Charles Southwell - "An Apology for Atheism"

Basil Hall - "The Lieutenant and Commander"

John M'lean - "Notes of a Twenty Five Years' Service in the Hudson's Bay Territory"

E. Phillips Oppenheim - "A Lost Leader"

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
In this novel of the 17th century, Morrison performs her deepest excavation yet into America’s history and exhumes our twin original sins: the enslavement of Africans and the near extermination of Native Americans.

Original Sins
Malcolm Gladwell says success depends not only on brains and drive, but on where we come from — and what we do about it.

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

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




'You bin givin' them crows partikler hail, hain't you, Squire?' asked
Tyler the youthful.

'Wal, about as much as they kin kerry,' answered the Squire. 'They
hain't bin squawkin' round my prem'ses none to speak of lately.'

'They bin roond Brother Horublower's, thick as pison, though,' said
Tyler. 'He counted on killin' 'bout a milyon on 'em yesserday--on-ly he
didn't quite come it.'

'Thought he wouldn't never fire no guns at 'em!'

'Put a couple o' barrils into 'em yesserday.'

'Why, how you talk! You don't mean it?'

'Honor bright! He got a big travers on 'em--leastwise, thought he had.
His brindle kaow, she got pizened night afore last, down there in the
woods; couldn't do nuthin with her, and she died same night. So he goes
and skins her, and throws her out into that gully down there, back o'
Bizzle's wood, and says he to me--for I was over there workin' for
him--says he, 'There'll be a power o'crows onto her t'morrer, and I
calc'late I'll fix a few on 'em--I will!' So next mornin'-that was
yesserdoy-we went out bright and airly, and rigged up a kind o' blind at
the side of the gully, right over the old carcass, Then we got our
amminishun all ready--both barrils all loadid.'

'By jing!' said the Squire, rubbing his hands, 'I wish I'd bin there.'

'Got all ready. Purty soon up comes one crow, sails round and round,
then two or three more, then a few more; they begun to smell meat. Then
they flew lower and lower; bime by one settles onto an old dead cedar
and begins cawin' for dear life. Then down he comes, then more and more
of 'em. Round they come, cawin' and flappin' their wings, clouds of 'em.
Guess there was 'bout two hundred settled onto that old kaow.'

'Wish I'd bin there with my gun!' spoke the Squire, intensely excited.
'A feller could have made the most biggest kind of a shot.'

'Wal, we waited, and waited, till the old kaow was black as pitch with
'em. Then Hornblower he nudges me. We got both barrils all ready--big
loads in 'em. 'Fire!' says he. I braced my leg up agin my barril; he
braced his leg up agin his barril--'

'W-w-what?' said the Squire.

'We give the most all-firedest shove--and over we went, barrels, stones,
dirt, and gravil, head-fo'most, spang into them crows and dead kaow! I
tell you, for about five minutes I calc'late I never seed sitch fuss,
feathers, dirt, and gravil, and kaow-beef flyin' as I did then. Things
was mixed up most promiscussedly, you can bet yer life on it! Bime by I
sort o' come to, and when I raised up I found I was sittin' onto four
dead, crushed crows, Brother Hornblower, and kaow-meat gin'rally. So I
dug out and lifted up the game--Brother Hornblower first off. When he
cum round a little, says he:

"T-T-Tyler, I con-ceive somethin's give way 'bout these parts!'

"You air about right in your suppostishuns,' says I; 'the gravil bank's
busted, and it's a marcy we an't in kingdom kum!'

"Don't talk that way,' says he; 'let's go up and fire a cupple barrels
more into the blastid rebbils, fur vengenz.'

"No yer don't, this mornin', as I knows on,' said I; 'I've got enough
shootin craws your fashun. Next time I go shootin' crows 'long any
boddy, I'm goin' to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not
blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil. That kind o' shootin'
don't suit my style o' bones--'speehally head-fo'most inter a dead
kaow!"

'On-ly four crows killt!' said the Squire, with a groan. 'To think what
a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self
judishuslously as he came tumblin' onto 'em spang! Wal!' (looking
cheeringly to young Tyler,) 'you couldn't do more'n fire both barrils
into 'em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?'

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS.


In the desert of Engedi
Lies a valley deep and lone;
Softly there the mild air slumbered,
Lovely there the sunlight shone.
In the bosom of this valley,
By the path that leads across,
Lay a modest velvet carpet
Of the finest, softest moss.

But the careless traveler, passing,
Heedless of it went his way;
Thus this miracle of beauty
Lone in hidden glory lay.
Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter,
Him from distant mountains greet;
On to that the stranger hurries,
Past the moss-bed at his feet.

Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining
To the evening dew that fell;
And its tufted bosom heaving,
Thus its 'plains began to tell:
'Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine,
Long its rosy glow to see,
Feed their eyes on luring flowers
Whilst their feet tread rude on me!'

Now, when mellow rays of sunset
Lingered golden on the trees,
Came a weary pilgrim slowly
From the bordering forest leas.
This was JESUS, just returning
From his fast of forty days;
Worn by Satan's fierce temptations,
He for rest and comfort prays.

Sore his sacred feet are blistered,
Wandering o'er the desert-sands;
Torn and bleeding from the briers,
Sufferings which the curse demands.
When he came upon the moss-bed,
Soon he felt how cool and sweet
Lay the soft and velvet carpet
'Neath his wounded, bleeding feet.

'Then he paused and spake this blessing:
'Gift of my kind Father's love!
Fret not, little plant, thy record
Shineth in the book above.
By the careless eye unheeded,
Bear thy lowly, humble lot;
Thou hast eased my weary walking,
Thou art ne'er in heaven forgot.'

Scarcely had he breathed this blessing
On the moss that soothed his woes,
When upon its bosom gathered,
Budded, bloomed, a lovely rose!
And its petals glowed with crimson
Like the clouds at close of day;
And a glory on the mosses
Like the smile of cherubs lay.

Then said JESUS to the flower:
'Moss-rose--this thy name shall be--
Spread thou o'er all lands, the sweetest
Emblem of humility.
Out of lowly mosses budding,
Which have soothed a pilgrim's pain,
Thou shalt tell the world what honor
All the lowly, lovely gain.'

Hear his words, ye lonely children,
By the world unseen, unknown;
Wait ye for the suffering pilgrim,
Coming weary, faint, and lone.
Keep your hearts still soft and tender,
Like the velvet bed of moss;
God will bless the love you render,
To some bearer of the cross.

* * * * *

In our May number we spoke old Englishly of the Boston demoiselle. In
the present number we have:

YE PHILADELPHIA YOUNGE LADYE.


Ye Philadelphia young ladye 1s not evir of ruddie milke and blonde hew,
like unto hir cosyn of Boston, natheless is shee not browne as a
chinkapinn or persymon like unto ye damosylles of Baltimore. Even and
clere is hir complexioun, seldom paling, and not often bloshing, whyeh
is a good thynge for those who bee fonde of kissing, sith that if ther
mothers come in sodanely ther checkes wyll not be sinful tell-tayles of
swete and secrete deeds. Of whych matter of blushing itt is gretely to
the credyt of the Philadelphienne that shee blosheth not muche, sith
that Aldrovandus, and as methynketh also, Mizaldus in his _Mirabile
Centuries_, doe affirme thatt not to bloshe is a sign of noble bloods
and gentyl lineage--for itt may bee planely seene that every base-borne
churle's daughter blosheth, if thatt yee give hir a poke under ye chinn,
whereas ye countesse of highe degre only smileth sweetlie and sayth
merily, '_Aha! messire--tu voys que mon joly couer est endormy_!' for
shee well knoweth that a gentyllman, like ye kynge, can doe noe wronge.

The Philadelphienne dressyth not in garments like unto Joseph, his cote
of manie colors, nethir dothe shee put on clothes whych look from afar
off like geographie-mapps, where the hues are as well assortyd as iff a
paint-mill had bursten and scattered the piggments all pele-mele into
everlastynge miscellayneous scatteratioun. For shee doth greately go inn
for subdued ratt-color, milde mouse-tints, temperate tea-caddy tones,
moderate mode--dyes, gentyll gray--shades, tranquill drabb--tinges,
temperate tawny, calm graye, sober ashie, pacifyed slate, mitigated dun,
lenientlie dingie, and blandlie cinereous chromattics, since shee hadd a
Quakir grandmother on the one syde, ande is too superblie proude on the
other, 'to make a pecocke of hirselfe,' as shee wyll telle you whann
thatt yee be spattered with the water whych is jetted from hose over ye
pavementes. Hee thatt woulde see manye of these swete beeings, shoulde
walke in Chestnutt strete whyles thatt shee goeth to shopp, or promenade
in Walnutt strete, on Sundaye. And if he can telle mee of a citie on
earthe where one can see more prettye, tiny feete, in neater shoos or
gaytered bootes, thann hee may then beholde, I wolde fayne knowe where
itt is, thatt I maye go there too.

