Letters from home, including one from my husband's father,
now over ninety, written with his own hand, and certainly his own mind still. I
quote: “Bad times; worse coming. Starvation stares me in the face. Neither
John's nor James's overseer will sell me any corn.” Now, what has the
government to do with the fact that on all his plantations he made corn enough
to last for the whole year, and by the end of January his negroes had stolen it
all? Poor old man, he has fallen on evil days, after a long life of ease and
prosperity.
To-day, I read The Blithedale Romance. Blithedale leaves
such an unpleasant impression. I like pleasant, kindly stories, now that we are
so harrowed by real life. Tragedy is for our hours of ease.
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 296
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