by R. H. Newell
Yes! Let all the echoes answer, From hill and vale; Yes! Let other nations, hearing, Joy in the tale. Our Columbia is a lady, High-born and fair; We have sworn allegiance to her-- Touch her who dare.
The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit thecommittee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambrichandkerchiefs, for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY N. P. W----.
One hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.
Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.
Several members of the committee being pious, it is not strange thatthis "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY THOMAS BAILEY A----.
The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings; The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.
I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gayly springs. I love the dainty sunflower, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;--but I love--I love-- I love my country best.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson.Though it was rejected by the Committee, it can never lose its value asa piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill theyouthful mind with patriotism and natural history, besides touching theyouthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
Notice the following
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY R. H. STOD----.
Behold the flag! Is it not a flag? Deny it, man, if you dare; And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky, It hangs like a written prayer.
Would impious hand of foe disturb Its memories' holy spell, And blight it with a dew of blood? Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well.
And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote from atpresent, my boy, though several hundred pounds yet remain untouched.
Yours, questioningly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER IX.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS TOROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July --, 1861.
While the Grand Army is making its preparations for an advance upon theSouthern Confederacy, my boy, and the celebrated fowl of our distractedcountry is getting ready his spurs, let me distract your attention fora moment to the subject of harrowing Romance as inflicted by theintellectual women of America.
To soothe and instruct me in my leisure and more ebrious moments, oneof the ink-comparable women of America has sent me her new novel toread; and before I allow _you_ to enjoy its green leaves, my boy, youmust permit me to make a few remarks concerning the generality of suchworks.
Long and patient study of womanly works teaches me that woman's genius,as displayed in gushing fiction, is a power of creating an unnaturaland unmitigated ruffian for a hero, my boy, at whose shrine all createdcrinoline and immense delegations of inferior broadcloth are impelledto bow. Such a one was that old humbug, Rochester, the beloved of "JaneEyre." The character has been done-over scores of times since poorCharlotte Bronte gave her famous novel to the world, and is still "muchused in respectable families."
The great difficulty with the intellectual women of America is, thatthey will persist in attempting to delineate a phase of manly characterwhich attracts them above all others, but which they do not comprehend.Woman entertains a natural fondness for that which she can notunderstand, and hence it is that we very seldom find her without awildly-vague admiration of Emerson.
There is in this world, my boy, a noble type of manhood which unitesdignified reserve with the most loyal integrity, relentless pride ofmanner with the kindest humility of heart, rigid indifference to theapplause of the world with the finest regard for its honest respect,and carelessness of woman's mere frivolous liking with the mostprofound and chivalrous reverence for her virtues and her love.
This is the type which, without comprehending it, the intellectualwomen of America are continually striving to depict in their novels;and a pretty mess they make of it, my boy,--a pretty mess they make ofit.
Their "Rochester" hero is harder to understand than Hamlet, when hefalls into the hands of our school-girl authoresses. He looms rakishlyupon us, my boy, a horridly misanthropic wretch, despising the worldwith all the dreadful malignity of chronic dyspepsia, and displaying adegree of moral biliousness truly horrifying to members of the church.His behavior to the poor little heroine is a perpetual outrage.Alternately he caresses and snubs her. He never fails to make her readto him when he traps her in the library; and when she says, "Goodnight" to him he is too deep in a "fit of gloomy abstraction" to answerher civilly. If he calls her a "little fool," her fondness for himbecomes ecstatic: and at the first hint of his having murdered a noblebrother and two beautiful sisters in early life, she is led to fearthat her adoration of him will exceed the love she owes to her Maker!
This unprincipled ruffian may be separated from the virtuous littleheroine for years, and be flirting consumedly with half a dozencrinolines when next she sees him; yet is he loved dearly by thevirtuous little heroine all the time, and when last we hear of him, sheis resting peacefully upon his vest-pattern.
What makes the inconsistency of the whole story still more apparent, isthe intense and double-refined piety of the heroine, as contrasted withan utter stagnation of all morality in the breast of the ruffian. Howthe two can assimilate, I do not understand; and my misunderstanding iswofully augmented by the heroine's frequent expressions ofchurchliness, and the ruffian's equally frequent outbursts of waggishinfidelity.
And now, my boy, let me transcribe for you the new novel, sent to mewith such kind intent by one of the young and intellectual women ofAmerica. You will find much lusciousness of sentiment, my boy, in
HIGGINS.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
BY GUSHALINA CRUSHIT.
PREFACE.