Muche loveth shee little tea-parties where onlie girles bee; and to have
ye gentylmen come, aske: 'Damsylle, wherefore walke ye nott in gayer
garmentes?' Soe thatt itt often comes to passe thatt whenn walkyng in ye
Broade Waye of New-Yorke, yee can tell a Philadelphienne by hir sober
yet rich garbe, so that ye Cosmopolite sayth: '_Per ma fe!_ thatt is a
ladye, I know shee is, by the waye shee lookes.' And trulie, as Dan
Chaucer sayeth, shee is one:

'Well seemed by her apparaile,
She is not wont to great travaile,
And whan she kempt is fetously,
And well arraied and richely.
Then hath shee done all her journee,
Gentyll and faire indede is shee!'

Ye Philadelphia younge ladye loveth to ryde of pleasaunte afternoones
out untoe Pointe Breeze, adown ye Necke, in ye Parke, or along ye
wynding Wissahickon. Peradventure shee goeth whyles with a beau who
speaketh unto hir of love, to whych shee listeneth wyth tendir grace,
and replyeth with art, untill thatt they have builded upp betwene them a
flirtacioun. From tyme to tyme hee makyth a punn, and shee cryeth,
'Shame!' but itt shames him never a whitt or jott--nay, hee goeth on and
maketh yett anothir--ofttimes untill ye horse takyth frighte and runneth
awaie. Yett for all this she liketh hym still, so grete is ye love of
woman and so enduring hir constancye.

Att other tymes shee ridoth farr and wyde in ye hors-carrs, since in her
natyve towne shee can go manye miles for five cents, and two pence whenn
shee takes ye other carr. Specially doth shee do this on Saturday
forenoons, else weare her neat clothes all in ye evenyng. Then they
speke of the newes of ye daye, and praise General! Mac Lellan, and
gossipp of ye laste greate partie, where Dorsey dyd serve so well ye
terrapines and steamed oysters, and howe thatt itt is verament and trewe
thatt Miss Porridge is to live, after hir marriage, in a howse in Locust
strete, or peradventure in Spruce, or in Pyne, for in this towne all the
stretes are of woode, albeit ye houses are all of bricke.

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

CLERKE NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

GALLI VAN T is again active in setting forth the rural trials and
troubles of artists--which it seems are many. Listen!

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

We thought we knew the value of a lovely view.

We didn't.

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

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

'Stop that are!' was his courteous salutation.

'Stop what?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

And off he went.

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

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

Yours truly, GALLI VAN T.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

FRANK WILSON.

'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun
Shot his last red arrow up in the west;
Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth,
And chased the flush from the mountain's crest.

Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire
Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold,
And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost,
As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold.

The chores were finished; and farmer West,
As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug,
Toasted his feet in calm content,
And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug.

Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms,
And softly humming a love refrain;
With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose,
Washed and warbled his daughter Jane.

She was the gift that his dear wife left,
When she died, some nineteen Mays before;
The light and the warmth of the old farm-home,
And cherished by him to his great heart's core.

A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much
The fashion of feature that made her so;
'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes,
And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow.

Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms
Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed;
Then from the mantle she took some work,
'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed.

Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts
Than ever were bodied in word or sound,
Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes,
As she knit in the dark yarn round and round.

A neighbor's rap at the outer door
Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!'
And he came, with stamping of heavy boots,
Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin.

Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night.
What news do you get from the village to-day?
Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged.
What news do you get from our Company K?'

'Bad news!--bad news!' He slowly unwinds
His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes.
'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night,
And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.'

O God! give strength to that writhing heart!
Fling the life back to that whitening cheek!
Let not the pent breath forever stay
From the lips, too white and dumb to speak!

'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad--too bad,
The finest young man, by far, in this town;
Such are the offerings we give to war,
Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.'

Neither did notice her faltering step;
Neither gave heed to her quivering hand,
That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door,
And spilled the cider upon the stand.

But the father dreamed, as he slept that night,
That his darling had met some fearful woe;
And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans,
And her slow steps pacing to and fro.

II.

'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring,
The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep,
The windows were open to sun and breeze,
The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.

The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves
Softly over the old brown roof,
And the sunshine, red with savory smoke,
Fell graciously through their emerald woof.

Sounds--spring sounds--which the country yields:
Voices of laborers, lowing of herds,
The caw of the crow, the swollen brook's roar,
The sportsman's gun, and the twitter of birds,

Melted like dim dreams into the air;
'Twas the azure shadow of summer,
Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood,
And brought new gladness to eye and ear.

But a face looks out to the purple hills,
A wasted face that is full of woe,
Wan yet calm, like a summer moon
That has lost the round of its fullest glow.

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