And through all the blue of heaven's vault, Rolls the Vala's mystic charm, Swelled with strains of the mighty past— Victory strikes with the Northman's arm.

F.

Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the battle-call:

'Northmen, come out! Forth into battle with storm and shout, He who lives with victory's blest; He who dies gains peaceful rest. Living or dying, let us be Still vowed to God and liberty! Northmen, come out!'

* * * * *

The following poem is certainly not behind the times:

PAYING THE SHOT.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin, Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot; Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,' Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.'

We 'owe them one!' and now's the time to settle, And finish up the business to a dot; A half a million men, upon their metal, Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers; Master or slave no more shall treason plot. We've settled that account with steel and triggers, And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.'

We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil, Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot; We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil, That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.'

There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books; That must be paid, each tittle and each jot; A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks, But strikes his balance fair, and 'pays the shot.'

There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs, We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;' In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar, Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.'

So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers! Wipe out this treason now, nor leave one blot; When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;' Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'

* * * * *

War stories and war songs are in vogue—for instance:

MY JOHNNY IS GONE FOR A SOLDIER.

The accomplished, fascinating, talented, and beautiful Miss H——, as Jinkings calls her in his last Saratoga letter, has engaged her affections to Mr. John G——, and they are to be married some time. In the mean time, she has done all in her power to induce her lover to go and fight the battles of his country; so far unsuccessfully, since Mr. John G—— deems it his duty to stay at home and keep things steady, especially billiards, which, as we all know, is an erratic game, requiring great watching.

The other evening, Miss H——, while assisting at a sociable at Madame V——'s, was asked to sing. Seated at the piano, to the horror of expectant hearers of classic music, she began, with loudest voice, to sing:

'I'll trace these gardins o'er and o'er, A med-i-tating on atche swate flowir, A thinking on each bewcheous hour; Oh! Johnny is gone for a sol-di-er.'

She then put her handkerchief to her eyes, pretended to sob bitterly, arose from the piano-stool, and sought an arm-chair.

Solicited by her confidential friend, Miss Belrose, to confide her affliction, she only answered:

'Oh! my Johnny G——'s gone for a soldier—to play billiards with him! And—and I know that that fast Lieutenant Gamble will keep him there for hours and hours.'

* * * * *

Young gentlemen, this is the time for bullets and not for balls; for cannons and not caroms; for rifle-pits to hole yourselves in, and not for 'pockets' wherein to hole your adversary. Apropos of which, listen to

THE WRONG KIND OF A BAND.

Colonel X—— raised a regiment in the Ri-too-lal Rural districts of New-Jersey, including a by no means bad brass band.

Arrived in Washington with his force, he was unfortunate enough to meet with a wag, who at once told him he was afraid that he, the Colonel, would meet or rather come to grief shortly.

'How so?' asked Colonel X—— excitedly.

'H'm!' answered the wag, 'don't you see that those rural musicians of yours will be regarded as country-band of war?'

The Colonel saw it!

* * * * *

Do our readers remember a beautiful poem on Gottschalk's playing—Los ojos Criollos—which appeared some time since in the Home Journal? They will not regret to see a lyric in our pages by the writer of the first referred to:

THE OLD SURGEON'S STORY.

BY ELEANOR C. DONELLY.

'Twas in a Southern hospital, a week ago or more, (God save us! how the days drag on, these weary times of war!) They brought me, in the sultry noon, a youth whom they had found Deserted by his regiment upon the battle-ground, And bleeding his young life away through many a gaping wound.

'Dark-haired and slender as a girl, a handsome lad was he, Despite the pallor of his wounds, each one an agony. A ball had carried off his arm, and zig-zag passage frayed Into his chest—so wild a rent that, when it was displayed, I, veteran surgeon that I was, turned white as any maid.

''There is no hope?' he slowly said, noting my changing cheek; I only shook my head: I dare not trust myself to speak; But in that wordless negative, the boy had read his doom, And turned about, as best he could, and lay in silent gloom, Watching the summer sunlight make a glory of the room.