In writing the ensuing pages, I have been guided by no motives other than those which lead the mind, in its leisure hours, to scatter the germs of the beautiful. It may be urged that the character of my hero is unnatural; but I am sure there are many of my sex who will discover in Mr. Higgins a counter-part of the ideal of days when life still knew the odors of its first spring, and the soul of man seemed to the eye of innocence an elysium of virtue into which no gangrene of mere worldliness intruded. I have done.
CHAPTER I.
It was on the eve of a day in the happy month of June, that my great grandfather's carriage, drawn by six hundred and twenty-two white horses, drew up under the tall palm trees before the gates of the venerable Higgins' Lodge, and I was lifted almost fainting from the wearied vehicle. As my grandfather supported my trembling steps into the spacious hall of the lodge, I noticed that another figure had been added to our party. It was that of a man six feet high, and broad in proportion, whose majestic and spacious brow betokened realms of elysian thought and excrescent ideality. His pallid tresses hung in curls down his back, and an American flag floated from his Herculean shoulders. Fixed by a fascination only to be realized by those who have felt so, I cast my piercing glance at him, and my inmost soul knew all his sublimity. It was as though an angel's wing had swept my temples, and left a glittering pinion there.
"Mr. Higgins," said my grandfather, "here is your ward, Galushianna."<
br />
For an instant silence prevailed.
Then Mr. Higgins said, in tones of exquisitely modulated thunder:
"What did you bring the d--d girl _here_ for, you old cuss you?"
It was as when one sees a strain of music. I remembered the prayers of my dear departed mother when she sought to enlighten my speechless infancy with divine grace, and I felt that I loved this Higgins.
Such is life. We wander through the bowers of love without a thought of the morrow, while the dread vulture of predestination eats into our souls, and cries, wo! wo! Truly, earthly happiness is a mockery.
CHAPTER II.
Scarcely had I taken my seat in the library after my grandfather had left us, when Mr. Higgins ordered me to black his boots. This I proceeded to do with a haughty air, scarcely daring to hope, but wishing that he would conquer his freezing reserve, and speak to me again. For I was but a child, and my young heart yearned for sympathy.
Presently, Mr. Higgins turned his large gray eyes on me, and said:
"Ha!"
After this, he remained in a thoughtful reverie for two hours, and then turning to me, asked:
"Galushiana, what do you think of me?"
"I think," replied I, carefully putting the blacking-brush in its place, "that your nature is naturally a noble one, but has been warped and shadowed by a misconceived impression of the great arcana of the universe. You permit the genuflexions of human sin to bias your mind in its estimate of the true economy of creation; thus blighting, as it were, the fructifying evidences of your own abstract being--"
I blushed, and feared I had gone too far.
"Very true," responded Mr. Higgins, after a moment's pause; "Schiller says nearly the same thing. It was a sense of man's utter nothingness that led me to kill my grandmother, and poison the helpless offspring of my elder brother."
Here Mr. Higgins held down his head and quivered with emotions, as the ocean quakes under the shrieking howl of the blast.
I felt my whole being convulsed, and could not endure the spectacle. I stole softly to the door, and stammered through my tears, "Good-night, Mr. Higgins, I will pray for you."
He did not turn his noble head, but said, in firm tones: "Poor little beast, good night."
I went to my room, but could not sleep. Shortly after half-past two o'clock I crawled noiselessly down to the library-door and looked in. Mr. Higgins still sat before the fire in the same thoughtful position. "Poor little beast!" I heard him murmur softly to himself--"poor little beast!"
CHAPTER III.
Let the reader transport himself to a small stone cottage on the Hudson, and he will behold me as I was at the age of twenty-one. I had reached that acme of woman's career when common sense is to her as nothing, and the world with all its follies bursts upon her ravished ears with ten-fold succulence. My grandfather had been dead some fifty years, and I was even thinking of him, when the door opened, and Mr. Higgins entered. I felt my heart palpitate, and was about to quit the room, when he cast a searching glance at me, and said:
"Well, girl--are you as big a fool as ever?"
I hung my head, for the tell-tale blush _would_ bloom.
"Come," said Mr. Higgins, "don't speak like a donkey. I'm no priestly confessor. Curse the priests! Curse the world! Curse everybody! Curse everything!" And he placed his feet upon the mantel-piece, and gazed meditatively into the fire.
I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and all the warmth of my nature went forth to meet this sublime embodiment of human majesty; yet I dared not speak.
After a short silence, Mr. Higgins took a chew of tobacco, and placing his hand on my shoulder, exclaimed:
"Why should I deceive you, girl? Last night I poisoned my only remaining sister because she would have wed a circus-keeper, and scarcely an hour ago I lost two millions at faro. Your priests would say this was wrong--hey?"
