Samantha at Saratoga, Marietta Holley [most romantic novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Marietta Holley
Book online «Samantha at Saratoga, Marietta Holley [most romantic novels TXT] 📗». Author Marietta Holley
Yes, it wuz a awful seen. And jest beyond it, wuz Burgoyne a scoldin’ the savages for the cruelty of the deed. Curius, haint it? How the acts and deeds of a man that he sets to goin’, when they have come to full fruition skare him most to death, horrify him by the sight. I’ll bet Burgoyne felt bad enough, a lookin’ on her dead body, if it wuz his doin’s in the first place, in lettin’ loose such ignerance and savagery onto a strugglin’ people.
Yes, Mr. Burgoyne felt bad and ashamed, I haint a doubt of it. His poet soul could suffer as well as enjoy—and then I didn’t feel like sayin’ too much aginst Mr. Burgoyne, havin’ meditated so lately in the treachery of Arnold, one of our own men doin’ a act that ort to keep us sort a humble-minded to this day.
And then there wuz the killin’ and buryin’ of Frazier both impressive. He wuz a gallant officer and a brave man. And then there wuz General Schuyler (a good creeter) a turnin’ over his command to Gates. And I methought to myself as I looked on it, that human nater wuz jest about the same then; it capered jest about as it duz now in public affairs and offices. Then there wuz the surrender of Burgoyne to Gates. A sight impressive enough to furnish one with stiddy emotions for weeks and weeks. A thinkin’ of all he surrendered to him that day, and all that wuz took.
The monument is dretful high. Up, up, up, it soars as if it wuz bound to reach up into the very heavens, and carry up there these idees of ourn about Free Rights, and National Liberty. It don’t go clear up, though. I wish it did. If it had, I should have gone up the high ladder clear to the top. But I desisted from the enterprise for 2 reasons, one wuz, that it didn’t go, as I say, clear up, and the other wuz that the stairs wuzn’t finished.
Josiah proposed that he should go up as he clim up our well, with one foot on each side on’t. He said he wuz tempted to, for he wanted dretfully to look out of them windows on the top. And he said it would probable be expected of him. And I told him that I guessed that the monument wouldn’t feel hurt if he didn’t go up; I guessed it would stand it. I discouraged the enterprise.
And anon we went down out of the monument, and crossed over to the good-lookin’ house where the man lives who takes care of the monument, and shows off its good traits, a kind of a guardian to it. And we got a first-rate dinner there, though such is not their practice. And then he took us in a likely buggy with 2 seats, and a horse to draw it, and we sot out to see what the march of 100 years has left us of the doin’s of them days.
Time has trampled out a good many of ’em, but we found some. We found the old Schuyler mansion, a settin’ back amongst the trees, with the old knocker on it, that had been pulled by so many a old 4 father, carryin’ tidin’s of disappointment, and hope, and triumph, and encouragement, and everything. We went over the threshold wore down by the steps that had fell there for a hundred years, some light, some heavy steps.
We went into the clean, good-lookin’ old kitchen, with the platters, and shinin’ dressers and trays; the old-fashioned settee, half-table and half-seat. And we see the cup General Washington drinked tea out of, good old creeter. I hope the water biled and it wuz good tea, and most probable it wuz. And we see lots of arms that had been carried in the war, and cannon balls, and shells, and tommy-hawks, and hatchets, and arrows, and etc., etc. And down in one room all full of other curiosities and relicts, wuz the skull of a traitor. I should judge from the looks on’t that besides bein’ mean, he wuz a hombly man. Somebody said folks had made efforts to steal it. But Josiah whispered to me, that there wuzn’t no danger from him, for he would rather be shet right up in the Tombs than to own it, in any way.
And I felt some like him. Some of his teeth had been stole, so they said. Good land! what did they want with his teeth! But it wuz a dretful interestin’ spot. And I thought as I went through the big square, roomy rooms that I wouldn’t swap this good old house for dozens of Queen Anns, or any other of the fashionable, furbelowed houses of to-day. The orniments of this house wuz more on the inside, and I couldn’t help thinkin’ that this house, compared with the modern ornimental cottages, wuz a good deal like one of our good old-fashioned foremothers in her plain gown, compared with some of the grandma’s of to-day, all paint, and furbelows, and false hair.
The old 4 mothers orniments wuz on the inside, and the others wuz more up on the roof, scalloped off and gingerbreaded, and criss-crossed.
The old house wuz full of rooms fixed off beautiful. It wuz quite a treat to walk throngh’em. But the old fireplaces, and mantle tray shelves spoke to our hearts of the generations that had poked them fires, and leaned up against them mantle trays. They went ahead on us through the old rooms; I couldn’t see ’em, but I felt their presence, as I follered ’em over the old thresholts their feet had worn down a hundred years ago. Their feet didn’t make no sound, their petticoats and short gowns didn’t rustle against the old door ways and stair cases.
The dear old grandpas in their embroidered coats, didn’t cast no shadow as they crossed the sunshine that came in through the old-fashioned window panes. No, but with my mind’s eye (the best eye I have got, and one that don’t wear specks) I see ’em, and I follerd ’em down the narrow, steep stair case, and out into the broad light of 4 P. M., 1886.