''My little hero!' said a voice, and then a woman's hand Lay like a lily on his curls: 'God give you self-command!' 'Mother!'—how full that thrilling word of pity and alarm— 'You here? my sweetest mother here?' and with his one poor arm He got about her neck and drew her down with kisses warm.

''All the long, sultry night, when out—'(He shuddered as he said)— 'On yonder field I lay among the festering heaps of dead; With awful faces close to mine, and clots of bloody hair, And dead eyes gleaming through the dusk with such a rigid stare; Through all my pain, O mother mine! I only prayed one prayer.

''Through all my pain—(and ne'er I knew what suffering was before!)— I only prayed to see your face, to hear your voice once more; The cold moon shone into my eyes—my prayer seemed all in vain.' 'My poor deluded boy!' she sobbed; her mother-fount of pain O'erflowing down her gentle cheeks in drops like thunder-rain.

''Accursed be he whose cruel hand has wrought my son such ill!' The boy sprang upright at the word, and shrieked aloud, 'Be still! You know not what you say. O God! how shall I tell the tale! How shall I smite her as she stands!' and with a moaning wail He prone among the pillows dropped, his visage ashen pale.

''It was a bloody field,' he said, at last, like one who dozed; 'I know not how the day began—I know not how it closed; I only know we fought like fiends, begrimed with blood and dust, And did our duty to a man, as every soldier must, And gave the rebels ball for ball, and paid them thrust for thrust.

'But when our gallant General rode up and down the line, The sunlight striking on his sword until it flashed like wine, And cried aloud (God bless his lips!) with such a cheery laugh, 'Charge bayonets, boys! Pitch into them, and scatter them like chaff!' One half our men were drunk with blood, and mad the other half.

''My veins ran fire. O Heaven! hide the horrors of that plain! We charged upon the rebel ranks and cut them down like grain. One bright-haired man ran on my steel—I pierced him through and through; The blood upspirted from his wound and sprinkled me like dew. 'Twas strange, but as I looked I thought of Cain and him he slew.

''Some impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell, I turned him o'er—I saw his face—the sight was worse than hell! There lay my brother—Curse me not!—pierced by my bayonet!' O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget— Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet.

'And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she, Dropped down among us, in a swoon, from very sympathy. 'I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had died In those old days of innocence!) was ever by my side, At bed or board, at school or play, so fresh and merry-eyed!

''And now to see it white and set—to know the deed was mine! A madness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine. I did not heed the balls which fell around us thick as rain, I did not know my arm was gone; I felt nor wound nor pain, I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again.

''O Louis!' (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside,) 'O Louis! brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide! By the bright heaven where thou stand'st—by thy big-hearted faith— By these the tears our mother sheds—by this my failing breath— Forgive me for that murd'rous thrust which wounded thee to death.

''Forgive me! I would yield my life to give thee thine, my brother! What's this? Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother. The air blows sweet from yonder field! Dear Lou, put up your sword. Let's weave a little daisy-chain upon this pleasant sward—' And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.'

Such are the tragedies of civil war, the fearful probability of such events. But who has not heard of families with sons in either army, especially on the border, in Philadelphia, and Baltimore? We have heard seven such instances enumerated by one lady of the former city. Let us turn from tragedy to comedy:

* * * * *

CAPPED THE CLIMAX.

The ladies of Christopher's Church, Philadelphia, have worked like true-hearted women for the wounded soldiers. Many a poor fellow has blessed them for their contributions to alleviate his pain and make the old hospital comfortable for him. In the congregation, one elderly maiden lady, who had so far given nothing, was called on by one of her energetic sisters in the church, and implored to do something for the poor soldiers. She was told that any thing that would render their sufferings less would be gratefully received.

She promised to send a donation. Nothing more was heard from her for a couple of weeks, when one morning the ladies assembled in the vestry-room of the church received a large basket from the elderly maiden lady. On opening it, they found three dozen starched muslin, night-cape, with frills all round them, bows and long strings.

'Did you ever?' asked Miss G——. 'I declare Miss—— has set her Caps for the soldiers in earnest this time.

