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

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

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I take it for granted that you have a heart--not merely anatomically
speaking, an organ to circulate the blood, but a something that prompts
you to love, to self-sacrifice, to scorn of meanness, and, it may be, to
good, honest hatred. All metals can be separated from their ores; but
meanness is inseparable from some natures, so it is impossible to hate
the sin without hating the sinner; we can't, indeed, conceive of it in
the abstract. I don't mean hate in a malignant sense--here I may as well
express my scorn of that sly hatred that is too cowardly to knock a man
down, but quietly trips him up.

It is well enough for those who think that 'life is a jest,' (and a
bitter, sarcastic one it must be to them,) to mock at all nobler
feelings and sentiments of the heart. None do they more contemn than
friendship. I would not 'sit in the seat' of these 'scornful,' however
they may have found false friends. Yet every man capable of a genuine
friendship himself, will in this world find at least one true friend.
Oxygen, which comprises one fifth of the atmosphere, is said to be
highly magnetic; and any ordinary, healthy soul can extract magnetism
enough from the very air he breathes to draw at least one other soul.
Some people have an amazing power of absorption and retention of this
magnetism. You feel irresistibly drawn toward them--and it is all right,
for they are noble, true souls. There is a great difference between
their attractive force and that kind of 'power of charming' innocence
that villainy often has--just as I once saw a cat charm a bird, which
circled nearer and nearer till it almost brushed the cat's whiskers--and
had he not been chased away, he would have that day daintily
lunched--and there would have been one songster less to join in that
evening's vespers.

False----s there are--I will not call them false _friends_--this noun
should never follow that adjective. To what shall I liken them--to the
young gorilla, that even while its master is feeding it, looks
trustingly in his face and thrusts forth its paw to tear him? Who blames
the gorilla? Torn from its dam, caged or chained, it owes its captor a
grudge. To the serpent? The story of the warming of the serpent in the
man's bosom, is a mere fable. No man was ever fool enough to warm a
serpent in his bosom. And the serpent never crosses the path of man if
he can help it. The most deadly is that which is too sluggish to get out
of his way--therefore bites in self-defense. And the serpent generally
gives some warning hiss, or a rattle. Indeed, almost every animal gives
warning of its foul intent. The shark turns over before seizing its
prey. But the false friend (I am obliged to couple these words) takes
you in without changing his side.... In truth, a man, if he has a vice,
be it treachery or any other, goes a little beyond the other animals,
even those of which it is characteristic. We say, for instance, of a
treacherous man, _He is a serpent_; but it would be hyperbole to call a
serpent _a treacherous man_.

But these false friends, who deceive you out of pure malignity, who
would rather injure you than not, who, perhaps, have an old, by you
long-forgotten, grudge, and become your apparent friends to pay you
back--these are few. Human nature, with all its depravity, is seldom so
completely debased. But there are many who are only selfishly your
friends. When you most need their friendship, where is it? When some
great calamity sweeps over you, and, bowed and weakened, you would lean
on this friendship, though it were but a 'broken reed,' you stretch
forth your hand--feel but empty space.

Then there are some who let go the hand of a friend because they feel
sure of him, to grasp the extended hand of a former enemy. Politicians,
especially, do this. An enemy can not so easily be transformed into a
friend. As in those paintings of George III., on tavern-signs, after the
Revolution changed to George Washington, there will still be the same
old features.... The opposite of this is what every generous nature has
tried. To revive a dying friendship, this is impossible. If you find
yourself losing your friendship for a person, there must be some reason
for it. If the former dear name is becoming indistinct on the tablet of
your heart, the attempt to re-write it will entirely obliterate it. It
is said that a sure way to obliterate any writing, is to attempt to
re-write it.... But it is not true that 'hot love soon cools.' With all
my faults--and to say that I am an O'Molly is to admit that I have
faults, and I am not sure that I would wish to be without them. To speak
paradoxically, a fault in some cases does better than a virtue--as on
some organs 'the wrong note in certain passages has a better effect than
the right.' But, as I was saying, with all my faults, I have never yet
changed toward a friend; I will not admit even to the ante-chamber of my
heart a single thought untrue to my friend. Though it is true my friends
are so few that I could more than count them on my fingers, had I but
one hand.... And these few friends--what shall I say of them? They have
become so a part of my constant thoughts and feelings, so a part of
myself, that I can not project them--if I may so speak--from my own
interior self, so as to portray them. Have you not such friends? Are
there none whom to love has become so a _habit_ of your life that you
are almost unconscious of it--that you hardly think of it, any more than
you think--_'I breathe'_?

