Readers: It were much to be wished, for your benefit, that the stalwart form which has so long presided at our Table, should take the accustomed place at our Banquet, again to serve you with the invigorating fare fit for men; the dainties of delicious flavor suited to the taste of the young and lovely; or once more to pour the accustomed draughts of old Falernian, sunned by a warm heart and matured by a vigorous intellect, into the goblets you are now holding for our September festival. For aught we know, he may even now be treading the old fields of former glory in far Kansas—but his voice will soon again greet you from this social spot, and again spread before you the ripe fruits of a manly experience.
Our other Honorable Editor is also afar, striving in other climes to serve our country, yet constantly giving us reason to know, from his frequent and loyal contributions, that he is gathering honey for THE CONTINENTAL, and has not deserted his arduous post in spending and being spent for the land he loves. May our two Honorables soon return to dispense, as they alone can, the hospitalities of our Editor's Table!
But we should not complain, when we can offer you, in this month of hot suns and motionless airs, such invigorating breaths of fresh, salty wind, directly from the bosom of the surging sea, as we are about to do in the following essay from the pen of A. J. S. He is the author of the vigorous sketch of 'The Southern Colonel' given in our July issue. He has now dipped his pen in the tints of the rainbow and the freshness of the salty wave, and given us:
'FROM THE SEA SHORE.'
Where the land enchants, the sea intoxicates—its sparkle, its mobility, its translucence excite the fancy, as wine does the blood—it combines those elements which produce at once awe and ecstasy in the soul—the unknown, the resistless, the beautiful. One may be melancholy by the sea, but never morbid or supine. Between it and the land there are no gradations; you do not come imperceptibly under its influence, as, in ascending a mountain, you come into the cooler atmosphere; as you approach, you are suddenly enveloped and animated by a crystalline, vivifying element: this is the sea air; those saline qualities, so harsh to the taste, prove a delicious stimulant in the lungs. The sea is incommunicable—neither words, or canvas prepare you for it, as they may often for landscapes; like Livingston's untutored savage, you are always startled and overwhelmed at first sight of it; you feel, like him, an impulse to leap into its waves. If you want to surrender yourself wholly to the sea influence—to study it and assimilate your mind to all its phases—you should choose, as was my fortune, a little fishing town, on the shore, with a sheltered bay to the south and west and the ocean eastward. Here you will find life stripped of care and conventionality; idealized, seductive, and illusive, the days swinging from charm to charm, like bubbles in the sunlight. On such a coast, Nature never confuses her effects—no lively verdure or picturesque landscape intrudes upon the majesty of the sea—only damp mosses and stout creepers veil the harsh outlines of the rocks, and, in the distance, masses of pine trees relieve the gray monotony of the shore—for the rest, everything is left to the sun and the sea. There are a dozen beaches, each distinct in its charm. Some firm, smooth, and white, as a marble walk—others mere waves of sand, which the lightest breeze whirls—and, others, where nature seems to have exhausted her wildest caprice, piled with rocks, black, perilous, defiant, overlooking waters whose solitude is never broken by a sail. It is these deep waters which have that green tint so lustrous and subtle, and as unlike the heavy green seen in most sea pictures as it is unlike grass; it is in more sheltered nooks that the sea assumes that sapphire sheen more ineffable than the sky which imparts it. As the color of the sea depends greatly upon the disposition of the surrounding lands and the prevailing condition of the atmosphere, each little inlet has some tint or effect of light peculiar to itself. I have seen coloring as remarkable—I had almost said as unnatural—as that indigo blue which we connect with the Ægean sea. Indeed, one comes to believe anything possible in the way of sea coloring, however brilliant, or however blank, after intimate and close observation of even a small part of the ocean. I have often fancied that these local features may have given rise to the idea of nymphs and mermaids, especially at night, when, in the setting sun, the colors fade in vapory exhalations, and the waters seem haunted by the spirits of their own beauty—pale, tremulous, waiting the vitalizing ray of the morning light. But it is in winter that the effects of the sun on the sea are most marvellous; this arises, in part, from the clearness of the air, and the dazzling setting of snow, which expresses more vividly the glow of the sea; then, too, that part of the water not exposed to the sun has an ashen, gray tint, which intensifies, by contrast, the more gorgeous hues. I remember many who saw Church's 'Icebergs' thought the coloring too brilliant, while, to those familiar with the sea, it seemed entirely natural. Thus, critics will find that it is by the study of nature we are educated up to high art; and artists, that their great danger is not in being more brilliant, but less delicate than nature. It is on the sea shore that we find the purest democracy—any man who is respectable and desirous of enjoying life may fraternize with the whole population. He who lives in the struggle to acquire or maintain a position can appreciate this social luxury. The sea exercises a delightful influence over the character—its perils induce self-reliance and fearlessness, which are redeemed from conceit by a child-like simplicity arising naturally from the contemplation of an element menacing, invincible, and symbolical of eternity. Then, too, the legends of the sea invest the mind with a sensitive, poetic passion as delightful as it is unworldly, as reverent as it is credulous. No one would deride these superstitions who has watched, as I have, the various phases of the sea—its motions, its intonations—its mists, its foam, its vapors—its sunlit splendors—its phosphorescent marvels—its moonlit and starlit mysteries; but would feel, with something of the awe of the ancients, that the sea is the place of magic, and that only a film separates between the material and the spirit land.
A. J. S.
Readers: You with ourselves have looked upon a very ugly thing since we last met in the pages of The Continental. A Briareus-handed, multiple-formed, Proteus-faced monster, of huge dimensions, wickedly scheming brain, myriad fanged, and every fang imbued with virulent copperhead poison, stormed through our streets in the light of day and in the gloom of night, during many ghastly hours, knowing no law save its own wicked will, while Treason, Cruelty, House-breaking and House-burning, Robbery, Assassination, Torture, Hanging, Murder, stalked on in its wild train of horror. But we know its face now, and it will be our own fault if anything so foul shall e'er be seen again in our midst. We must be on the alert to act when called upon—not to suspect the innocent, but to guard against the guilty.
'Thus do all traitors:
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.'
'There is no fear of God in a riot.' We must confess ourselves to have been strangely startled when we found of what nation the rioters were mainly composed. The race whom we had received with the most generous hospitality, rescuing them from starvation and oppression at home—men whom we were hourly teaching to be freemen; women whom we were patiently and painfully instructing in the domestic arts of civilized life, took up arms against our Government, our laws, and ruthlessly pursued the innocent with fire and sword! The race of the old faith of the true St. Patrick, fresh from the 'Isle of Saints,' from which he had himself exiled all copperheads and venomous reptiles, blessed with good and true Priests of the old Religion, with the sweet face of the Blessed Virgin Mary to smile down upon them in their chapels, teaching them reverence for womanhood, and feeding as they firmly believe upon the glorified Body which is hourly broken to exalt and purify humanity, fell in fierce assault upon us. Men from the land of Burke, Curran, Emmet, Moore, Meagher, rose to pillage, burn, and assassinate! Irishmen, afraid to fight for the country which had adopted them as sons! massacring their benefactors! trailing Old Erin's loyal harp for the first time in the dust! bringing shame on the glorious Emerald Isle, and sorrow to the struggling country which had given them a home! Irishmen, taking the laws in their own hands, trampling our Stars beneath their feet—that flag which had first assured them they were men, citizens, with a right to home and happiness! What wonder that we fail to recognize the strong, sturdy, brave, heady, helpful, generous, and impulsive children of the 'Gem of the Sea?' And what shall we say of the venerated Archbishop?
'By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with traitorous, murderous rumors.'