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willowhillhistory · 9 months

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The Happy Valley, by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Published in The Christian Union, 27 Park Place, NY, on August 7, 1872:

The terrible heats of the last few weeks have sent our city population flying "thick as the leaves of Vallombrosa," and we among them have been swept in the tide up the Hudson to Albany, and then up, up a long, slow grade in a palace-car at night, feeling ourselves ascending, and the unmistakable vivid clearness of mountain air blowing refreshment through us, till finally, after passing Sharon Springs, we stopped in Cherry Valley.

Where is Cherry Valley? If we thought our telling would bring all the world to see, we would stop here and now, and not utter a word; for the charm of Cherry Valley is its greenness, its seclusion, its pastoral stillness and quietude, its Arcadian air of unworldly rest and peace.

It might be a valley in the Delectable Mountains that Bunyan writes of, whence in a clear day you should see the battlements of the Celestial City; it might be the happy valley of Rasselas, or any other dreamland where it is always afternoon.

To come down to prose, Cherry Valley is in that belt of hill country that overlooks the valley of the Mohawk. It is said to be 1,300 feet above tidewater mark. It is a quaint old place, with what many places in America are destitute of - a history. Here are farms and homesteads that have been in the possession of the same families for one, two, and three generations, and a rich moss of tradition has grown up under their quiet shades. Here are streets, of those lovely, cool, roomy, breezy old houses that people knew how to build a generation ago, and that have hanging about them a fragrance of old days and old times, like the rosemary from a cabinet.

One such mansion we visited lately, standing on a high green hill, and overlooking a lovely landscape of hill and dale and woodland. The house is in that best style of architecture and keeping - that which suggests that its inmates are having a good time in it, and mean to use every bit of it for household enjoyment. You come through a quaint little garden, bright with all the nice old-fashioned flowers, and the old house stands back of it, like a good grandmother, with its arms wide open to take you in. A broad veranda of generous proportions leads to the open hall door. Then you come on that great, wide, generous front-hall, wherein they of old time delighted, - a hall wide enough to live in, set out with old-fashioned sofas and ottomans and tables and chairs, with a tall old clock gently ticking away the peaceful hours. From this hall open pleasant rooms in all the four corners; one large charming parlor, whose windows look out on the beautiful hill-and-valley picture below the house. Here you find cozy family rocking chairs and easy chairs, that look as if they may have cuddled generations - chairs, not stiff and new out of upholsterers' shops, but chairs that are used to entertaining, and half-alive with a hospitable tenderness, and that seem to long to have you sit down and rest in them where others have rested before you. At the further end of the hall is a quaint old staircase, leading to an upper hall of the same dimensions with the lower, and on which all the chambers open. This upper hall is set about with couches, and little stands and tables convenient for books and work, and is the undress family reunion room. It opens by a wide window on to the roof of the veranda, which forms an ample and sunny [illegible], and commands a lovely prospect.

Here an ancient couple, old in years, but young in heart, keep tryst and rendezvous for a generation or two of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, who probably regard it as the veritable Garden of Eden.

Stories of the past grow thick and blossom here in many a tender tradition. Cherry Valley was yet a youthful settlement when the Revolutionary War began, and was made the victim of that insane and unprincipled measure of the then dominant party in England, which did not hesitate to stir up and set upon these infant settlements the wild and bloody ravages of the forest. The valley of the Mohawk was the camping ground of the Six Nations - now melted away, and gone like the night-dews; and in one of their marauding raids they wholly destroyed Cherry Valley, burned the houses, massacred some of the people, and swept others into a bitter captivity.

This peaceful, lovely house, with its flower gardens and bowers of rest, stands right upon one of the spots of these night tragedies. The whole family was murdered, and the house burned to the ground.

It is curious to see how the tragedy and terror and agony of the past, toned down by time and distance, come to add only a softened interest, a charm of romance, to the scenes of to-day. Everywhere in Cherry Valley we are pointed to places and scenes made memorable by these tragedies. In one hospitable mansion, while a gay party were promenading the well-kept grounds, a tree was shown in which it was said the mangled arm of a lady had been found, thrown there by the Indians. The story is told of another woman taken captive, to whom was allotted as her first work the task of stretching and drying the scalps of some of her own kindred who had perished; and another of a woman who, with her three little children, lay under the shelter of a hollow log, while the Indians ran backward and forward over it, filling them with constant horror of discovery. In the grave-yard is the tomb-stone of one who as a boy was with his mother taken captive and carried to Canada, while all the rest of the family were slaughtered. We need to recall these traditions to see how real and how terrible was the Revolutionary struggle of our fathers.

It ought to be in justice remembered, when we think of the barbarity of this movement, that Lord Chatham and William Pitt put all their force against this policy.

In our childhood, we remember, our blood used to boil and our veins tingle when we read in the Columbian Orator the speech of Lord Chatham on the policy of employing the Indians against the colonists of North America, and it is a comfort to know that all of the indignation, wrath, and denunciation that the English language could possibly carry was spent upon the party which perpetrated this inhumanity. It is a pity Lord Chatham's speech has vanished from our reading-books, for it is one of the most splendid specimens of generous, indignant eloquence that the language affords.

