Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

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Various. Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

THE WONDERS OF WORDS

THE CHECH

PICTURES FROM THE NORTH

THE NEW RASSELAS

THE CHAINED RIVER

HOW THE WAR AFFECTS AMERICANS

PROMOTED!

HENRIETTA AND VULCAN

ETHEL. FITZ FASHION'S WIFE

THE SKEPTICS OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

A CHORD OF WOOD

A MERCHANT'S STORY

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

WAR [J. G. PERCIVAL.]

A CHAPTER ON WONDERS

THE RETURN

THE UNION

VI. VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA COMPARED

DOWN IN TENNESSEE

POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS

PATRIA SPES ULTIMA MUNDI. FLAG OF OUR UNION

A FANCY SKETCH

THE SOLDIER [BURNS.]

OUR PRESENT POSITION: ITS DANGERS AND ITS DUTIES

THE COMPLAINING BORE

DEATH OF THE BRAVE

LITERARY NOTICES

EDITOR'S TABLE

Отрывок из книги

It is worth while to live in the city, that we may learn to love the country; and it is not bad for many, that artificial life binds them with bonds of silk or lace or rags or cobwebs, since, when they are rent away, the Real gleams out in a beauty and with a zest which had not been save for contrast.

Contrast is the salt of the beautiful. I wonder that the ancients, who came so near it in so many ways, never made a goddess of Contrast. They had something like it in ever-varying Future – something like it in double-faced Janus, who was their real 'Angel of the Odd.' Perhaps it is my ignorance which is at fault – if so, I pray you correct me. The subtle Neo-Platonists must have apotheosized such a savor to all æsthetic bliss. Mostly do I feel its charm when there come before me pictures true to life of far lands and lives, of valley and river, sea and shore. Then I forget the narrow office and the shop-lined street, the rattling cars and hurried hotel-lodgment, and think what it would be if nature, in all her freshness and never-ending contrasts, could be my ever-present.

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Monsieur de C – went on with his story: 'One day, before Juba (such was the negro's name), I loudly expressed my despair at my obscurity and the uselessness of my life, and I exclaimed: 'I would give ten years of my life to be placed in the first rank of our authors.' 'Ten years,' he coldly replied to me, 'are a great deal; it's paying dearly for a trifle; but that's nothing, I accept your ten years. I take them now; remember your promises: I shall keep mine!' I cannot depict to you my surprise at hearing him speak in this way. I thought years had weakened his reason; I smiled, and he shrugged his shoulders, and in a few days afterward I quitted the chateau to pay a visit to Paris. There I was thrown a great deal in literary society. Their example encouraged me, and I published several works, whose success I shall not weary you by describing. All Paris applauded me; the newspapers proclaimed my praises; the new name I had assumed became celebrated, and no later than yesterday, you, yourself, my young friend, admired me.'

A new gesture of surprise again interrupted his narrative: 'What! you are not the Duke de C – ?' I exclaimed.

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