CHAPTER I.

'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that Egyptian woman bore the last—positively the last—remains of Margrave, or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'

'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.

'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:

'FABER, No. 4.'

I believe it may belong to one of my family—lost, perhaps, in the ocean of commerce.'

'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung; let us enter the house.'

CHAPTER II.

'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us how that cold chicken should be carved.'

Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket. Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.

'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.

'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and romantic dreams.'

'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs. Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken to filling her duties as housewife?'

'To be sure I do.'

The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a brown one, remarking:

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale—we are nearly out.'

CHAPTER III.

'Here ye are, gen-till-men! This fine de-tersive soap—on-ly thrippence a tab-let—takes stains out of all kinds of things. Step up while there air a few tab-lets left of this in-im-a-table art-tickle unsold.'

'Who's that guy in the soap-trade?' asked one policeman of another one as they passed along Lowther Arcade and saw the man whose conversation is reported above.

'He's a deep one, hi know,' said the one asked. ''Is name is Grayle, Louis Grayle. There's hodd stories 'bout 'im, werry hodd. 'E tries to work a werry wiry dodge on the johnny-raws, bout bein' ha 'undred hand ten years hold. Says 'e's got some kind o' water wot kips hun' from growink hold, My heye! strikes me if 'e 'ad, 'e wouldn't bein' sellin' soap 'bout 'ere. Go hup to 'im hand tell 'im to move hon, 'e's ben wurkin this lay long enough, I ham thinkin'.

Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails—two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account—the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits.

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled.

CHAPTER V.

Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh!

Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward.

THE END.

* * * * *

WHAT THEN?

BY J. HAL. ELLIOT.

God's pity on them! Human souls, I mean, Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt, And bodies which no common sore can hurt; All this between Those souls, and life—corrupt, defiled, unclean.

And more—hard faces, pinched by starving years. Cold, stolid, grimy faces—vacant eyes, Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies; But never tears! Tears would not help them—battling constant jeers.

Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first, Crouching through life forever in the dark, Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark; And no one durst Deny their horrid dream, that they are curst.

And life for them! dare we call life its name? O God! an arid sea of burning sand, Eternal blackness! death on every hand! A smothered flame, Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.

And death! we shudder when we speak the word; 'Tis all the same to them—or life, or death; They breathe them both with every fevered breath; When have they heard, That cool Bethesda's waters might be stirred!

They live among us—live and die to-day; We brush them with our garments on the street, And track their footsteps with our dainty feet; 'Poor common clay!' We curl our lips—and that is what we say.

God's pity on them! and on us as well: They live and die like brutes, and we like men: Both go alone into the dark—what then? Or heaven, or hell? They suffered in this life! Stop! Who can tell?

* * * * *

The last stranger who visited Washington Irving, before his death, was Theodore Tilton, who published shortly afterward an account of the interview. Mr. Tilton wrote also a private letter to a friend, giving an interesting reminiscence, which he did not mention in his published account. The following is an extract from this letter, now first made public:

As I was about parting from Mr. Irving, at the door-step, he held my hand a few moments, and said:

'You know Henry Ward Beecher?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'he is an intimate friend.'

'I have never seen him,' said he, 'tell me how he looks.'

I described, in a few words, Mr. Beecher's personal appearance; when Mr. Irving remarked:

'I take him to be a man always in fine health and cheery spirits.'

I replied that he was hale, vigorous, and full of life; that every drop of his blood bubbled with good humor.

'His writings,' said Knickerbocker, 'are full of human kindness. I think he must have a great power of enjoyment.'

'Yes,' I added, 'to hear him laugh is as if one had spilt over you a pitcher of wine.'

'It is a good thing for a man to laugh well,' returned the old gentleman, smiling. He then observed:

'I have read many of your friend's writings; he draws charming pictures; he inspires and elevates one's mind; I wish I could once take him by the hand.'

At which I instantly said:

'I will ask him to make you a visit.'

'Tell him I will give him a Scotch welcome; tell him that I love him, though I never have seen his face.'

