CHAPTER XXIV.
John Crawford and His Nephew—The Wreck of a Working Man—The Episode of the Cock—The Effect of Josephine Harris's Letter, and an Exodus.
In order to demonstrate more clearly the state of affairs before existing at the house of John Crawford, and the effect really produced by the missive (it might almost as well have been called a missile) of Josephine Harris,—it will be necessary to change the point of view to the big house on the hill, at a little before noon on that pleasant Sunday of summer.
The back piazza of the house looked north and eastward over a slight depression which might almost be called a valley, and then at the range of hills rising behind and stretching downward on the other side almost to the Mohawk. Nearer, it looked out upon an extensive garden, carefully laid out and thriftily in growth with all the ground-fruits and vegetables natural to the climate, at that time in full luxuriance. Around the high board fences of the garden stood an almost endless variety of fruit-trees, the cherry-trees at that moment literally red, or black, or amber, as the case might be, with those delicious little globules of pulpy fruit-flesh which seem like drops of fragrant sweetness squeezed from the very heart of Nature. Among them stood apple and pear-trees, each loaded with the growing fruit of that wonderful fruit-season, in which the smile of God seemed resting broadly on the whole American continent in the wealth and variety of its productions, however his hand may have been smiting it with the desolations of personal strife and bloodshed.
Digressions have become so common during the course of this narration, that if the later ones are not excusable on the score of propriety, they at least have that excuse which is held to be so important by the lawyers and the statesmen—precedent. And having already sinned in that regard, beyond any hope of forgiveness and almost beyond any feeling of accountability for the erraticism of the pen—let us pause here, under the reminder of those hanging fruits in John Crawford's garden, to say that while perhaps no nation has ever before been so cursed with an extended civil war as this once free and happy republic during the past two years—yet no nation, plunged into any description of conflict, has ever been so favored of Heaven with the means for carrying it on and so delivered of Heaven from the dangers of famine and pestilence which so often accompany the other affliction.
At no period in the history of any nation in the world, could the statistics of that country exhibit the same amount of material wealth and power of production as those shown by the loyal States of the American Union at the moment of the breaking out of the Rebellion—the capabilities of the seceding States being left entirely out of the question. Private coffers and the vaults of our banks were alike full of gold, which had been for years flowing in and amassing from the mines of California and the favorable course of foreign exchanges. We had been feeding the world, and at the same time supplying ourselves and the world with more than half the precious metals yearly contributed to the hoards of the nations; and that the country should literally have become "full of money," was inevitable. But more especially did we hold power over the whole world in our capacities for fruit-growing and in our stores of breadstuffs already amassed. With proper management of our resources, the latter fact alone might have made the whole world tributary to us, and we could have dictated terms in war as well as in peace.
When a certain young Lieutenant in the British naval service, from the China fleet, crossed from Hong Kong to San Francisco on his way home on leave, in 1861, and then came by the overland route from San Francisco to New York, he fell into conversation in this city with a friend whom he had known in England; and as there were then rumors of trouble with Great Britain growing out of her expected help to the rebels, that conversation very naturally turned towards the relative wealth and power of the two countries.
"Well, I do hope," said the young English officer, "that there will not be any trouble between the two countries, because we don't want to fight you, you know!"
"And so do I," said his friend. "The people of America do not bear any ill will to the people or the government of England."
"But we should beat you if we did fight, you know," pursued the Englishman, with John Bull's tenacity of national pride.