There is probably no one who has not some time in his or her life felt
the dreariness of fancied friendliness. I can recall in my own
experience at least one time when this dreary feeling came over me. It
was during a twilight walk home from a visit. I can convey to you no
idea of the utter loneliness of the unloved feeling; it seemed that not
even the love of God was mine, or if it was, there was not individuality
enough in it; it was so diffused; this one, whom I disliked--that
insignificant person, might share in it. I know not how long I indulged
in these thoughts, with my eyes on the ground, or seeing all things 'as
though I saw them not,' but when I did raise them to take cognizance of
any thing, there was, a few degrees above the horizon, the evening star;
it shone as entirely on me as though it shone on me _exclusively_. It is
thus, I thought, with _His_ love; thus it melts into each individual
soul. Such gentle thoughts as these, long after the star had sunk behind
the western mountains, were a calm light in my soul. And I awoke the
next morning, the old cheerful

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

VI.

I have often thought what splendid members of the diplomatic corps women
would make, especially married women. As much delicate management is
required of them, they have as much financiering to do as any minister
plenipotentiary of them all. Let a woman once have an object in view,
and 'o'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense or rare; with
head, hands, or feet, _she_ pursues _her_ way, and swims, or sinks, or
wades, or creeps, or flies;' but _she attains her object_.

You poor, hood-winked portion of humanity--man--you think you know
woman; that she 'can't pull the wool over your eyes.' Just take a
retrospective view. Did your wife ever want any thing that she didn't
somehow get it? Whether a new dress, or the dearest secret of your soul,
she either, Delilah-like, wheedled it out of you, or, in a passion, you
almost _flung_ it at her, as an enraged monkey flings cocoa-nuts at his
tormentor.

And how she has changed your habits, has turned the course of your life,
made it flow in the channel _she_ wished, instead of, as heretofore,
'wandering at its own sweet will,' as the gently-winding but useless
brook has been converted into a mill-race.

There is Mr. Jones. Before he married, as free and easy a man as ever
smoked a meerschaum. Mrs. Jones is considered a pattern woman; but of
that you can judge for yourself. Her first reformation was in regard to
his club, from which he returned home late, redolent of brandy-punch,
and lavish of _my dears_. All she could say to him had no effect, till,
after the birth of little Nellie, she joined a Ladies' Reading Society,
meeting on his club evening; he wouldn't leave the baby to the care of a
servant, consequently staid at home himself.

He was also in the habit of resorting to the gymnasium, ostensibly for
exercise, as he was dyspeptic; but his wife suspected it was more to
meet his old cronies. Finding retrenchment necessary, and looking on
gymnastics somewhat as a Yankee looks on a fine stream that turns no
mill, she dismissed one of the servants, and so arranged it that the
surplus strength that formerly so ran to waste should make the fires,
rock the cradle, and split certain hickory logs. Very soon Mr. Jones,
who is a lawyer, found his business so much increased that he was
obliged to remain in his office all day, except at meal-time; after
which, however heartily he might have eaten, he never complained of
indigestion. With this, thrifty Mrs. Jones was delighted, till one day
she surprised him in his office, enveloped in tobacco-smoke, with
elevated feet, reading a nice new novel; you may be sure that after
that, she insisted on the exercise. As their family increased, thinking
still further retrenchment necessary, she gently broached the
relinquishing of the meerschaum. Finding him obstinate in his
opposition, she one day accidentally broke it. It was one that he had
been coloring for years; he had devoted time and attention to it, that,
if properly directed, might have made him a German philosopher, an
antiquary, or a profound theologian; or, if devoted to his law studies,
would have fitted him for Chief-Justice of the United States.

