The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

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Various. The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

AN ANGEL ON EARTH

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS

VIII

IX

X

'THAT LAST DITCH.'

HOPEFUL TACKETT—HIS MARK

JOHN BULL TO JONATHAN

JONATHAN TO JOHN BULL

AMERICAN STUDENT LIFE

SOME MEMORIES OF YALE

GO IN AND WIN

JOHN NEAL

THE SOLDIER AND THE CIVILIAN

VOLUNTEER BOYS. [1750.]

AUTHOR-BORROWING

INTERVENTION

MACCARONI AND CANVAS

VII

'A REEL TITIANO FOR SAL.'

SO LONG!

ROMAN THEATRES

FRENCH

THE BEARDS OF ART

A CALICO-PAINTER

REDIVIVUS

A PATRON OF ART

ANEZKA OD PRAHA

ANTHONY TROLLOPE ON AMERICA

UP AND ACT

REMINISCENCES OF ANDREW JACKSON

SHAKSPEARE'S CARICATURE OF RICHARD III

THE NEGRO IN THE REVOLUTION

A MERCHANT'S STORY

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

FRANCES MANDELL:

TAKE CARE!

SHOULDER-STRAPS;

Or, MEN, MANNERS, AND MOTIVES IN 1862

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD

NATIONAL UNITY

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

CHAPTER SEVENTH

HIRAM MEEKER VISITS MR. BURNS

AN ARMY CONTRACTOR

LITERARY NOTICES

EDITOR'S TABLE

RAVENSHOE—ITS SEQUEL

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

'LESSON FIRST

'THE SMART DIX-IE BOY

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY

EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

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Better than wealth, better than hosts of friends, better than genius, is a mind that finds enjoyment in little things—that sucks honey from the blossom of the weed as well as from the rose—that is not too dainty to enjoy coarse, everyday fare. I am thankful that, though not born under a lucky star, I wasn't born under a melancholy one; that, though there were at my christening no kind fairies to bestow on me all the blessings of life—there was no malignant elf to 'mingle a curse with every blessing.' I'd rather have a few drops of pure sweet than an overflowing cup tinctured with bitterness.

Not that sorrow has never blown her chill breath on my spirit—yet it has never been so iced over that it would not here and there bubble forth with a song of gladness.... There are depths of woe that I have never fathomed, or rather, to which I have never sunken—for there are no line and plummet to sound the dreary depths—yet the waves have overwhelmed me, as every human being, but I soon rose above them.

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Croakers to the contrary notwithstanding, there is in the record of our past lives, or in the prophecy of our future, another word than grief or care; it is joy. My friend, could your history be truthfully written, and printed in the old style, are there not many passages that would shine beautifully in golden letters? I say truthfully written; for we are so apt to forget our joys, while we remember our griefs. Perhaps this is because joy and its effects are so evanescent. Leland talks beautifully of 'the perfumed depths of the lotus-word, joyousness;' but in this world we only breathe the perfume. Could we eat the lotus!… The fabled lotus-eater wished never to leave the isle whence he had plucked it. Wrapped in dreamy selfishness, unnerved for the toil of reaching the far-off shore, he grew indifferent to country and friends.... So earth would be to us an enchanted isle. The stern toil by which we are to reach that better land, our home, would become irksome to us. It is well for us that we can only breathe the perfume.

Then, too, the deepest woe we may know—not the highest joy—that is bliss beyond even our capacity of dreaming. Some one, in regard to the ladder Jacob saw in his dream, says: 'But alas! he slept at the foot.' That any ladder should be substantial enough for cumbersome mortality to climb to heaven, was too great an impossibility even for a dream.

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