Folly as It Flies Part 6

But stay--women can never manage women that way. They are too cat-ty.

Let us have _men_-cooks, my dears, and science as well as civility with our sauce. Yea--_men_-cooks, who will not "answer back;"

_men_-cooks who will not need to be an hour at the gla.s.s "prinking"

before they can look a tomato in the face; men-cooks, who, having once done a thing "your way," can ever after reproduce it, and not, with feminine caprice, or heedlessness, each time lessen the sugar and double the salt, and vice-versa; _men_-cooks, whose "beaux" are not always occupying the extra kitchen chair; _men_-cooks, who understand the economy of s.p.a.ce, and do not need a whole closet for every tumbler, or a bureau-drawer for each towel.

Oh! I have not been "to camp" for nothing. There are no carpets _there_ to spot with grease. There are no pictures whose golden frames are wiped with a wet dish-cloth. There are no velvet chairs, or ottomans, upon which they can lay red-hot pokers or entry-mats. There is no pet china they can electrify the parlor with smashing, to the tune of hundreds of dollars. But instead, there are little tents dotted about, furnished with brave men; and for pictures, long lines of army wagons trailing their slow length along; and yonder, against the burnished sunset sky, gallop the cavalry, with glittering arms; and there are "squads" of secesh coming into the lines, with most astounding hats and trowsers and no shoes, who hold up the _wrong hand_ when they take the oath of allegiance, and make their "mark" in the registry book instead of writing their names, and some of whose "profession," when questioned, is--"to shoemake;" and there are grotesque-looking contrabands; and rat-ty looking, useful mules; and in the evening there are fire-fly lamps gleaming from the little tents; and of a cool evening lovely, blazing camp-fires, round which you can sit and talk with intelligent men till the small hours, about other things than "bonnets;" and there's reveille, and--good heavens!

_why_ did I come back to New York, with its "peace-men" and its tame monkeys.

While waiting at City Point for the "flag-of-truce boat," we sauntered up from the wharf. There was an encampment not far from the river, and the first thing that attracted my notice was a sutler's establishment--in other words, a little shed with a counter, two men behind it, and a little bit of everything displayed inside. "Now,"

said I, "I will just bother that man asking him for something which I am sure he has not for sale." "Do it," answered my companion; "I will wager something he will have it." With triumph in my step, I inquired--"Have you ladies' fans?" "Yes ma'am," was the reply; "here is one, made in prison by a Union soldier." In my eagerness to secure it, for it was a marvel of ingenuity, apart from the interest attached to it, I forgot to collapse at my defeat--doubly defeated, too, alas!

"as it was not for sale." But there were books, and tobacco, and combs, and suspenders, and pocket looking-gla.s.ses, and everything, except "crying babies." A little farther on was a soda-fountain, then a watch-maker, then an ice-cream shanty. Still I was not surprised; for I lost my capability for a new sensation while staying in General Butler's encampment. Strolling off, one lovely morning, in the woods, for wild-flowers, I was overtaken by a shower of rain. Spying a little shed at a distance under the trees, I made for it with all speed; and found it full of bottles and a young man. The latter politely rose and offered me the only stool in the establishment, and when I and my hoop-skirt had entered, I regret to say that there was no room left, save for the bottles above alluded to; and _their_ safety consisted in my remaining quite stationary. "What is this place?" asked I, staring about me. With a pitying smile the youth drew from a corner some fine photographic views of "Dutch Gap," the site of General Butler's ca.n.a.l; and then proposed my sitting for my picture. Had he produced a French dress-maker from the trunk of one of the trees, I should not have been more astonished. When the fickle Virginia sun again shone out, and I had said the pretties, in the way of thanks, I resumed my walk; and though on my way home I stopped to witness the fascinating operation of felling trees, and to admire the vigorous strokes of the woodman's axe, and listen to its far-off echoes through the woods, I still kept on saying to myself--Well, I _never_! a photographic establishment in these woods!

While wandering round at the landing at City Point, waiting to take pa.s.sage for Annapolis, I saw at a distance some tents, exquisitely trimmed with green boughs. "How very pretty!" I exclaimed; "I must go up there and have a peep." "But it won't do to go nearer," suggested my companion. "I must," said I; "I never saw anything half so pretty.

