The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862

BOTH BARRELS INTO 'EM:

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

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

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

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

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

'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 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

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 Apisdæ, 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: