight,
and in his stead we have a gentleman, placid and self-poised, with a
velvet touch and a face beaming with cheerful smiles. And if they have
not made the measles a luxury, they have given us a syrup that children
are said to cry for.

In the industrial arts, too, there is a spirit of chivalry that is
marching bravely on, overthrowing old notions. What knight of the olden
time ever did as much for his ladye fayre as he did for all womanity who
wrought out the problem of the sewing-machine? How many aching hands and
eyes and hearts has that little instrument, with its musical
_click-click, click-click_, relieved! No more songs of the shirt, no
more wearying of hands and curving of spines over the inner vestments of
mankind. We have changed all that. And every stroke of the pioneer's ax,
as he fells the mighty forest-trees, is a blow struck by the honest and
earnest chivalry of labor, battling with wild nature, carving a way for
civilization's triumphal march. And the cheery whistle of the plowboy,
as he drives his team a-field; the ring of the hammer on the anvil; the
clatter of the busy loom; the scream of the locomotive, as it sweeps
over the land, plunging through the mountains and dashing out across the
prairies--all these are the clarion-notes of modern chivalry's bugles,
ringing through the world in joyous and triumphant tones.

And this war--who shall tell; what historic pen can record its grand and
glorious chivalry? Is not every one, from the pale young student, fresh
from the breast of _Alma Mater_, to the large-handed and larger-hearted
rustic, with the hay-seed yet in his hair, and the rugged bod-carrier,
redolent of sweat and brick-dust--are not all these, who have come forth
from the field and the workshop, the office and the lecture-room, to
defend the dear old flag, true and gallant knights? There is a boy out
there in the woods, on picket, slowly pacing his lonely beat, with the
tender-eyed stars for company. And as the silent hours pass by, slowly
he turns the leaves of memory's record, lingering over its cherished
pictures, the home-scenes, the fond father and mother, the dear sister,
and the dearer some-one-else's sister. The snapping of a twig startles
him, and hastily brushing away a tear--fond memory's tribute--he
instantly closes the book, and stands, with every sense on the alert,
unflinching, though he knows that each moment may be his last, only
remembering that it is his duty to be faithful, watch well, and fire
low. And though this boy, fair-haired and beardless, may not have passed
the stern ordeal of the battle's fierce shock, though his heart softens
at the thought of his far-off home in the North, yet his young soul is
that of a hero, brave and chivalrous, and in due time his spurs will be
nobly won. Yes, this war is bringing out the grand, heroic traits of our
American character, traits that years of rapid, busy, money-getting life
have thrown into the background, till it really did seem that we were
altogether sordid and selfish.

In the year that I have been in the service, I have seen and heard of
more individual chivalrous deeds than my romantic and dyspeptic young
friend will find in all the books, from _Amadis de Gaul_ down. Every day
witnesses them. Private letters speak of them as ordinary incidents; a
few get before the public, enjoy a brief newspaper notoriety, and are
forgotten--no, not forgotten entirely; for every brave action lives
somewhere, though it may not be in an official report. A mother's or a
sister's memory cherishes it, and it is handed down to other
generations, an example and an incentive to other brave deeds.

Then let us have no more sentimental lamentation over the decadence of
chivalry. There is a broad field open to us, for deeds of chivalrous
daring, now, upon the battle-field, amid the fierce clashing of arms.

'And many a darkness into the light shall leap,
And shine with the sudden making of splendid names.'

Afterward, when holy peace shall smile again, there are the pulpit and
the rostrum, the workshop and the forest; and whether we wield the pen,
or the hammer, or the ax, according as we strive to make ourselves and
the world better, so shall we bear the palm of chivalry.

