The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 303 pages of information about The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862.

The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 303 pages of information about The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862.

Yet among them were figures which arrested our attention and sympathy.  Delicate boys, with more spirit than strength, flushed with fever or pale with exhaustion or haggard with suffering, dragged their weary limbs along as if each step would exhaust their slender store of strength.  At the road-side sat or lay others, quite spent with their journey.  Here and there was a house at which the wayfarers would stop, in the hope, I fear often vain, of getting refreshment; and in one place was a clear, cool spring, where the little bands of the long procession halted for a few moments, as the trains that traverse the desert rest by its fountains.  My companions had brought a few peaches along with them, which the Philanthropist bestowed upon the tired and thirsty soldiers with a satisfaction which we all shared.  I had with me a small flask of strong waters, to be used as a medicine in case of inward grief.  From this, also, he dispensed relief, without hesitation, to a poor fellow who looked as if he needed it.  I rather admired the simplicity with which he applied my limited means of solace to the first-comer who wanted it more than I; a genuine benevolent impulse does not stand on ceremony, and had I perished of colic for want of a stimulus that night, I should not have reproached my friend the Philanthropist any more than I grudged my other ardent friend the two dollars and more which it cost me to send the charitable message he left in my hands.

It was a lovely country through which we were riding.  The hill-sides rolled away into the distance, slanting up fair and broad to the sun, as one sees them in the open parts of the Berkshire valley, at Lanesborough, for instance, or in the many-hued mountain-chalice at the bottom of which the Shaker houses of Lebanon have shaped themselves like a sediment of cubical crystals.  The wheat was all garnered, and the land ploughed for a new crop.  There was Indian-corn standing, but I saw no pumpkins warming their yellow carapaces in the sunshine like so many turtles; only in a single instance did I notice some wretched little miniature specimens in form and hue not unlike those colossal oranges of our cornfields.  The rail-fences were somewhat disturbed, and the cinders of extinguished fires showed the use to which they had been applied.  The houses along the road were not for the most part neatly kept; the garden-fences were poorly built of laths or long slats, and very rarely of trim aspect.  The men of this region seemed to ride in the saddle very generally, rather than drive.  They looked sober and stern, less curious and lively than Yankees, and I fancied that a type of features familiar to us in the countenance of the late John Tyler, our accidental President, was frequently met with.  The women were still more distinguishable from our New-England pattern.  Soft, sallow, succulent, delicately finished about the mouth and firmly shaped about the chin, dark-eyed, full-throated, they looked as if they had been grown in a land of olives.  There was a little toss in their movement, full of muliebrity.  I fancied there was something more of the duck and less of the chicken about them, as compared with the daughters of our leaner soil; but these are mere impressions caught from stray glances, and if there is any offence in them, my fair readers may consider them all retracted.

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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.