Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern

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

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.

I adore it all! I know that wheresoever fortune, in its vagaries, tosses a New Englander, male or female, that individual will always come up like a cat, on its feet. Meantime, they can bear your gibes at their time-honored dishes of "pork and beans," and "apple-dowdy," and "fish-balls" and "brown-bread." You can no more see "anything in them" with all your tasting, than you could imitate the moral courage of their makers in finding out what a thing will cost before they order it home; and you will always manifest the same astonishment that you do now, that these same economical, careful New Englanders are always ready with open hearts and purses, whenever a fire lays waste a city, when stormy winds send shipwrecked families upon their coasts, or when any great philanthropic object challenges their pity or assistance.

You can't understand it – how should you? You who think it "mean" and "unlady-like" to inquire the price of a thing before you buy it, or to decline buying it, not because you do not like it, but for the honest and sensible reason that it is beyond your means. You can never solve the problem how a just economy, and a generous liberality, can go hand in hand, or how one legitimately follows the other and makes it possible.

Then perhaps you smile when you see what a prominent place has Watts' Psalms and Hymns, and the Bible upon the table yonder. Oh, if you could hear the Sunday night singing in that little "keeping-room!"

You remember that hymn? You who had its lullaby sung to you, countless starry nights by your own mother; you, who repeated it to her in broken accents when she was dying – "Watts' Psalms and Hymns" is to you as sacred as her memory. And the Bible? You don't think, more than myself, that mankind have furnished us anything better, as yet, in the way either of morality or literature. You know that it is not a mere lesson-book to that soft-eyed girl with the brown hair.

I pity a genuine New Englander, who migrates from a land in which every inhabitant is born with a faculty of doing everything in the best manner, and in the very "nick of time," and settles down among a Penelope race, who weave their webs in the morning, only to find them irretrievably unravelled every night. Thriftless! You may think there are worse qualities than this in a person's moral make-up. I believe it to be the foundation of sand upon which any permanently useful superstructure is impossible. Thriftless! The gods remove me far from this aimless specimen of adult infancy, who crawls a mile on all fours to pick up a straw; who, forgetting where he placed it the moment after he gets it, makes a series of circuitous journeys in search of it; who is constantly placing things on their tops that are not self-supporting unless set upon their bottoms; and who, though warned by repeated thumps and bumps, that there are better ways than those he chooses to crawl in, still persists in scratching and scarring himself, and driving you wild with wondering what mischief he can do next that he has not already done. I say that a lunatic asylum can be the only end of a New Englander who is forced into a daily yoke-ship with your "thriftless" person.

New England! bless it! Isn't it thorough? Does their sewing ravel out? Do their shoes rip at the first wearing? Don't their children's "bought" clothes hang together, at least till you get them home? Isn't a New England-buttonhole exhilarating to the moral eyesight? Don't their blinds keep fastened? Don't their doors shut without bringing them "to" with a bang like the explosion of a Parrot gun? Haven't the women sense "into" them? Don't the men know what they know? Haven't their children a backbone, moral and physical? and haven't they a right to boast of the "hub?" And as to their kitchens, my very soul yearns for those shining tin pans and pewter pots, and immaculate dishcloths. I am homesick for an old-fashioned "dresser," with the kitchen spoons laid in a row after every meal. I long for a peep into the kitchen closet, where the tea isn't in the coffee-thing, and the starch mixed with the pepper; where the rolling-pin hangs up, white and suggestive of flaky pie-crust; where the clothes-pins are shrouded in a clean bag till next Monday's wash; where the lids of the coffee and tea-pot are left open, for those vessels to air, and no yesterday's "grounds" are permitted to repose over night; where – but what's the use? Gotham is Gotham – Erin always will be Erin – and New England, God be praised! will always be New England; for were there not that leaven to infuse thrift through the veins of the country – Well, you perceive that I am a New-Englander.