  See page 19 Although by fond illusions led, Through phantasies of empty air, Which mark an ultimate despair, The miner still sees hope ahead. The prospector could never cope With dangers and realities, But for the visionary hope Which both deceives and mollifies, Alluring him with siren song Her vague uncertain paths along. Yet some, this stalwart group among, Were adolescent,—even young. For hearts, which youthful breasts conceal, Oft burn with energetic zeal, To ope, with labor's patient key, The mountain's hidden treasury. Most furiously it blew and snowed, Most cheerily the firelight glowed, And as the forkÈd tongues of flame, In fierce combustion, writhed and burned, Nor moment's space remained the same, The conversation swayed and turned. For tales were told of avalanche, Of army scenes, of mine and ranch, Of wily politician's snares, Of gold excitements, smallpox scares, Of England's debt and grizzly bears. When all but three their stories told Of tropic heat, or arctic cold, The conversation dragged at length, An interim for future strength. Outspoke a voice: "Let Uncle Jim Some past experience relate, For Fate has kindly granted him, At least, diversity of fate." II. A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD MAN'S LIFEAs ample wreaths of curling smoke From his time-honored meerschaum broke, A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man Rose up and sadly thus began,— "You ask a tale,—well, I'll express The reason why in manhood's prime I left a more congenial clime And sought this rugged wilderness." But, gentle reader, don't expect A tale in mongrel dialect, For "Uncle Jim," or James T. Hale, Who lived as anchorite or monk, Once led the senior class at Yale, And had his sheepskin in his trunk. There, while the crackling flames leaped high, And serpentine gyrations played Around the logs of hemlock, dry, And with the tempest seethed and swayed, As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke Above his pipe, the old man spoke: "'Twas on a day about like this, When, fresh from youthful haunts and scenes, I first beheld yon precipice, And sought these gulches and ravines, To pan, despite the frost and cold, For shining particles of gold; And hewed the rocker and the sluice From out the native pine and spruce. Arrayed in nature's pristine dress This was indeed a wilderness. Nor eye of eagle ever viewed A more forbidding solitude, Nor prospect more completely drear Confronted hardy pioneer. Why came I here? My simple tale Goes back to a New England vale. It is, though simple tale it be, A life's unwritten tragedy: A story, with few incidents, But many years of penitence. As one, for some foul crime pursued, Doth flee, in frenzy rash and blind To wilderness or solitude, I fled, to leave my past behind. I loved a maid, both fair and true, Just where, it matters not, nor who. For forty years, with silent tread, Have silvered many a raven head, Since on her wealth of auburn hair The moonlight shimmered, soft and fair, As where the pine and hemlock stood And sighed in answer to the breeze, With but the stars as witnesses, Our troth was plighted in the wood; A simple rustic tale in truth, Of love and sentimental youth. "Beseamed with countless scars and rents From combat with the elements." See page 20 Love is the subtle mystery, The charm, the esoteric spell, Which lures the seraph from on High. To leave the Throne of Light,—for Hell,— And with resistless shackles binds, In viewless thrall, the captive minds. For who can fathom love's caprice, Supplant her fervid wars with peace, And passion's ardent flame command? Or who presume to understand And read with cabalistic art The hieroglyphics of the heart? Nor eye of regent, skilled to rule, Nor sage from earth's profoundest school, Nor erudite philosophy On wisdom's heights, pretend to see The fervent secrets of the breast, Which rankle mute and unexpressed. Nor the angelic hosts above In their exuberance of love, Nor demons from the pit can span The depths of woman's love for man. And men, of love's sweet flame bereft, Have but the brutal instincts left. She, too, my youthful love returned, Each breast with throb responsive yearned, The oracles of passion sweet, All augured happiness complete. But, ere the nuptial knot was bound, A whispered rumor crept around, A whispered rumor, such as rise From nothing to colossal size; Though none their origin can trace, Nor ferret out the starting place, Which start sometimes, in idle jest, When knowing looks imply the rest. The lightest rumor, or the worst, May be discredited at first, But oft repeated and received Is soon unconsciously believed. Though inconsistent and abstract, Fanned by insinuating tongues, Imaginary faults and wrongs Soon gain the currency of fact. The purest acts are misconstrued By the lascivious and lewd, And envy loves to lie in wait With fangs imbrued in venomed