I must see them nearer." Gradually approaching, I saw that the floor of the tent was ingeniously carpeted with small pine boughs. In the middle of it was a round table covered with green in the same manner; while in either corner stood a small rustic sofa, cushioned with green leaves. No upholsterer could have improved the effect "How _very_ pretty!" I again exclaimed, growing bolder as I saw it temporarily unoccupied. As I said this, two officers made their appearance from a tent near, and said--"Walk in, madam, and look at it; it is not often that we see ladies at our encampment." So we accepted the invitation, and then and there I penitently and publicly dropped a theory I had hugged for years--viz., that a man, left to himself, and deprived of the society of woman, would gradually deteriorate to that degree, that he would not even comb his hair, or wash his face, much less desire ornamentation in his home surroundings. And now here was a bower, fit for the prettiest maiden in all the land, made without any hope that a woman's eye might ever approve it; made, too, though its owner might be ordered to pack up his one shirt and march to battle the very next day; made for the sheer love of seeing something home-like, and beautiful. I bade its gallant proprietors good-bye, and went my ways, a humbler and a wiser woman.

While absent on this excursion I had several times the pleasure of observing the fine soldierly appearance of our colored troops. When I saw them form into line to salute the General as he pa.s.sed, it gave me a thrill of delight; because I knew that it was not a mere show performance, on their part, toward one who has been so warmly, and bravely, their friend and protector.

The farther a New Englander goes South, the gladder he is to return.

Blessed is it to pa.s.s the line, where doors will shut; where windows will open; where blinds will fasten; where chairs will maintain their usual uprightness; where wash-bowls are cleansed; where one towel for half a dozen persons is not considered an extravagance, and where the gla.s.s-panes in the windows are not so elaborately mended with putty that a street view is impossible. In short, blessed is the Yankee "faculty," as opposed to all this hanging-by-the-eyelids thriftlessness. In Virginia the gra.s.s is too lazy to grow. Now and then a half-dozen spears poke above-ground, and having done that, seem to consider their mission accomplished; then comes a bare spot of sand, until you come to the next five enterprising spears. However, the North before long will teach Virginia gra.s.s what is expected of gra.s.s. The James River appeared very lovely with its soft shadows that beautiful afternoon I stood upon its banks; and incongruous enough seemed the murderous-looking black Monitor resting upon its placid bosom; and the screeching sh.e.l.ls flying overhead, with the soft hues of the rainbow against the blue sky. I said to myself--"Now, f.a.n.n.y, you too would have loved this beautiful country, had you been born here instead of at the North; but, having ever been to the North and seen what Southern eyes must see there, whether they admit it or not, could you again have been contented and happy with your Southern birthright and its accompanying curse? That is the question. _I think not._" Everywhere now, in that region one is struck with the absence of all the peaceful signs of domestic life. True, there are beautiful trees and vines, and the same sweet wild-flowers in the odorous woods skirting the roadside, that are to be found in New England. There are houses, but the fences have been torn away; and from the skeleton window-pane no fair faces look out. No chickens run about in the yards; no little children swing upon gates; no young maidens stand in the deserted gardens; but, instead, there are soldiers and sentinels; and the negro huts belonging to these houses are empty, and on the walls of the family mansions are rude charcoal drawings of ships, and well-remembered faces, and _Northern_ homesteads; and there are verses of poetry, and names, and dates, and arithmetical calculations; and upon floor and stairway and threshold the omnipresent evidences of that male-comforter and solace--Tobacco! As you ride miles along, under the soft blue sky and through rows of majestic old trees, missing the sight of human faces, suddenly, upon one of the tree trunks, you are startled with this inscription, "Embalming the dead here," or "Coffins here," or you see in the distance the creeping ambulance, or in a sudden turn of the road an "abatis," or some fortification. One realizes in such scenes the meaning of the word "war." Strange enough it seems, to come back from all that, to city theatres and their mock woes.