The countryman who mistook for a bell-rope the cord attached to a
shower-bath, was not more astonished at the result of pulling it, than
she was at the result of this trifling accident. Such an overwhelming
torrent of abuse as was poured on her devoted head; such an array of
offenses as was marshaled before her; Banquo's issue wasn't a
circumstance to the shadowy throng. She had recourse to woman's only
means of assuaging the angry passions of man--tears, (you know the
region of constant precipitation is a perpetual calm;) but these,
instead of operating like oil poured on the troubled waters, were rather
like oil thrown on the fire. Pleading her delicate health, she hinted
that his unkindness would kill her, and that, when she was gone, her
sweet face would haunt him. Muttering something about one consolation,
ghosts couldn't speak till spoken to, and he was sure he wouldn't break
the spell of silence, he picked up his hat and strode out of the house,
slamming the door after him. For a while, Mrs. Jones was struck with
consternation; she felt somewhat as the woman must have felt who, in
attempting to pull up a weed, overturned the monument that crushed her;
and, though not quite crushed by the weight of Mr. Jones's indignation,
she only resolved to give no more tugs at the weed that had taken such
deep root in his heart; and that, if he brought home another meerschaum,
(which he did that evening,) it was best to ignore its existence. Mrs.
Jones says she believes that the meerschaum absorbs 'the disagreeable'
of a man's temper, as it is said to absorb that of tobacco; at least,
her husband is never so serene as when smoking one. Indeed, it is said
that the fiercest birds of prey can be tamed by tobacco-smoke.

Don't think that after this little _contretemps_ all Mrs. Jones's
authority was at an end; no, indeed; though she had, by stroking the
wrong way the docile, domestic animal, roused him into a tiger, she
hastened to smooth him down; and time would fail me to give even a list
of her reforms.

After having heard her story, as I did, chiefly from her own lips, my
wonder at the immense Union army, raised on such short notice, was
considerably diminished. 'Extremes meet.' Probably Union and disunion
sentiments met in the mind of many a volunteer Jones. Then, too, I used
to wonder at the ease with which men apparently forget their buried
wives, and marry again; and, as I then had a great respect for the race,
thought their hearts must be very rich, new affections spring up with
such amazing rapidity; like the soil of the tropics, whose vegetation is
hardly cut down before there is a new, luxuriant growth. I've, however,
since come to the conclusion, that the poor man, somehow feeling that he
must marry, chooses in a manner at random, having, the first time, taken
the greatest care, and 'caught a Tartar,' in the same sense that the man
had with whom the phrase originated, that is, _the Tartar had caught
him_.

In my childhood I was particularly fond of the hoidenish amusement of
jumping out of our high barn-window, and landing on the straw
underneath. The first few times I went to the edge--then drew
back--looked again--almost sprang--again stepped back--till finally I
took the leap. Thus old bachelors take the matrimonial leap--not so
widowers--how is it to be accounted for? Well, brother man, (for this is
the nearest relationship to you that I can claim,) you do about as well
in this way as in any other. You are destined to be taken in as
effectually as was Jonah, when he made that 'exploration of the
interior,' or, as was the fly, when Dame Spider's 'parlor' proved to be
a dining-room.

Sam Slick says that 'man is common clay--woman porcelain.' Alas! there
is but little genuine porcelain. It is a pity that you couldn't contrive
to have a few jars before matrimony, to crack off some of the glazing,
and show the true character of the ware.

And you, sister woman, learn a lesson from the 'tiny nautilus,' which,
'by yielding, can defy the most violent ragings of the sea.' And, though
man is so nicely adapted to your management that it is obviously the end
of his creation, remember Mrs. Jones's trifling miscalculation in regard
to the meerschaum, and--_'N'eveillez pas le chat qui dort.'_

Abruptly yours, MOLLY O'MOLLY.

GLANCES FROM THE SENATE-GALLERY.

The comparative excellence of different periods of eloquence and
statesmanship affords a subject of curious and profitable contemplation.
The action of different systems of government, encouraging or depressing
intellectual effort, the birth of occasions which elicit the powers of
great minds, and the peculiar characteristics of the manner of thinking
and speaking in different countries, are observable in considering this
topic. A pardonable curiosity has led the writer frequently to visit the
United States Senate Chamber, and to place mentally the intellectual
giants of that body in contrast with their predecessors on the same
scene, and with the eminent orators and statesmen of other countries and
other ages; and the result of such comparisons has always been to awaken
national pride, and to convince that the polity bequeathed us by our
fathers, no less than the distinctive genius of the race, have
practically demonstrated that a free system is the most prolific in the
production of animated oratory and vigorous statesmanship. Undoubtedly,
the golden age of American eloquence must be fixed in the time of
General Jackson, when Webster, Clay, Calhoun, Rives, Woodbury, and Hayne
sat in the Upper House; and whatever may be our wonder, when we
contemplate the brilliant orations of the British statesmen who shone
toward the close of the last century, if we turn from Burke to Webster,
from Pitt to Calhoun, from Fox to Clay, and from Sheridan to Randolph
and to Rives, Americans can not be disappointed by the comparison. Since
the death of the last of that illustrious trio, whose equality of powers
made it futile to award by unanimity the superiority to either, and yet
whose greatness of intellect placed them by common assent far above all
others, the eloquence of the Senate has been less brilliant and less
interesting. And yet it has not fallen below a standard of eloquence
equal, if not superior, to that of any other nation. Unlike the English
and the French, who have to go back more than half a century to deplore
their greatest Senators and Ministers, the grave closed over the
greatest American intellects within the memory of the present
generation; and the contrast between the Senate of to-day and the Senate
of a score of years ago, is too striking, perhaps, to give us an
impartial idea of the abilities which now guide the nation.

