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-glasses, 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 canal;
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
passage 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 passed, 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 pass 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
glass-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 grass 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 grass what is expected of
grass. 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 shells flying overhead, with the soft hues
of the rainbow against the blue sky. I said to myself--"Now, Fanny,
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 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.
The _present_ only, now seems to me real. In the streets of Annapolis
I could only feel that here General Butler landed the 8th
Massachusetts, 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 noble 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 God!--holds only its
jailer, and kindred spirits, and on the prison ground of Andersonville
loyal philanthropy already talks of erecting an institution 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 shells 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 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.
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 compassion 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
eyeballs, 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 God-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
brimming 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 God, 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 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.
* * * * *
Overhead floats the dear old flag, thank God! 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
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?
So, little one--Christmas is coming! and coming for you. There's to be
turkey and pie, and you shall stuff your apron 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 manuscripts 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 "balls"
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 shells, 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._