As to Annapolis--one feels, upon walking through it, as if Herculaneum and Pompeii after all might be no fable. Going from its one-horse hotel, to the model hotel of Philadelphia, was almost too sudden a change even for my excellent const.i.tution. The bra.s.s door-knocker of antiquity, placed high up out of reach of human hands save those of well qualified adults, exists in Annapolis in full splendor. The windows, too, are all on the second and third stories; and one must get up early in the morning if he would ascend their front steps. I invaded their legislative halls, and got as far as two huge piles of earthen spittoons, reaching high above my head, awaiting the advent of their august legislative proprietors, at which point I expressed myself perfectly satisfied with my exploration, nor waited to be shown the room in which "General Washington publicly resigned his commission." With my hand on my heart to the General, I must still be permitted to say, that being born fatally wanting in the b.u.mp of reverence, I could never lose my breath in any such place if I tried, and that I am quite willing, after having been a.s.sured that certain skeletons of the past are to be evoked in certain places, to let more pious hands feel of their bones.

The _present_ only, now seems to me real. In the streets of Annapolis I could only feel that here General Butler landed the 8th Ma.s.sachusetts, and showed the New York Seventh the way to Washington.

_UNWRITTEN HISTORY OF THE WAR._

What a four years we had of it! And now that our cheeks no longer grow hot at the name of Bull Run, and peace and victory--terms which no loyal heart ever wished to dissever--are ours; now that we have laid down our muskets and stop to take breath, how strange it all seems!

Now that we can snap our fingers at those precious "neutral" friends; now that we can smile complacently upon croakers this side of the water, and enjoy the wry faces which suddenly converted patriots make, swallowing their allegiance; now that we sleep peaceably nights, without tossing up window-sashes and thrusting out night-capped heads, regardless of the modest stars and a shivering bed-fellow, to hail some lightning "Extra;" now that our pockets are no longer picked for standing gaping on the streets spelling out bulletins; now that six-foot cowards have done squabbling about the "draft" that is to tear them from families for which they never half provided, and for which they have suddenly conceived such an intense affection; now that our n.o.ble soldiers look back upon their sufferings and privations as some troubled dream, so happy are they in the love of proud wives and glad children and friends; now that Libby--thank G.o.d!--holds only its jailer, and kindred spirits, and on the prison ground of Andersonville loyal philanthropy already talks of erecting an inst.i.tution for the benefit of our brave soldiers; now that Broadway has time to cool, between regiments coming and regiments going; now that the rotten thrones of the old country will have as much as they can do to prop up their shaky foundations, without making mouths at the new cap-stone of our glorious republic, phew! _now_ we can untie our bonnets and toss them up in the air, without caring for their descent. For have not dry-goods and groceries gone down? and can't we buy needles, threads and pins without beads of perspiration standing on our faces at the thought? are not pennies plenty? and won't we soon have the dear little clean silver pieces back again, instead of greasy stamps? and isn't there a prospect that when hanging is good for a man he will now be sure to get it? and if I _am_ a woman, can't I fold my arms and strut about a little, even though I didn't help fight? Come to think of it, though, I _did_; I can show you a spoiled dress I got, touching off a thirty-two pounder Parrot gun commissioned to throw sh.e.l.ls into Petersburg; and I never got a shoulder-strap for it either, like many another fellow, and never grumbled about it, _un_-like many another, but was satisfied with that spot on my dress, and none on my soldierly honor, and when it was told me that "that lady had better leave the field and go somewhere else," I went there.

We've done so much grieving lately, that it is a relief to be silly; so you'll excuse me; but deep down in my heart, I thank G.o.d that the dear lost lives, from our President down, have not been in vain; that the blood the monster slavery would have lapped up triumphantly has only gone to strengthen the roots of the tree of Liberty.

Ah! think if tyranny all over the world had flaunted more defiantly for our _uncrowned_ struggle! If every despotic chain, the earth over, were fresh riveted! Ah! then indeed we _might_ mourn.

But now!--with tender compa.s.sion for the bereaved,--for in many a home that bright flag will _always_ wear its mourning-border--to-day!

Joy--joy to it! I never see its dear folds waving in and out against the clear blue sky, that my eyes do not fill; I want to fold it round my shoulders, I want to wear it for a dress. I want to sleep under it for a bed quilt--and I want to be wrapped in it when I die.