The Senate which is at present deliberating on the gravest questions
which our legislature has been called upon to consider since the
establishment of the Constitution, is, without doubt, inferior in point
of eminent talent, to the Senate of Webster's time, and even to the
Senate which closed its labors on the day of Mr. Lincoln's inauguration.
In this latter body were three men, who, though far below the great trio
preceding them, still occupied in a measure their commanding influence
on the floor and before the country: one of whom now holds an Executive
office, another sits in the Lower House, and the third has passed away
from the scenes of his triumphs forever. Mr. Seward, whose keen logic,
accurate statement of details, and imperturbable coolness, remind one of
Pitt and Grey, was considered, while Senator from New-York, as the
leading Statesman of the body, and was the nucleus around which
concentrated the early adherents of the now dominant party. Mr.
Crittenden's fervent and earnest declamation, wise experience, and
good-nature, gave him a high rank in the respect and esteem of his
colleagues, while his age and life-long devotion to the service of the
state, endowed him with unusual authority. The lamented Douglas, who
surpassed every other American statesman in casual discussion, and whose
name will rank with that of Fox, in the art of extempore debate, could
not fail to be the leader of a large party, and the popular idol of a
large mass, by the manly energy of his character, his devotion to
popular principles, and a rich and sonorous eloquence, which convinced
while it delighted.

It must also in candor be admitted, that the secession of the Southern
Senators from the floor, made a decided breach in the oratorical
excellence of that body. However villainous their statesmanship, and to
whatever traitorous purposes they lent the power of their eloquence,
there were several from the disaffected States who were eminent in a
skillful and brilliant use of speech. Probably the man who possessed the
most art in eloquence, and who united a keen and plausible sophistry
with great brilliancy of language and declamation with the highest
skill, was Benjamin, of Louisiana. Born a Hebrew, and bearing in his
countenance the unmistakable indications of Jewish birth, his person is
small, thick, and ill-proportioned; his expression is far less
intellectual than betokening cunning, while his whole manner fails to
give the least idea, when he is not speaking, of the wonderful powers of
his mind.

Shrewd and unprincipled, devoting himself earnestly and without the
least scruple of conscience to two objects--the acquisition of money and
the success of treason--he yet concealed the true character of his
designs under an apparently ingenuous and fervent delivery, and in the
garb of sentiments worthy a Milton or a Washington. His voice, deeply
musical, and uncommonly sweet, enhanced the admiration with which one
viewed his matchless delivery, in which was perfect grace, and entire
harmony with the expressions which fell from his lips. How mournful a
sight, to see one so nobly gifted, leading a life of baseness and vice,
devoting his immortal qualities to the vilest selfishness, and to the
betrayal of his country and of liberty! Should the descendant of an
oppressed and persecuted race take part with oppressors? Senator
Benjamin is a renegade to the spirit of freedom which animated his
ancestors.