Cherry Valley to-day is an innocent, quiet Arcadia, lying within an hour's distance of three of the most fashionable summer watering-places, so that a short ride may bring you in sight of all the pomps and vanities that one may desire to see. Sharon Springs and Richfield now rival Saratoga in attraction, and number their thousand. Cooperstown is another most attractive and much frequented point.

[...]

The hospitality of Cherry Valley is proverbial. Lawn-teas, pic-nics and croquet parties vary the summer days; everybody seems to know everybody, and a stranger is taken in and made to feel at home at once. We have heard that it is still safe to go to sleep there as it was in Litchfield, in our childhood, with outside doors and windows innocently wide open for the moon to shine in. If it be so, we shall not tell of it, lest an army of New York scalawags should take passage at once on the palace-car to Cherry Valley. These palace-cars from Albany to Cherry Valley are in fact no small feature in the attractions of getting there. You don't want to be pounded and squeezed and made a cinder-bank of, so that your own clothes abhor you, in getting to the garden of Eden itself.

This idea seems to have taken possession of the minds of those who are charged with taking you from Albany to Sharon and Cherry Valley, for they provide cars so elegant, and easy, and every way delightful, that it is worth going just to get the ride in them, even if you had no purpose of doing anything more.

One begins to respect one's self when one rides in such luxury, and to consider that one belongs to the royal family of America, and conduct one's self accordingly. Instead of having your eyes put out and your traveling dress soiled with cinders, a wire-gauze window admits light and air, and affords perfect protection.

Ah, well-a-day! These nice palace-cars had but one fault in our eyes. They took us from Cherry Valley as well as to it. We had been there only ten days, and yet such pleasant ones that, as the Irishman said, we were all ready to become a native. And we looked back on its green peaceful retreats with something of a sigh. Why can't we always live in these pleasant places? Why can't all the pleasant people live there just where we can see them every day?

Well, in some other world there will be brighter and better reflections of these lower places, and all those who come shall come to stay, and go no more out forever. Then, in those valleys of greenness, the Good Shepherd shall walk and gather together in one those that are gone, and those that are going, and us that wait and long.

In these summer journeyings we see so many people who are walking in sorrow; so many living, when some great shock, some life-sorrow has cut the nerves of earthly joy, never again to reunite. Well, patience, dear fellow-travelers; if there were not something better than this life for you to turn to, the dear Lord would never have cut the cords that bind you here; but these sorrows are heavenly voices saying to the soul, "Rise up, my love, my fair one, come away, for, lo, the winter is over and past, and the time of singing of birds has come."

[Thanks to Sydney Waller for providing me with a photocopy of this article.]

#harriet beecher stowe #cherry valley #cherry valley massacre #revolutionary war #mohawk valley history #upstate new york

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cherrybomblast · 1 month

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dude ,,, cant stop thinking abt ur premature ejaculation fic rn. ,,, imagining ts with someone who hates you too,,, jerking off some dude who dislikes for you for no reason, some kinda hatefuck, n there you r barely pumping his dick n him cumming instantaneously then he gets all embarrassed..,,,, calling him a pervert n making fun of him ekekkfkgk

heheheehbdbdhfb i love your brain hon.

tw extremely terrible smut 💩

you're absolutely shocked.. the man that side eyes you every chance he gets, the man who left you stern notes on your office desk and criticizing emails, is now at your doorstep, begging you to please help him, and that he's sorry for bein' so mean, but he needs your help.

the sight you're met with is without a doubt filthy - his tie loosened, pants unbuttoned, hair slicked back with sweat, hands cupped around his unbelievably hard cock. he looked so disgusting in all the right ways.

so, out of the kindness of your heart and your cock you decide to let the poor thing in. he even started to babble about his depraved fantasies he had about you.

you finally, finally get your hands on him, kissing him harshly. but almost seconds after you start palming his erection, the stupid thing starts to whimper and squirm.

you pull away from the kiss trying to figure out what the matter is now, when you feel your hand get hotter, and your palm sticky. you look down, and sure enough- there's a giant wet spot right over his cock.

"... did you just come?" you ask sharply, palming him once again.

"i'm sorry, haah, i just- i'm really- i dunno what's going o-on, nghhh.." he manages to get out through heavy pants..

"that... that was fuckin' nasty, baby..." you laugh out, getting closer to his red hot face. "yeah? are you that gross, that you cum from me touching you like that in seconds?"

"'no-no i don't usually, it doesn't usually, ghhh.. happen li-like that... i don't.. khhhh... i don't know...." he tries to protest, (the best he can, now overstimulated from your touch).

"the only boys that can cum that fast are perverts. are you a pervert, baby?" your grin widens as you whisper right into his ear, and he starts to buck up into your hand again.

he can protest all he wants, but you both know it's true.

(im thinking i like this character too,, shall he be known as pervy coworker? 😌)

#sowwy this is little bit trashy #im running on a monster and nature valley #gay #sub men #cherrie's little brainrots #lgbtqia #male reader #dom!male!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #bad grammar #pure smut #pervy coworker

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