hate. This slander, born of jealousy, Was told as solemn truth to me, By tongues I deemed immaculate. Alas! that shafts from falsehood's bow Should undetected cleave the air, Or wanton hands in malice sow The tares of discord and despair. For every seed of falsehood sown Brings forth a harvest of its own, And ears, most ready to believe, Are difficult to undeceive. Alas! that shafts from falsehood's tongue Should fall suspicious ears among, And be received, and nursed, forsooth, As arrows of unblemished truth: Maligning spotless innocence, With grave impeachments of offence. Their crime, of heinous crimes the worst, With multiplied damnation cursed, Who, lost to every sense of shame, Assassinate a woman's name. For such, with trumped-up calumnies, Would drag an angel from the skies, And stain its vestal robes of white With slander's sable hues of night, Holding to ridicule and shame The ruins of a once fair name. Who so, from slander's chalice sips, May greet you with a friendly kiss, Nor may the foul, envenomed lips Betray the adder's sting and hiss. The fairest flowrets of the field The rankest poisons often yield, And falsehood loves to hide her tooth 'Neath the habiliments of truth. This scandal, venomous and vile, Had no foundation but a smile, But on it wagging tongues had built A massive pyramid of guilt. In evil hour, I, too, believed For fabrications more absurd Than the aspersions I had heard Have wiser ears than mine deceived. I fought suspicion, vainly tried To cast each rising doubt aside. But he who lists to tales of ill Believes in part, despite his will. Then in my face, as in a book, She read one sad distrustful look, A look of pity, yet of doubt, For silence cries most loudly out, And who can smile with visage bright To shield misgivings black as night? Unhappy trait that in us lies! We doubt the verdict of our eyes; We doubt each faculty and sense, Yet credit sham and false pretence. We question Truth, and much prefer To list to Falsehood, than to her: And that, which most substantial seems, We doubt, yet place our faith in dreams. We doubt the pearl of purest white, We doubt the diamond clear and bright, And yet accept the base and flawed, Yes, revel in all forms of fraud. That moment's lack of confidence, The shadow of remote offence, Cost each the sweetest joys of life, Cost her a husband, me a wife. Ere yet that month its course had spent, In time's continuous descent, Her face had been forever hid Beneath the sod and coffin lid. Then slanderous tongues forgot their lies, And wagged in glowing eulogies. Though tears, the pearls of sorrow be, And many o'er her grave were shed, Mine was a tearless agony, A deeper, dry-eyed grief instead. That rumor, void of fact or proof, Too late betrayed the cloven hoof. Too late, alas! 'twas given me To recognize its falsity. Within a rural burial place, A rude, though quaint, necropolis, Where, through the growth of hemlock trees, Is borne the requiem of the breeze; Where stand the funeral pines as plumes, Above the scattered graves and tombs, And sigh, with drooping branches spread, In sylvan dirges for the dead; Beneath a fir tree's sombre shade, My last adieu to her was made. Close by the slab of graven stone, Which marks her place of silent rest, I knelt at midnight, and alone, Then rose and started for the West." The wind in temporary lull, Had dwindled to a plaintive moan; As if in mournful monotone, Her cup of anguish being full, Sad nature's fountain-heads of bale Had overflowed with plaint and wail. In palpitating throbs of woe, It now arose and whirled the snow With triple energy renewed, Filling the dismal solitude With woeful shriekings of despair, As demon orgies in the air, And culminated in a roar More violent than aught before. At length another timely lull Made human voices audible. As Uncle Jim resumed his seat, A voice cried out for Russian Pete. III. THE PRISONERSee page 20 Three days were we, in custody detained, In stern abeyance formally constrained. Within a court, where no protesting word From prisoner or counsel may be heard; A court, where no forensic eloquence May quash the allegations of offence; Our doom was sealed, by a capricious judge Who thereby satisfied a family grudge. The sentence passed, the stalwart Cossack guard Straightway transferred us to a prison yard. There parted we, before its grated door; They dragged him in,—and he was seen no more. Another door, with dull metallic sound Was closed, and I was hurried underground, Through labyrinth of passages and halls, Past dingy arches and protruding walls, Where gloom perpetual the eye obscures, Through damp recesses, nooks and apertures, With foul effluvia and odors filled, By darkness, dampness and decay distilled. For noisome vapors float in gaseous waves, In cavern depths of men-created caves, And generate in humid warmth or cold The loathsome mildew and