'It is said that these two distinguished functionaries spoke the French dialect altogether, the gallant Frenchman not having yet been enabled to master the good old Anglo-Saxon idiom.'
What, to begin with, is the French dialect? The Provencal, the Gascon, the Norman, are tolerably prominent French dialects, but which of them is preëminently the dialect we will not decide—nor why the diplomatic gentlemen selected a dialect instead of French itself as a medium of conversation. It is, however, possible that Comte de Mercier having heard of little Benjamin's antecedents, talked to him in argôt or thieves' slang. It may be that in the school of Floyd and Benjamin argôt is the dialect.
Again, we learn that the gallant Frenchman spoke 'the French dialect' because he has not as yet mastered 'the good old Anglo-Saxon idiom.' This is even more puzzling than the dialect-question. Why the Anglo-Saxon idiom? Suppose Count Mercier wished to say that he was sorry that his tobacco had been captured by the foe, why should he couch it in such language as, 'Thá mee ongan hréowan thaet mín tobacco on feónda geweald feran sceolde'—which is the good old Anglo-Saxon idiom.' We can imagine that thieves' slang would have the place of honor in Secessia, but why the old Anglo-Saxon idiom should be so esteemed, puzzled us for a longtime. At last we hit it. The Southrons have long been told—or told themselves—that they are Normans, while we of the North are Saxon—and hoping to acquire a little Anglo-Saxon intelligence, prudently begin by studying the language which they believe is in common use among our literati.
Seriously, it is not merely to stoop to such small game as the grammar of a secession newspaper that we notice these amusing mistakes. There are many persons-we are sorry to say many clergymen among others—here, even in the free States, who, in attempting to write elegantly, use words very ridiculously. They say 'dialect' and 'idiom' when they mean 'language;' they use 'donate' for 'give;' 'transpired' for 'happened;' 'paper' for 'newspaper,' and describe various events as taking place in 'our midst'—all because they think that these vulgarisms are really more correct than the words or terms in common use.
We wish, however, that Anglo-Saxon—joking apart—were more generally studied. When we remember that the very great majority of good words in English are of Saxon origin, and with them all that is characteristic either in our grammar or modes of expression, it becomes evident that the most certain and shortest method of arriving at a thorough and correct comprehension of English is by the study of its most important element—one which, as a writer has well said, bears the same relation to our mother-tongue as oxygen does to water. It is not fair to speak as some do of the Latin and Saxon wings of the English bird—the bird itself is Saxon—head and tail included. English has been but little benefited by its Latin and Greek additions—the old tongue had excellent synonyms or creative capacity like German—to fully equal every new need of thought.
The reader who has time for study, would do well to obtain the Anglo-Saxon Grammar of Louis Klipstein, published by G.P. Putnam, New-York, which is by far the most practical and easiest work of the kind with which we are acquainted. A few days' study in it will be time well invested by any one desirous of really understanding English. When we reflect that many boys study Latin for years 'because it enables them to understand the structure and derivation of their own language,' while the extremely easy Anglo-Saxon is almost entirely neglected, we smile at the ignorance of the first principles of education which prevails. But we advise the reader who may have a few shillings and a few hours to spare to invest them in a 'KLIPSTEIN,' and know—what very few writers do—something of the roots of English. Our word for it, he will not regret following the advice.
We are indebted to a Dawfuskie Island correspondent for the following details relative to
'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:
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:
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
Θε Προφεσσορ.
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?
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.
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]
'ToGovernor 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.
[telegram ii.—copy]
'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.
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:
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.
'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?'
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 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 journée,
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 cäff, and a laugh a läff, 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
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.'
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?