I stifled my sobs and said, as calmly as I could:
"Our Church looks at the motive, not the deed. If a high sense of honor compelled you to poison all your relatives and play faro, the sin was rather the effect of vice in others than in your own noble heart, and I doubt not you may be called innocent."
He glanced into the fire a few hours, and then said:
"Go, Galushianna!--I would be alone! Go, innocent young scorpion."
Oh, Higgins, Higgins, if I could have died for thee then, I don't know but I should have done it!
CHAPTER IV.
Seventy-five years have rolled by since last I met the reader, and I am still a thoughtless girl. But oh, how changed! The raven of despair has flapped his hideous brood over the halls of my ancestors, and taken from them all that once made them beautiful. When I look back I can see nothing before me, and when I look forward I can see nothing behind me. Thus it is with life. We fancy that each hour is a butterfly made to play with, and all is gall and bitterness.
I was chastened by misfortune, and occupied a secluded cavern in the city of New Orleans, when my faithful old nurse entered my dressing-room, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Sassafrina!" I exclaimed, half angrily.
"Please don't be angry, miss," responded the tired old creature; "but I knew it would come all right at last. I told you Sir Claude Higgins hadn't married his youngest sister, but you wouldn't believe me. Now he's down stairs in the parlor waiting for you."
And the attached domestic fell dead at my feet.
After hastily putting on a pair of clean stockings and reading a chapter in my mother's family Bible, I left the room, murmuring to myself, "Be still, my throbbing heart, be still."
CHAPTER V.
When I entered the parlor, Mr. Higgins sat gazing into the fire in an attitude of deep reflection, and did not note my entrance until I had touched him. His dishevelled hair hung from his massive temples in majestic discomposure, and an extinguished torch lay smouldering at his glorious feet.
O my soul's idol! I can see thee now as I saw thee then, with the firelight glowing over thee, like a smile from the cerulean skies!
As I touched him, he awoke.
"Miserable girl!" he exclaimed, in those old familiar tones, drawing me towards him, while a delicious tremor shook my every nerve. "Wretched little serpent! And is it thus we meet? Poor idiot, you are but a woman, and I--alas! what am I? Two hours ago, I set fire to three churches, and crushed a sexton 'neath my iron heel. Do you not shrink? 'Tis well. Then hear me, viper, _I lovest thee_."
Was it the music of a higher sphere that I smelt, or was I still in this world of folly and sin? And were all my toils, my cares, my heart-breathings, my hope-sobbings, my soul-writhings to end thus gloriously at last in the adoration of a being on whom I lavished all the spirit's purest gloatings?
My bliss was more than I could endure. Tearing all the hair-pins from my hair and tying my pocket handkerchief about my heaving neck, I flung myself upon his steaming chest.
"_My_ Higgins!"
"YOUR Higgins!!"
"OUR Higgins!!!"
THE BLISSFUL FINIS.
The intellectual women of America draw it rather tempestuously whenthey try to reproduce gorgeous manhood; but they mean well, myboy,--they mean well.
Yours, in a brown study,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER X.
MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS EVENTS.THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July 28th, 1861.
We have met the enemy at last, my boy; but I don't see that he's ours.We went after him with flying banners, and I noticed when we came backthat they
were flying still! Honor to the brave who fell on that bloodyfield! and may we kill enough secessionists to give each of them amonument of Southern skulls!
I was present at the great battle, my boy, and appointed myself aspecial guard of one of the baggage-wagons in the extreme rear. Thedriver saw me coming, and says he:
"You can't cut behind this here wehicle, my fine little boy."
I looked at him for a moment, after the manner of the late great actor,Mr. Kirby, and says I:
"Soldier, hast thou a wife?"
Says he:
"I reckon."
"And sixteen small children?"
Says he:
"There was only fifteen when last heard from."
"Soldier," says I, "were you to die before to-morrow, what would beyour last request?"
Here I shed two tears.
"It would be," says he, "that some kind friend would take the job ofwalloping my offspring for a year on contract, and finding my belovedwife in subjects to jaw about."
"Soldier," says I, "I'm your friend and brother. Let me occupy a seatby your side."
And he didn't let me do it.
Just at this moment, something burst, and I found myself going up atthe rate of two steeples and a shot-tower a second. I met a Fire Zouaveon the way down, and says he:
"Towhead, if you see any of our boys up where you're goin' to, justtell them to hurry down; fur there's goin' to be a row, and Nine'sfellers 'll take that ere four-gun hydrant from the seceshers in lesstime than you can reel two yards of hose."