Bye and bye what a glorious history of our war may be written. Not that the world will not teem with histories of it. But I speak not of great generals and commanders, who, under the inspiration of leadership, and with the magnetic eyes of the world upon them, shall have achieved their several triumphs; but of those who have laid aside the plough, and stepped from behind the anvil, and the printing press, and the counter, and from out the shop, and with leaping pulses, and without hope of reward, laid an honest heart and a strong right arm on the altar of their country; some to languish in prison, with undressed wounds, defying taunts and insults, hunger and thirst, their places of sepulture even unknown, and their names remembered only at some desolate hearthstone, by a weeping widow and orphans, and yet whose last pulse-beat was "for their country." By many a cottage fireside shall old men tell tales to wondering childhood, that shall bring forth their own precious harvest; sometimes of those who, enclosed in meshes too cunningly woven to sunder, wore hated badges over loyal hearts, and with gnashing teeth and listening ear and straining eyeb.a.l.l.s, bided their time to strike! Men who planted, that the tyrant might reap; whose wives and children went hungry and shelterless, that he might be housed and fed. Nor shall woman be forgotten, who, with quivering heart but smiling lip bade G.o.d-speed to him, than whom only her country was dearer, and turned bravely back to her lonely home, to fight the battle of life, with no other weapon than faith in Him who feedeth the ravens. All these are the true heroes of this war; not alone they who have memorials presented, and if they die, pompous monuments erected, but the thousands of brave fellows who know, if they fall, they will have mention only among the "list of the killed and wounded." Who, untrammelled by precedents, shall write us _such_ a history?

Let me tell you a story I heard the other day.

He was home at last! It was for three years he he had enlisted. When his term was nearly out, and just as his heart leaped at thought of going home, he was taken prisoner. We all know what that word means in connection with "Andersonville" and "Libby." No shelter from rain, or sun, or night dew; stung by vermin; devoured by thirst and hunger. So day after day dragged by, and fewer and fewer came thoughts of home; for the light was fading out from the sufferer's eyes, and one only thought, day and night, pursued him--food, food! At last came the order for exchange, and John was taken with the rest, as he could bear the removal--slowly--_home_! Oh, how joyful they all were as they waited for his coming! How tenderly he should be cared for and nursed.

How soon his attenuated form should be clothed with flesh, and the old sparkle of fire come back to his faded eyes. How they would love him ten thousand times better than ever for all the dreadful suffering he had undergone for his country's sake. And when he got better, how they would have the neighbors come and listen to his stories about the war.

Oh, yes--they would soon make John well again. Nine--ten--eleven o'clock--it was almost time for him to be there. Susy and Jenny were quite wild with joy; and mother kept saying "Girls, now be quiet;" but all the time she kept smoothing the cushions of the easy-chair by the fire, and fidgetting about more than any of them. Then there was _such_ a shout went up from Susy, who was looking down the road from the end window. _He's_ coming! father's coming! and fast as her feet could carry her through the door and down the road she flew; and Jenny followed, and mother?--well, _she_ stood there, with beating heart and br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes of joy, on the threshold. But what makes the girls so quiet as they reach the wagon where "father" is sitting? Why don't father kiss and hug them, and he three long years away? He is _alive_, thank G.o.d, else he couldn't be sitting there--why don't he kiss his girls? He _don't_ kiss them: he don't speak to them; he don't even know Susy and Jenny, as they stand there with white lips and young faces frozen with terror. It _is_ father--but, look! he is only a crazy skeleton. And when they came to him, he only stretched out his long, bony fingers, and muttered, feebly--"Bread! bread! Oh, give me some bread!" And when they brought him in, crowded round and kissed him, and carried him to the warm fire, and, with streaming eyes of pity, showed him the plentiful table, he only looked vacantly in their faces and muttered, "Bread! bread! Oh, give me some bread!" And to everybody who came into the door till the hour he died, which was very soon, he said still, "Bread! bread!" and this was the last word they ever heard from "father."