corrupting mould. At length, through cruel maze of grate and stone, By paths circuitous and ways unknown, We reached the cell,—as hideous a den, As ever held unwilling beasts or men. And soon with manacles securely bound, Myself its only occupant I found. A dungeon, dimly lighted and obscure, With pools of water, stagnant and impure, Whose noxious exhalations permeate The deadened air, which could not circulate: And laden with malignant slime and ooze, Upon the walls discharged in baneful dews: Or else precipitate, with vapory loss, Enrobed the cruel stones with pendent moss. And water, foul as e'er offended lip, Fell from the roof with intermittent drip. Remote from daylight, dismal and unsunned, Decompositions stored a teeming fund Of molecules and organisms strange, In an invisible but constant change. As stagnant waters generate a froth, These, with spontaneous and fungous growth, Had draped the dungeon's limited expanse With toadstool, bulb and foul protuberance. These from the air its milder virtues drank, Supplanting ichors, venemous and dank, Whose essence deleterious, the while, Exudes in savors and miasmas vile. High on the wall, a double-grated slit A slender ray of sunshine would admit On pleasant mornings, when the sky was clear From leaden fogs and hazy atmosphere. A ray of sunlight, yes, a welcome ray, A wholesome beam, but just too far away. Although I tugged at the remorseless chain And strove to reach that sunbeam, 'twas in vain; The lambent gleam which broke into the cell Alone on toad and savage rodent fell. In vain I wrenched the manacles, in vain I sought to rend the cruel gyves in twain, Strove, with contortions painful and extreme, To lay my head within this gladsome beam, Or even touch it with the finger-tip; In vain,—no galling chain relaxed its grip. A ray of sunlight just beyond my reach, Like Tantalus, as ancient classics teach, When for duplicity and theft immersed, In rippling waters, doomed to ceaseless thirst,— For as his parching lips essayed to drink, The mocking waters would recede, or sink; Though luscious fruits hung pendent in his sight, To coax the palate and the appetite, Whene'er his hand reached forth with eager thrust, Those selfsame fruits resolved to baleful dust. That sunbeam, though an aggravation fair, Still closed the floodgates of complete despair. As dykes constrain, in distant lowland realms, The deluge, which engulfs and overwhelms. With final resource and expedient And all her vials of expectation spent, Fate, in her changeable kaleidoscope, Evolves new turns to reËstablish hope. That ray of sunshine, as an angel's smile, Beaming in love amid surroundings vile, Came, morn by morn, to mitigate and bless; A benediction in my bitterness. Time after time, when the approaching night Had banished every modicum of light, And clothed each outline with her sable guise, I watched the greenish glow of reptile eyes, Nor dared to slumber, till exhaustion's sleep Benumbed my senses with its stupors deep. Then, conjured by the witcheries of night, Came pleasant dreams and visions of delight, Those iridescent phantasies of air, Which mock the troubled breast in its despair; Then waking, the delusive phantoms flown, A prisoner upon a floor of stone. My fare was still the captive's mouldy crust, My chains still reeked with clotted gore and rust, The rigid shackles still retained their clutch, And clammy walls repulsed the friendly touch. Day after day, besmeared with filth and slime, In foul monotony I passed the time, Battling with vermin foes, a teeming brood, Prolific and not easily withstood: An evil pest, ubiquitous and rife, In the fecundity of insect life. In agony of body and of brain, Each breath a stifling gasp and twinge of pain, Cursing my fortune, though each fevered curse Redounding, made my agony the worse; For fits of anger seldom mollify, When vacancy reiterates the cry, Or walls of cold, unsympathetic stone Respond but hollow echoes of a groan. Though limbs as free and restless as the wind Are not to shackles readily resigned, Complaint, with oath and bitterness replete, In prisoner is doubly indiscreet. The imprecation, born of righteous wrath, Subtracts no obstacle from any path. Bereft of star or luminary bright, No night so dark as artificial night; No glittering constellations kindly throw Their twinkling beacons o'er the void below; No satellite with pale invasive beam Breaks through the darkness awful and extreme; No comet, through the vast sidereal waste, Pursues its orbit with unbridled haste; No silvery moon, through the dissembling shroud, May shine or burst through orifice of cloud In mellow radiations, soft and sweet; Darkness most dense, oppressive and complete. No friendly voice might penetrate the gloom, Nor break the silence of that fetid tomb, With genial converse, which in some degree Makes men forget their depth of misery. Silence, most