* * * * *

We select the following as the best proposed completion of the unfinished poem by Fitz-James O'Brien, published in our July number:

Detroit, Mich., June 22d, 1862.

EDITORS OF CONTINENTAL: As you do not give the conclusion of that 'Watching the Stag,' I propose to finish it in this wise:

'Watching my face with half-closed eyes,' As I lean my head on the dappled stag That stiffens beneath a windward crag.

His flanks are black with the hardened sweat, And a film has clouded his eye of jet; While a round, red wound that oozes still,' Tells of his fate and my marksman's skill.

Oh! the granite crags shall no longer feel His fleet hoofs ringing like steel on steel, And shepherd shall never again espy His antlers painted against the sky!

The mountain tarn, so lone and cold, The delicate shadow no more shall hold; The fleetness has died in each rigid limb, And never shall dun hound follow him!

Stanch Hela blinks as she half recalls That savage chase through the mountain-walls, And growls as she dreams how her white teeth sank With a thirsty grip in his shuddering flank.

Dream on, good dog! through the night so chill, Till sunrise surges over the hill, Till the heather glows and the peaks are gay, And then for our mountain-home hurra!



* * * * *

We are indebted to L. H. Brook, of Cambridge for a version of

* * * * *

MARGARET'S SONG.

FROM 'FAUST.'

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone; Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore; Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Wo ich ihn nicht hab', Where him I crave, Ist mir das Grab; To me's the grave; Die gauze Welt The world and all Ist mir vergaellt. Seems turned to gall.

Mein armer Kopf My wretched head Ist mir verrueckt, Seems going mad; Mein armer Sinn My wretched mind Ist mir zerstueckt. Is torn and sad.

Nach ihm nur schau' ich For him I look Zum Fenster hinaus, The casement out; Nach ihm nur geh' ich Him only seek Aus dem Haus. The town about.

Sein hoher Gang, His lofty step, Sein' edle Gestalt. His noble form; Seines Mundes Laecheln, The smile of his mouth, Seiner Augen Gewalt. His eye's strong charm.

Und seiner Rede And in his voice Zauberfluss, The magic bliss, Sein Haendedruck, His clasping hand, Und ach! sein Kuss. And ah! his kiss.

Meine Ruh' ist hin, My peace is gone; Mein Herz ist schwer, My heart is sore; Ich finde sie nimmer I find it never Und nimmermehr. And nevermore.

Mein Busen draengt My bosom swells Sich nach ihm hin; Toward him when near Ach! duerft' ich fassen Ah! might I fold Und halten ihn! And hold him there!

Und kuessen ihn And could I kiss him So wie ich wollt', While I may, An seinen Kuessen Upon his kiss Vergehen sollt'! I'd die away!



THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

* * * * *

The Continental Monthly has passed its experimental ordeal, and stands firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period when any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine. Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation, for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has found favor in quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where opposition only was looked for. While holding firmly to its own opinions, it has opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERS of widely different views, and has made a feature of employing the literary labors of the younger race of American writers. How much has been gained by thus giving, practically, the fullest freedom to the expression of opinion, and by the infusion of fresh blood into literature, has been felt from month to month in its constantly increasing circulation.

The most eminent of our Statesmen have furnished THE CONTINENTAL many of its political articles, and the result is, it has not given labored essays fit only for a place in ponderous encyclopedias, but fresh, vigorous, and practical contributions on men and things as they exist.

It will be our effort to go on in the path we have entered, and as a guarantee of the future, we may point to the array of live and brilliant talent which has brought so many encomiums on our Magazine. The able political articles which have given it so much reputation will be continued in each issue, together with the new Novel by Richard B. Kimball, the eminent author of the 'Under-Currents of Wall-Street,' 'St, Leger,' etc., entitled,

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money. This work excels the previous brilliant productions of this author. In the present number is also commenced a new Serial by the author of 'Among the Pines,' entitled,

A MERCHANT'S STORY,

which will depict Southern white society, and be a truthful history of some eminent Northern merchants who are largely in 'the cotton trade and sugar line.'