And yet they say we must forgive the leader of the rebellion who did such things as these! Spirit of Seventy-six! Can I believe my ears?

What sort of mercy is this, that sets the viper of to-day free to raise up a brood of hissing vipers for the future? What is this mercy for one, and this injustice for the million? This mercy which hangs little devils, and erects no gibbet for the arch-fiend himself? This mercy which lets Jeff. Davis glide safely out of the country with his money-bags, and claps the huge paw of the law upon some woman, for giving so much aid and comfort to the enemy as she could carry in her little ap.r.o.n-pocket? What! Forgive Jeff. Davis, with the fresh memory of Forts Pillow and Wagner? What! because your son, or your husband, are now smiling at you across your table, are you to ignore that poor mother, who night after night paced up and down her chamber floor, powerless to release her husband or boy, who, at Libby or Andersonville, was surely, horribly dying with the slow pangs of starvation! The poor mother, did I say? The thousands of mothers, whose wrung hearts cry out that the land be not poisoned with the breath of their children's a.s.sa.s.sinator. To whom the sight of the gay flags of victory, and the sound of the sweet chiming bells of peace are torture, while this great wrong goes unredressed. Who can see only by day and night that dreadful dead-cart, with its unshrouded skeleton-freight, and uppermost the dear face, rumbling from that loathsome prison, to be shovelled, like carrion, underground.

Tell me? Is it in nature or grace, either, for these parents to vote that Jeff. Davis and his like be neither expatriated nor deprived of the rights of citizenship? In the name of that "mercy" which would be so burlesqued, let them not suffer this crowning injury. Let them not be pained with this mock magnanimity which so "forgivingly" crosses palms with this wrencher of other people's heartstrings. Let it not be said thoughtlessly, "Oh, we are too happy to think of vengeance." Say rather, "Let us not, in our joy, forget to be just."

And let me, individually, have due notice, if it be in contemplation to present these traitors, either with a costly service of silver plate or an honorable seat in the United States Senate.

Overhead floats the dear old flag, thank G.o.d! but countless are the homes where the music of "the holidays" has forever died out; where sorrow will clasp its hands over an aching heart, or sit down by a solitary hearth, with a pictured face it can scarce see for the tears that are falling on it. There seems nothing left now. The country is safe, the war has ended; that rifled heart is glad of that; but oh!

what shall make its terrible desolation on these festival days even endurable? _That's_ the thought that can't be choked down even by patriotism. It comes up all over the house, at every step. It meets you in parlor, and chamber, and entry. It points where the coat and hat used to hang; it whispers from the leaves of some chance book you listlessly open, where are _his_ pencil-marks. Even the dish on the table you loved to prepare for him is turned to poison. The sun seems merciless in its brightness; the music and dancing in unrifled homes is almost heartless. What can you _do_ with this spectre grief, that has taken a chair by your fireside, and, change position as you may, insists on keeping you torturing company? You may walk, but it is there when you return. You may read, but you feel its stony eyes on you the while; you may talk, but you keep listening for the answer you will never hear. Oh, what shall you do with it? Face it! Move your chair up as closely to it as you can. Say--I see you; I know you are here, and I know too that you will never, _never_ leave me. I am so weary trying to elude you. Let us sit down then together, and recognize each other as inseparable. Between me and happiness _is_ that gulf--I know it. I will no longer try to bridge it over with cobwebs. It is there. As you say this, a little voice pipes out--mother, when is Christmas? Ah!--you thought you could do it; but _that_ question from that little mouth, of all others! Oh, how can _you_ be thankful?

Poor heart, look in that little sunny face, and be thankful for that.

Hasn't it a right to its share of life's sunshine, and are you not G.o.d-appointed to make it? There's work for you to do--up-hill, weary work, for quivering lips to frame a smile--I grant, but there's no dodging it. That child will have to take up its own burthen by and by, as you are now bearing yours; but for the present don't drop your pall over its golden sunshine. Speak cheerily to it; smile lovingly on it; help it to catch the floating motes that seem to it so bright and shining. Let it have its youth with all its bright dreams, one after the other, as you did. They may not all fade away; and if they should, there's the blessed memory of which even you would not be rid, with all the pain that comes with it. Now would you?