He who, among the Southern Senators, ranked as an orator next to
Benjamin, now leads the rebellious hosts against the flag under which he
was reared, and lends his unquestioned powers to the demolition of the
great Republic of which he was once a brilliant ornament. Certainly
endowed with more forethought and practical wisdom than any of his
Democratic colleagues, well qualified by his calm survey of every
question and every political movement, to lead a large party, and
forcible and ironical in debate, Jefferson Davis stood at the head of
the disaffected in the Senate, as he now does in the field. Cautious and
deliberate in speech, he yet never failed to launch out in strong
invective, and to make effective use of irony in his attacks. He is in
personal appearance, rather small and thin, with a refined and decidedly
intellectual countenance, and a not unamiable expression. His health
alone prevented his rising to the first rank of American orators; and
what of his statesmanship was not directed to the accomplishment of
partisan purposes, gave him much consideration. He was incapable, from
a weak constitution, of sustaining, at great length, the vivacity and
energy with which he commenced his speeches; and therefore, their sharp
sarcasm and great power, made them appear more considerable in print
than in the delivery. Even after he had enlisted all his energies in the
detestable scheme which he is now trying to fulfill, his prudence halted
at the rash idea he had embraced; and he attempted for a moment to stem
the torrent, by voting for the Crittenden propositions. His delivery was
graceful and dignified, his manner sometimes courteous, often
contemptuous, and always impressive. His eloquence consisted rather in
the lucid logic and deliberate thought evinced than for rhetorical
beauty or range of imagination; occasionally, however, he would diverge
from the plain thread of argument, and rise to declamation of striking
brilliancy and power. Over-quick, with all his natural phlegm, to
discern and to resent personal affronts--oftentimes when there was no
occasion therefor--he was a favorable exemplar of that peculiar, and to
our mind, somewhat incomprehensible quality, which the Southern people
glory in, and which they dignify by the stately epithet of 'chivalry.'
On the whole, he must be regarded as the ablest, and therefore the most
culpable and dangerous of the insurgent leaders; and he may, perhaps, be
considered the first of Southern statesmen since the time of Calhoun.

Another Senator who occupied a high rank as a partisan and statesman
among the Southern Democracy, was Hunter, of Virginia. He is a
thickly-built person, with a countenance possessing but little
expression, and far from intellectual; and would rather be noticed by
one sitting in the gallery for the negligence of his dress, utter want
of dignity, and exceedingly unsenatorial bearing, than for any other
external qualities. But when he had spoken a few moments, a decided
soundness of head, and shrewdness, appeared to enter into the
composition of his mind. No man in the Senate had a juster idea of
financial philosophy; and his services on the Committee devoted to that
department, were highly appreciated by every one. He was, however,
little trusted by loyal Senators, and his frequent professions of
devotion to the Union, failed to conceal the bent of his mind toward
those with whom he is now in intimate concert. Sincerity had least place
of all the virtues in his breast; and his hypocrisy, somewhat hidden by
the apparent ingenuousness and conciliatory address of his manner,
became manifest in actions and votes, rather than in words. He was, so
far as can now be ascertained, one of the prime movers of the Senatorial
cabal, or caucus, which was devoted either to the complete dominance of
the Southern element in the Union, or to their forcible secession from
the Union; and was probably as active and earnest a traitor, long before
the doctrine of secession was ventured upon, as the most fiery of
South-Carolina fire-eaters. Mr. Hunter is, in private, courteous and
affable, and, indeed, in the debates in which he took part, he never
transgressed the rules of respect due to his colleagues, or violated the
dicta of parliamentary etiquette.

His colleague, Mason, is an irritable, petulant, arrogant man, not
without a certain ability in debate, but censorious, and unconfined by
the restraints of decency in his tirades against the North. He was 'one
of the finest-looking men,' if we speak phrenologically, in the last
Senate; and would always be noticed for his dignified manner and fine
head, by a stranger visiting the Chamber for the first time. We have
briefly noticed him, rather on account of the notoriety recently
attached to his name by the 'Trent' affair, than from his prominence
among Southern orators and statesmen--his talent, being, in fact, of a
decidedly mediocre description.

While speaking of Mason, it will be _apropos_ to allude to his late
companion in trouble, John Slidell, who was certainly the shrewdest
politician and party tactician among his friends on the north side of
the chamber; he is indeed the Nestor of intriguers. From the time when,
early in life, he aspired to, and in a degree succeeded in controlling
the politics of the Empire City, up to this hour, when he is with
snake-like subtleness attempting to poison French honor, his career has
been a series of successful intrigues. Utterly devoid of moral
principle, he resembles his late colleague, Benjamin, in the immorality
of his life, and the baseness of his ends, attained by as base means. He
is rather a good-looking man, short, with snowy-white hair and red face,
his countenance indicative of the secretiveness and cunning of his
character. He was rather the caucus adviser and manager than one of the
orators of his party; seldom speaking, and never except briefly and to
the point. Imagination in him has been warped and made torpid by a life
of dissipation, as well as by his practical tendencies. He is, like many
other Southern statesmen, courteous and pleasing in social conversation;
but is heartless, selfish, and malignant in his enmities.

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