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

'Yes, but you know what the poet says:

"Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell."

So she went in. She took but small notice of the prisoner, however, arranged her bouquet, left her oranges, and departed. It occurred to me to promptly search the bouquet for a concealed note or file, so I entered the cell as she went out. I found Shocky, as we called him, sucking away at an orange, and staring at the flowers in great amazement. Finally, he spoke.

'Wat in –'s the use a sendin' them things to a feller fur, unless they give him the rum with 'em?'

'What do you suppose they are meant for?' I replied.

'Why, to make bitters with, in course. An't them come-a-mile flowers?'

The second is something of the same sort. Not long since, a lot of us—I am an H. P., 'high private,' now—were quartered in several wooden tenements, and in the inner room of one lay the corpus of a young Secesh officer, awaiting burial. The news soon spread to a village not far off. Down came tearing a sentimental and not bad-looking specimen of a Virginny dame.

'Let me kiss him for his mother!' she cried, as I interrupted her progress. 'Do let me kiss him for his mother!'

'Kiss whom?'

'The dear little lieutenant, the one who lies dead within. P'int him out to me, sir, if you please. I never saw him, but—oh!'

I led her through a room in which Lieutenant –, of Philadelphia, lay stretched out on an up-turned trough, fast asleep. Supposing him to be the 'article' sought for, she rushed up, and exclaiming, 'Let me kiss him for his mother,' approached her lips to his forehead. What was her amazement when the 'corpse,' ardently clasping its arms around her, returned the salute vigorously, and exclaimed:

'Never mind the old lady, Miss, go it on your own account. I haven't the slightest objection!'

Sentiment is a fine thing, Mr. Editor, but it should be handled as one handles the spiked guns which the rebels leave behind, loaded with percussion-caps—very carefully.

    Yours amazingly,
    Warden.

Readers who are desirous of seeing Ravenshoe fully played out will please glance at the following:

RAVENSHOE—ITS SEQUEL

PREFACE

There are those who assert that the doctrine of Compensation is utterly ignored in Ravenshoe. They instance the rewarding Welter, a coarse, brutal scoundrel and sensual beast, with wealth and title, and such honor as the author can confer, as an insult to every rational reader; nor can they think Charles Ravenshoe, or Horton, who endeavored right manfully to support himself, repaid for this exertion, and for bearing up stoutly against his troubles, by being compelled 'to pass a dull, settled, dreaming, melancholy old age' as an invalid.

It may naturally be thought that a residence of years in Australia, the mother of Botany Bay, where not exactly the best of American society could be found, has had its effect in embittering even an Englishman against Americans, and of embroiling him with his own countrymen; therefore the reader must smile at this principle of rewarding vice and punishing virtue; it is what Ravenshoe pretends to be—something novel.

The extreme dissatisfaction of the public with this volume calls imperatively for a satisfactory conclusion to it, consequently a sequel is now presented in what the Australians call the most 'bloody dingo[6 - The dingo, or native dog of Australia, looks like a cross between the fox or wolf and the shepherd-dog; they generally hunt in packs, and destroy great numbers of sheep. I have never eaten one.] politeful' manner.

CHAPTER I

A small boy with a dirty face met another small boy similarly caparisoned. Said the first: 'Eech! you don' know how much twicet two is?'

'You are a –' (we suppress the word he used; suffice it to say, it may be defined, 'a kind of harp much used by the ancients!')—'twicet two is four. Hmm!' replied the second.

The reader may not see it, but the writer does, that this trivial conversation has important bearing on the fate of William Ravenshoe, the wrongful-rightful, rightful-wrongful, etcetera, heir. For further particulars, see the Bohemian Girl, where a babe is changed by a nurse in order that the nurse may have change for it.

When Charles Horton Ravenshoe returned once more to his paternal acres, it will be remembered he settled two thousand pounds a year, rent-charge on Ravenshoe, in favor of William Ravenshoe. Over and above this, Charles enjoyed from this estate and from what Lord Saltire (Satire?) willed him, no less than fourteen thousand pounds; his settlement on William was therefore by no means one half of the income, consequently unfair to the exiled Catholic half-brother.

After the death of Father Mackworth he was followed by a gentleman in crow-colored raiment, named Father Macksham, who accompanied William, the ex-heir, to a small cottage, where the plots inside were much larger than the grass-plots outside, and where Father Macksham hatched the following fruit, which only partially ripened. He determined to overthrow Welter by the means of Adelaide, then overthrow Adelaide by means of Charles Ravenshoe, then overthrow the latter by his illegitimate brother, and finally throw the last over in favor of the Jesuits. He occupied all his spare moments preparing the fireworks.

