It was unfortunate--down
with it! Let it be anathema-maranatha!
The croakers said that--and the brave hearts whom they insulted could
not silence them. There were stout souls in black coats--but the
croakers distilled their poison, working busily in the darkness. It was
the croakers who bought up the supplies, and hoarded them in garrets,
and retailed them in driblets, thereby causing the enormous prices
which, according to them, foretold the coming downfall. They evaded the
conscript officers; grew fat on their extortions; and one day you would
miss them from their accustomed haunts--they had flitted across the
Potomac, and were drinking their wine in New York, London, or Paris.
Meanwhile, three classes of persons remained faithful to the
death:--the old men, the army, and the women.
The gray-beards were taking down their old guns and swords, and forming
home-battalions, to fight the enemy to the death when his cavalry came
to lay waste the country.
The women were weaving homespun, knitting socks, nursing the wounded,
and praying. They had never ceased to pray, nor had they lost the heart
of hope. The croakers believed in success, and their patron saint was
Mammon. The women believed in the justice of the cause, and in God. In
1861, they had cheered the soldiers, and waved their handkerchiefs, and
rained bouquets.
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