The UNION—The Union of ALL THE STATES—that indicates our politics. To be content with no ground lower than the highest—that is the standard of our literary character.

We hope all who are friendly to the spread of our political views, and all who are favorable to the diffusion of a live, fresh, and energetic literature, will lend us their aid to increase our circulation. There is not one of our readers who may not influence one or two more, and there is in every town in the loyal States some active person whose time might be profitably employed in procuring subscribers to our work. To encourage such to act for us we offer the following very liberal

TERMS TO CLUBS.

Two copies for one year, Five dollars. Three copies for one year, Six dollars. Six copies for one year, Eleven dollars. Eleven copies for one year, Twenty dollars. Twenty copies for one year, Thirty-six dollars.

PAID IN ADVANCE.

Postage, Thirty-six Cents a year, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three Dollars a year, IN ADVANCE.—Postage paid by the Publisher.

J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York, and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

CHARLES T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New-York, GENERAL AGENT.



EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

* * * * *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their Railroad, 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666, and a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great staples, CORN and WHEAT.

CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the industrious farmer secure such immediate results from his labor as on those deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200 miles, is well adapted to Winter.

WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (a distance of 115 miles on the Branch, and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising portion of the State.

THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 50 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147 miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 35,000,000 bushels, while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Pumpkins, Squashes Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco, Sorgheim, Grapes, Peaches, Apples, &c. which go to swell the vast aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.

STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to enter with the fairest prospects of like results. DAIRY FARMING also presents its inducements to many.

CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption on the Main Line), the company owns thousands of acres well adapted to the perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young children, can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in the growth and perfection of this plant.

THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio. As its name imports, the Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.

CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS, DEPOTS,

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union, and where buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.

EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the Great Western Empire.

* * * * *

PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT—ON LONG CREDIT.

80 acres at $10 per acre, with interest at 6 per ct. annually on the following terms:

Cash payment $48 00 Payment in one year 48 00 " in two years 48 00 " in three years 48 00 " in four years 236 00 " in five years 224 00 " in six years 212 00 " in seven years 200 00

40 acres, at $10 00 per acre:

Cash payment $24 00 Payment in one year 24 00 " in two years 24 00 " in three years 24 00 " in four years 118 00 " in five years 112 00 " in six years 106 00 " in seven years 100 00



The

Continental

Monthly

Devoted to Literature and National Policy.

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER, 1862.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK AND BOSTON:

J. R. GILMORE, 532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK, AND 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON.

NEW-YORK: HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY.

PHILADELPHIA: T. B. CALLENDEE AND A. WINCH.

CONTENTS.—No. IX.

Henry Thomas Buckle, 253

The Molly O'Molly Papers, 257

Hopeful Tackett—His Mark, 262

John Bull to Jonathan, 265

Jonathan to John Bull, 265

American Student Life, 266

Go In and Win, 274

John Neal, 275

The Soldier and the Civilian, 281

Author Borrowing, 285

Intervention, 289

Maccaroni and Canvas, 290

Anthony Trollope on America, 302

Up and Act, 314

Reminiscences of Andrew Jackson, 318

Shakspeare's Caricature of Richard III., 320

The Negro in the Revolution, 324

A Merchant's Story, By the author of "Among the Pines," 328

Shoulder-Straps, 342

The Children in the Wood, 354

National Unity, 357

Was he Successful? 360

Literary Notices, 366

Editor's Table, 369

* * * * *

The article in this issue on NATIONAL UNITY, is by the Hon. HORACE GREELEY, who will hereafter contribute to each number of 'The Continental.'

SHOULDER-STRAPS, by HENRY MORFORD, Esq., author of 'Rhymes of Twenty Years,' will be a sparkling commentary on 'Men, Manners, and Motives in 1862.' It will depict some prominent characters whose love of the UNION is shown in a decided penchant for 'shoulder-straps.'

The future chapters of 'A MERCHANT'S STORY,' by the author of 'Among the Pines,' will be mainly descriptive of Southern life and society.

* * * * *

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress in the year 1862, by JAMES R. GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

THE END