* * * * *

The Democratic press made itself convulsively merry over Governor
Andrew, of Massachusetts, for having called out the militia promptly in
the flurry of May 26th. After fairly exhausting its jeering and sneering
on this subject, that portion of the Northern Fourth Estate which would
be termed Satanic and traitorous were it not too utterly white-livered
and cowardly to be complimented with such forcible indices of even bad
character, had a cruel extinguisher clapped upon it on May 29th, by a
letter to the Boston _Journal_ from Lieutenant-Colonel Harrison Kitchie,
A.D.C., in which Governor Andrew is most effectually vindicated by the
simple publication of four telegrams received from Secretary
Stanton--the first two of which were as follows:

[TELEGRAM I.-COPY]

'Washington, May 25th, 1862.

'To--GOVERNOR ANDREW: Send all the troops forward that you can
immediately. Banks is completely routed. The enemy are in large
force advancing upon Harper's Ferry.

EDWIN M. STANTON, 'Secretary of War.'

* * * * *

[TELEGRAM II.--COPY]

'Washington, May 25th, 1862.

'TO THE GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS: Intelligence from various
quarters leaves no doubt that the enemy in great force are
advancing on Washington. You will please organise and forward
immediately all the volunteer and militia force in your State.

'EDWIN M. STANTON, 'Secretary of War.'

How Governor Andrew could have been true to his duty and have acted
otherwise than he did after receiving such commands, must be settled by
those 'gossips of the mob' who, incapable of appreciating the nobility
of a prompt fulfillment of duty, measure every thing military by the
amount of melo-dramatic _denouement_ to which it leads. We trust that
after this effectual 'counter' we may hear a little less carping at
Governor Andrew, who has shown from the beginning an energy and
perseverance, a promptness in emergency, and a patriotism which, when
the history of this war comes to be written, will reflect the highest
honor upon his name.

* * * * *

He who sends us the following, is worthy to bear a crow-sier as one of
the Faithful:

BOTH BARRELS INTO 'EM:

If old Squire Price had any one bump of phrenology developed more than
another, it was CORVICIDE, or, KILL-CROWATIVENESS. From corn-planting to
husking-time, from dewy morn until evening more than due, he might be
seen dodging behind fences, crawling around barns, stalking along in the
high grass, with a long single-barreled old gun, trying to get a shot at
the black thieves of crows that were forever at work on his old, sandy
farm.

'What cause have you, my aged friend,' Brother Hornblower once said to
him, '_What_ cause have _you_ to molest these birds, as 'toil not,
neither do they spin'?'

'I tell yer what,' answered the Squire, shaking his head with savage
jerks, 'come down to my house ary moruin' airly, you'll hear _caws_!'

Brother Hornblower smiled grimly and walked gently away, after that, to
get the evening paper at the grocery-post-office. He set his face
against jokes--unless they were serious ones.

Whether it was Brother Hornblower's words, or more crows than usual, the
neighbors around Squire Price's farm were regaled for two days after the
above talk, with such constant explosions of gunpowder that it was
surmised the Squire must have bought 'a hull kag o' powder, and got some
feller to help him shoot.' The consequence of this energy was, that the
persecuted devil's-canaries flew away to other farms where powder was
scarce-first and foremost descending in flocks on Brother Hornblower's
lands, and digging up his young corn--it was in the month of May--until
even _he_ found cause to go at these birds as don't spin; for he found
out that they toiled most laboriously. Being a man of peaceful
disposition, and opposed to the use of fire-arms, he thought over a plan
by which fire-logs might be used with great advantage to his own
benefit, by destroying a large number of crows at one fell blow. How he
succeeded in this _fell_-blow, was told a few evenings afterward in the
grocery-post-office, by young Tyler, a promising youth who had not, as
they say of other sad dogs, 'quite got his set yet,' that is, attained
completion in figure and carriage. Seated on the edge of a barrel
half-filled with corn, and cutting a piece of pine-wood to one sharp
point only to be followed by another sharp point, he was talking to
another youth in a desultory manner, about his intentions 'to go by
water,' in old Bizzle's schooner, next trip she took, when Squire Price
came in to get his daily newspaper, _The Beantown Democrat_.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20