These words were spoken with such evident sincerity, that Sunnyside will always have a sunnier place in my memory, because of the old man's genial tribute to my dear friend.

I am ever yours, THEODORE TILTON.

* * * * *

The following paragraph from the Boston Traveller, contains a few facts well worth noting:

'The secession sympathizers in the North have two favorite dodges for the service of their friends, the enemy. The first is, to magnify the numbers of the rebel forces, placing them at 500,000 men, whereas they never have had above half as many men in the field, all told, and counting negroes as well as white men. The other is, to magnify the cost of the war on the side of the Federalists. They tell us that our public war-debt, by the close of the current fiscal year, June 30, 1862, will be $1,200,000,000, (twelve hundred million dollars.) They know better than this, for that debt will, at the date named, be not much above $620,000,000, which would be no greater burden on the country than was that which it owed in 1815, perhaps not so great a burden as that was. People should not allow themselves to be frightened by the prophecies of men who, if they could be sure of preserving slavery in all its force, would care for nothing else.'

It is always easy to make up a gloomy statement, and this has been done of late to perfection by the demo-secessionists among us. It is an easy matter to assume, as has been done, the maximum war expenditure for one single day, and say that it is the average. It is easy, too, to say that 'You can never whip the South,' and point to Richmond 'bounce' in confirmation. It will all avail nothing. Slavery is going—of that rest assured—and the South is to be thoroughly Northed with new blood. Delenda est Dixie.

Our 'private' readers in the army—of whom we have enough, we are proud to say, to constitute a pretty large-sized public—may rest assured that accounts will not be settled with the South without very serious consideration of what is due to the soldier for his services 'in snatching the common-weal from the jaws of hell,' as the Latin memorial to Pitt, on the Dedham stone hath it. It has been said that republics are ungrateful; but in this instance the adage must fall to the ground. The soldier will be as much needed after the war, to settle the South, 'North it,' and preserve the Union by his intellect and his industry, as he now is to reestablish it by his bravery.

We find the following in the Boston Courier of March 29th:

'Our attention has been called to a statement in the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE, to the effect, that certain interesting 'Notes on the Gulf States,' which have recently appeared in this paper were reproductions, with certain alterations, of letters which were printed in the Knickerbocker Magazine several years ago. The statement made is not positive, but made with such qualifications as might lead to the inference that the comparison was not very carefully made. We can only say, that we have had no opportunity to confer with our distant correspondent, who handed us the whole series of 'Notes' together, in manuscript, for publication; nor had we any reason to believe that they were ever printed before, either in whole or in part. We can say nothing further, until we know more about the grounds for the intimation of the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.'

We were guarded in our statement, not having at hand, when we wrote the paragraph referred to, more than three or four numbers of the Courier containing the Gulf States articles, and not desiring to give the accusation a needlessly harsh expression, knowing well that the best informed editor may have at times old literary notes passed upon him for new ones. What we do say, is simply that several columns of the articles which appeared as original in the Boston Courier, were literal reprints from a series which appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine in 1847.



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CLEAYTON NEWBOLD, Vice-President. CYRUS CURTISS, President. GEO. T. ELLIOT, JR., M.D., Medical Examiner. W.A. BREWER, Jr., Sec'ty. GEO. M. GRIGGS, General Agent for the State of New-York.

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Undercurrents of Wall Street: The Romance of Business.

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Also, in one Vol., 12mo. $1.25. A new edition of St. Leger.

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DESTINED TO BE THE BOOK OF THE SEASON.

As published in the pages of THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, it has been pronounced by the Press to be "SUPERIOR TO UNCLE TOM'S CABIN." "FULL OF ABSORBING INTEREST." "Whether invented or not, True, because true to Life."—HORACE GREELEY.

WILL SHORTLY BE PUBLISHED,

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THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

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, and in this number is commenced a new Serial by Richard D. 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 which will excel the previous brilliant productions of this author.

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.

THE END