So, little one--Christmas is coming! and coming for you. There's to be turkey and pie, and you shall stuff your ap.r.o.n full. There's to be blind-man's buff, and hunt the slipper, and puss in the corner, and there shall be flowers strewn for _your_ feet, you little dear, though we all wince at the thorns.

But for our soldiers' homes where death has literally taken all; where the barrel of meal and cruse of oil too has failed; let a glad country on festival days, of all others, bear its widows and orphans in grateful remembrance.

Speaking of "Unwritten History," reminds me of some curious written chapters of it that I saw the other day.

I begin now to think that an "All-Wise Providence" spent more time finishing off human beings than was at all necessary. I arrived at this sapient conclusion, the other evening, while looking at some hundreds of specimens of the handwriting of our disabled soldiers.

Before this I had always supposed that hands and arms were necessary preliminaries to chirography, and _right_ hands and above all arms.

And there I was, brought up all standing, with the legible, fair proofs to the contrary before my very face. Positively there was one specimen written with the soldier's _mouth_, both hands being useless.

It was enough to make an able-bodied man or woman blush to think of cowering for one moment before the darkest cloud of fate. As a moral lesson I would have had every boy and girl in the land, taken there to see the power of the mind over the body. The potency of that one little phrase, "I will try." The impotency of that cowardly plea, "I can't." I wished, as I examined these interesting and characteristic papers, with the signatures and photographs of the writers annexed, that all our schools in order, should be taken there, to learn a lesson that all their books might never teach so impressively. I wished that every man in the nation, whose patriotism needed quickening, (alas that there should be any!) might see that these men who have fought for the peace we are now enjoying, who have languished long months in wretched prisons for us, and through all have but just escaped, maimed and disabled, to reach their homes, are yet self-helpful and courageous, fearing nothing, hoping all things, since they have helped save the nation. _Is_ it safe? That is a question I shall not meddle with here. Meantime I, for one, feel proud as an American loyal woman that this collection of ma.n.u.scripts has been made. I believe it to be purely an _American_ idea. I am not aware that in any other country such a novelty exists. I think it as highly creditable to the head and heart of the originator, as to the skill and patience of our soldiers. I felt as though it should have, like a great national picture, its appropriate framing and setting in the most conspicuous spot in the Capitol. How often I think of these "privates," as they are called, when grand "receptions" and "b.a.l.l.s"

are in progress for some great "General" in our midst. All honor to him; but meantime what of these brave maimed "privates?"

_Therefore_ I was rejoiced when John Smith and Thomas Jones had succeeded in "making their mark" on paper as well as in battle. I was glad that they had placed it on record that an American soldier is still wide awake and hopeful, though he may be so hacked and hewed to pieces that not half his original proportions remain. I wanted to sing "Hail Columbia," and "The Star Spangled Banner," and "John Brown," and "Yankee Doodle," and more than all, I wanted those people who are sticking pins through curious sprawling bugs, and paying fabulous sums for sh.e.l.ls, and taking their Bible oaths over some questionable pictures "by the old masters," would just turn their attention to something not only veritable and unique, but honorable and worthy as a legacy to every American child that shall be born to the end of time, or--the end of our Republic, which is one and the same thing.

_MY SUMMERS IN NEW ENGLAND._

You should have lived there to understand the delight with which I linger about an old farm-house, to see if the old familiar objects were all there. The clump of tall, nodding hollyhocks, many-hued, and gorgeous in the sunlight; the lovely, evanescent morning-glories, always reminding me of the clear eyes and silken locks of childhood; the big tree, the pride of the homestead, under which it nestles, elm, locust, maple or willow, it matters not; the hen, with her busy brood; the old dog, of any breed Providence wills, lying with his nose between his paws, lazily winking at the sun; the row of shining milk-pans turned up against the wooden fence; the creaking well-sweep; the old tub under the eaves; the neatly arranged wood-pile; the honest, homely sun-flowers at the back door, and the scarlet bean-blossoms; oh, how I love them all!

Let us go in; any excuse--a gla.s.s of water--will serve. They are not ashamed to be caught working.