CHAPTER II

The reader will remember that Adelaide, wife of Welter, or Lord Ascot, broke her back while attempting to jump a fence, mounted on the back of the Irish mare 'Molly Asthore,' but the reader does not know that Welter was the cause of his wife's fall, and that he actually hired a groom to scare 'Molly Asthore' so that she would take the fence, and also his wife out of this vale of tears. (This sentence I know is not grammatical; who cares?) Welter, when he saw that his wife was not killed, was furious. His large red brutal face turned to purple; he smote his prize-fighting chest with his huge fists, he lowered his eyebrows until he resembled an infuriated hog, and then he retired to his house and drank a small box of claret—pints—twenty-four to the dozen!

Adelaide, too, was furious, but she sent privately to London for Surgeon Forsups—he came; then in the night season, unbeknown to Welter, an operation was performed, and behold! in the morning light lay Adelaide, tall, straight, commanding, proud—well as ever! in fact, straight as a shingle. Do you think she wanted to choke Welter? I do.

CHAPTER III

Nature was in one of her gloomiest moods, the clouds were the color of burnt treacle, the sombre rain pelted the dismal streets; mud was everywhere, desolation, misery, wet boots, and ruined hats. In the midst of such a scene, Welter, Lord Ascot, died of apoplexy in the throat, caused by a rope. Who did the deed? Owls on the battlements answer me. Did he do it himself or was it done for him? Shrieking elements respond. Echo answers: Justice!

CHAPTER IV

Ravenshoe bay again. Sunlight on the waters; clear blue sky; all nature smiling serenely; Charles Ravenshoe—I adore the man when I think of him—landing a forty-four-pound salmon; ruddy with health, joyous in countenance; two curly-headed boys screaming for joy; his wife, 'she that was' (Americanism picked up among Yorkshiremen in Australia) Mary Corby, laughing heartily at the tout ensemble. William Ravenshoe affectionately helping Charles with a landing-net to secure the salmon, thus speaks to him:

'Charles, this idea of yours of dividing the 'state evenly between us is noble, but I shall not accept it. I would like a small piece of the tail of this salmon for dinner, though, if it will not rob you.'

'William, halves in every thing between us is my motto; so say no more about it. The delightful news that Father Macksham has at last fallen a victim to his love of gain, while trying to run a cargo of cannons, powder, and Enfield rifles to the confederate States, IN DIRECT OPPOSITION TO HER BLESSED MAJESTY'S COMMANDS, rejoices my heart to that extent that I exclaim, perish all Jesuits! Now that you have turned Protestant, and are thoroughly out of the woods of medieval romance, I may say,

'The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,'

and quote Tennyson, like poor Cuthbert, all day long. Who is there to hinder?'

'No one,' replied William, with all the warmth of heart of a man who was once a groom and then a bridegroom. 'No one. I saw Adelaide this morning a-carrying flannels and rum to the poor of the parish; how thoroughly she has reformed, I'm sure.'

Reader, let us pause here and dwell on the respective merits of the Bohemian Girl, and Father Rodin in the Mysteries of Paris, compared with the characters described in Ravenshoe. Let us ask if an English novel can be written without allusion to the Derby or Life at Oxford, the accumulation of pounds or the squandering of pounds, rightful heirs or wrongful heirs, false marriages, or the actions of spoiled children generally? An answer is looked for.

'And further this deponent sayeth not.'

The Nashville Union—the new Union newspaper of that city—is emphatically 'an institution,' and a dashing one at that. Its every column is like the charge of a column of infantry into the unhallowed Rebel-ry of Disunion. 'Don't compromise your loyalty with rebels,' says the Union, 'until you are ready to compromise your soul with the devil.'

Some of the humor of this brave pioneer sheet is decidedly piquant. Among its quizzical literary efforts the review of Rev. Dr. McFerrin's Confederate Primer is good enough to form the initial of a series. We make the following extracts:

'Nothing is more worthy of being perpetuated than valuable contributions to literature. The literature of a nation is its crown of glory, whose reflected light shines far down the swift-rolling waves of time and gladdens the eyes of remote generations. This beautiful and—to our notion—finely-expressed sentiment was suggested to our mind in turning over the pages of Rev. Dr. McFerrin's Confederate Primer, which we briefly noticed yesterday. We feel that we then passed too hastily over a work so grand in its conception.... The Primer, after giving the alphabet in due form, offers some little rhymes for youngsters, which are perfect nosegays of sentiment, of which the following will serve as samples:

N.

At Nashville's fall

We sinned all.

T.

At Number Ten

We sinned again.