: Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern by Fern Fanny - American essays 19th century

@FreeBooks

Posted in: #FreeBooks #FreeBooksIndia #FreeBooksApp #gg

Vote Up Vote Down   0 Reactions

Login to give Reaction!

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 constitution. The brass 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 bump of reverence, I could never lose my breath in any such place if I tried, and that I am quite willing, after having been assured that certain skeletons of the past are to be evoked in certain places, to let more pious hands feel of their bones.

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 God 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.

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

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 apron-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 assassinator. 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.

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 God-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?

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.

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 glass of water--will serve. They are not ashamed to be caught working.

Bless you, no! One person is as good as another in New England, and better, too. Observe how stainless are the steps, threshold and entry; see the little mats, laid wherever a heedless foot might possibly mar their purity. How white are the curtains and table-covers, and the napkins pinned upon the backs of the chairs; see how nicely that patch has been placed over the stain upon the wall-paper; look at that book shelf hung in the corner. Surely some hand not devoid of daintiness, arranged those pretty touches of color, in the scarlet cord and tassels that support it, and the pretty little blue vase upon its top shelf. Then there are picture-frames made of pine cones, quite as pretty as any Broadway dealer could show; and the chairs, with their flowered-chintz coverings, and now you look to see some sweet maiden trip in, with pure eyes, and soft, smooth hair, and her name shall be Mary. Nor are you disappointed; and as you look at her, as the softened light comes in through the vine-leaves at the window, you see how it is that flowers of beauty are wreathed round the rugged trunk of New England asceticism. You see how no home, without a foundation of thrift, can be anything like a home to this New England girl. You can see how, in her married far-off abode, when reverses come, she is not the woman to fold her hands and sit down and cry about it. You see how she can make bread one minute, and ten to one, write a poem the next; how she can trim a bonnet or row a boat; how she can cut and make her own and her children's dresses, and keep her kitchen in a state of polish, to make the haunter of Intelligence Offices stare with wonder.

Free books android app tbrJar TBR JAR Read Free books online gutenberg

(0)

Login to post a comment!