Creakers.
There are Tribulation Trepid in every community, who delight in looking upon the dark side of everything in human existence.
They are never so comfortable as when uncomfortable.
They find a luxury in woe as epicures do in lammed viands.
They love dark colors and are like ducks, finding high satisfaction in rainy weather.
They can espy the outlines of a thunder-storm in the brightest sky, and if their predictions are realized, and the growling of the elements is heard, they utter the triumphant exclamation, ‘"Didn't I tell you so?"’ It they were elevated at death to the seventh heaven, instead of sending up songs of gratitude, they would at once institute a rigid inquiry as to the possibility of tumbling down from solely an altitude.
‘"Nothing in particular"’ is ever the matter with such men, but ‘"everything in general."’ They are honest and sincere enough, but the shadow of the sepulchre is always upon their spirits.
They would never paralyze the councils of the brave with treason, but the most hopeful can scarcely escape a shiver of ague in their presence.
In religion, they are always despairing of their own salvation, and not very sure of that of anybody else; in polities, they are certain of defeat; in enterprises of moral reform, they declare ‘"it's no use,"’ humanity is doomed, and may as well be permitted to go to the devil its own way. Individually and physically, something is always wrong with them.
They were born for bad luck, and no one can convince them to the contrary.
If they have faithful friends, what is to keep them from dying?
If they have good health, how long will it last?
But good health they will not permit themselves to have.
They are afflicted with dyspepsia, gout, disease of the heart, incipient cancer, or consumption.
‘"They die a thousand deaths in fearing one."’
In war, these melancholy men give full scope to their peculiar talent.
A dozen victories do not compensate for one defeat.
They see
McClellan in their dreams.
The
Yankees are always advancing upon
Centreville, and sometimes coming down Brook turnpike. They are going to lose their property, their children, their friends, their country, and their senses.
They expect to die by the first Minnie ball in their first battle-field, or to be swung to a lamp-post by the triumphant Zouaves.--No other form of death any more enters into their apprehension than if they had taken a bond of fate, and were guaranteed immortality except from the hand of Yankees.
The grim old archer might well chuckle over this curious delusion.
Let the croakers console themselves.
Death will have them, either by
McClellan or otherwise.
There are no exemptions from his draft.
The militia must answer to their names and the Home Guard also.
The men between forty-five and sixty are more likely to be victimized by the remorseless Executive of the grave than by the
Governor of
Virginia.
It matters little whether Death gradually chokes a man in his bed or dismisses him summarily by a bullet.
In the
Christian system, Hope is a virtue, and no virtue can have anything but a sickly existence without it. There can be no happiness where its sunshine does not fall, no faith, no patriotism.
Let the despondent desist from their
Dismal Swamp melodies.
Let them cease from interrupting the jubilant strains of
Hope's inspiring anthems with their doleful and discordant croakings.