Anon, or shortly after, we drove up on a corner of the street jest above where the Fish creek empties into the Hudson, and there, right on a tall high brick block, wuz a tablet, showin’ that a tree once stood jest there, under which Burgoyne surrendered. And agin, when I thought of all that he surrendered that day, and all that America and the world gained, my emotions riz up so powerful, that they wuzn’t quelled down a mite, by seein’ right on the other side of the house wrote down these words, “Drugs, Oils, etc.”
No, oil couldn’t smooth ’em down, nor drugs drug ’em; they wuz too powerful. And they lasted jest as soarin’ and eloquent as ever till we turned down a cross street, and arrove at the place, jest the identical spot where the British stacked their arms (and stacked all their pride, and their ambitious hopes with ’em). It made a high pile.
Wall, from there we went up to a house on a hill, where poor Baroness Riedesel hid with her three little children, amongst the wounded and dyin’ officers of the British army, and stayed there three days and three nights, while shots and shells wuz a bombardin’ the little house—and not knowin’ but some of the shots had gone through her lover husband’s heart, before they struck the low ruff over her head.
What do you s’pose she wuz a thinkin’ on as she lay hid in that suller all them three days and three nights with her little girls’ heads in her lap? Jest the same thoughts that a mother thinks to-day, as she cowers down with the children she loves, to hide from danger; jest the same thoughts that a wife thinks today when her heart is out a facing danger and death, with the man she loves.
She faced danger, and died a hundred deaths in the thought of the danger to them she loved. I see the very splinters that the cruel shells and cannon balls split and tore right over her head. Good honorable splinters and not skairful to look at today, but hard, and piercin’, and harrowin’ through them days and nights.
Time has trampled over that calash she rode round so much in (I wish I could a seen it); but Time has ground it down into dust. Time’s hand, quiet but heavy, rested down on the shinin’ heads of the three little girls, and their Pa and Ma, and pushed ’em gently but firmly down out of sight; and all of them savages who used to follow that calash as it rolled onwards, and all their canoes, and war hoops, and snowshoes, etc., etc.
Yes, that calash of Miss Riedesel has rolled away, rolled away years ago, carryin’ the three little girls, their Pa and Ma and all the fears, and hopes, and dreads, and joys, and heartaches of that time it has rolled on with ’em all; on, on, down the dusty road of Oblivion,—it has disappeared there round the turn of road, and a cloud of dust comes up into our faces, as we try to follow it. And the Injuns that used to howl round it, have all follered on the trail of that calash, and gone on, on, out of sight. Their canoes have drifted away down the blue Hudson, away off into the mist and the shadows. Curius, haint it?
And there the same hills and valleys lay, calm and placid, there is the same blue sparklin’ Hudson. Dretful curius, and sort a heart breakin’ to think on’t—haint it? Only jest a few more years and we, too, shall go round the turn of the road, out of sight, out of sight, and a cloud of dust will come up and hide us from the faces of them that love us, and them, too, from the eyes of a newer people.
All our hopes, all our ambitious, all our loves, our joys, our sorrows,—all, all will be rolled away or floated away down the river, and the ripples will ripple on jest as happy; the Sunshine will kiss the hills jest as warmly, and lovin’ly; but other eyes will look on ’em, other hearts will throb and burn within ’em at the sight.
Kinder sad to think on, haint it?
THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING.
One day Josiah and me went into a meetin’ where they wuz kinder fixin’ over the world, sort a repairin’ of it, as you may say. Some of the deepest, smartest speeches I ever hearn in my life, I hearn there.
You know it is a middlin’ deep subject. But they rose to it. They rose nobly to it. Some wuz for repairin’ it one way, and some another—some wanted to kinder tinker it up, and make it over like. Some wanted to tear it to pieces, and build it over new. But they all meant well by the world, and nobody could help respectin’ ’em.
I enjoyed them hours there with ’em, jest about as well as it is in my power to enjoy anything. They wuz all on ’em civilized Christian folks and philanthropists of different shades and degrees, all but one. There wuz one heathen there. A Hindoo right from Hindoostan, and I felt kinder sorry for him. A heathen sot right in the midst of them folks of refinement, and culture, who had spent their hull lives a tryin’ to fix over the world, and make it good.
This poor little heathen, with a white piller case, or sunthin’ wound round his head (I s’pose he hadn’t money to buy a hat), and his small black eyes lookin’ out kinder side ways from his dark hombly little face, rousted up my pity, and my sympathy. There had been quite a firm speech made against allowin’ foreigners on our shores. And this little heathen, in his broken speech, said, It all seemed so funny to him, when everybody wuz foreigners in this country, to think that them that got here first should say they owned it, and send everybody else back. And he said, It seemed funny to him, that the missionarys we sent over to his land to teach them the truth, told them all about this land of Liberty, where everybody wuz free, and everybody could earn a home for themselves, and urged ’em all to come over here, and then when they
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