tragic, horrible, profound, Except the sharp and intermittent sound Of rodent feet, and noise of creeping things, The squeak of vampires and their whirr of wings; Or cries of swift pursuit, or of despair, Rang out upon the pestilential air, As ever and anon a dying squeak Told of the strong prevailing o'er the weak; For might obtains along the selfsame plan With ruthless vermin and enlightened man. Yet man in his dominion absolute, Removed above the province of the brute, From social claims and attributes released, Has little to distinguish from the beast. With all associative wants denied, And his gregarious longings unsupplied, By human comradeship, affection springs Well up in effluent love for baser things. For 'neath the polish and embellishments Of cultivation and intelligence, There lies a basic bond of sympathy, For man and beast are friends in misery. Yes, friends, the most ill-favored shape which squirms In reptile folds, repulsive snakes and worms, Soon lose their dread repugnance, one and all, To solitary man in prison thrall. Through the long hours of physical distress, In my extremity of loneliness, I felt companionship in this abode, For e'en the vicious rat and sluggish toad. Thrice sixty days of corporal decay And mental anguish, slowly wore away; Thrice sixty nights of filthy durance passed, Each day and night more hopeless than the last. My limbs, no longer brawny and alert, Were famine-wasted, loathsome and inert. With shaggy beard and matted unkempt hair, With face no longer rubicund and fair, Which haggard and emaciated shone, And through the sallow skin disclosed the bone. Thus languished nature in enforced decay, Till hope's last beacon light had burned away. Though never exculpated from offence, Time brought conditional deliverance; A writ of amnesty, the Czar's decree, Within its gracious scope included me. Released at last by ukase absolute, But famished, homeless, sick and destitute. What followed would be tedious to recite, The sequel, but the incidents of flight. Alone, an outcast from my native hearth, An aimless wanderer upon the earth, Blown as the desert shifts a grain of sand, Borne by each wanton gale, from land to land. A keen observer of the play of life, Withal a nether factor in its strife. Watching existence as a game of chess, Where love, hate, smile, tear, insult and caress Hold us by turns in various forms of check; Some sort of yoke is worn by every neck. Kings, queens and knights, exalted castles see, Undone by pawns and powers of base degree. Positions gained at a tremendous cost, By one false move may be forever lost; Each studied movement, each strategic course, Is shaped by contact with opposing force, And moves which seem fortuitous and blind Are often those most cunningly designed. In devious ways we may not understand, Our steps are ordered by an Unseen Hand. Proud queens, subservient pawns, with varied rÔle, Are vain components of the wondrous whole; Life's pantomime, in figures complicate; Men are but puppets on the wires of fate. My native land, henceforth no longer mine, My footsteps, seeking an adopted shrine, Have found a home, within the mountain West, Where Truth may preach her gospel unsuppressed." All eyes were now on Russian Pete, Who quietly resumed his seat. At the conclusion of his tale The wind had risen to a gale, And mourned as though in sympathy With human woe and misery. Or as the winds, for some offence To man, or his creations done, Now wailed a frenzied penitence In anguish-laden orison. The elements petitioning The pardon of their stormy king, E'en as the supplicating cries Might from the damned in torment rise, And cleave the palpitating air With hopeless accents of despair. As Uncle Jim stirred up the fire With observation taciturn, All watched the crackling hemlock burn Till some one called for Dad McGuire. IV. A SEQUEL OF THE LOST CAUSENow, Dad McGuire was old, and bent of form, Tanned by exposure to the sun and storm; Of grizzled beard and seam-indented brow, The furrows traced by Time's remorseless plough; Hardy and gnarlÈd as the mountain oak, Bent by the hand of Time but still unbroke; Bowed by the weight of years and labors done, A man whose course had neared the setting sun; His face a blending of the calm and sad, Paternal-looking, so they called him "Dad." This man, so near his journey's close, With great deliberation rose, Coughed once or twice and scratched his nose; Then, as became a veteran, Surveyed his hearers and began; "Since Uncle Jim and Russian Pete Declared the reasons why their feet This rugged wilderness have trod, And left for aye their native sod, I, too, will recapitulate That chapter, from my book of fate. Where Rappahannock's silver stream Reflects the moon's resplendent beam, And sheds a mellow lustre o'er The trees and shrubs that fringe the shore; Where Nature's lavish hand bestows The crystal dews and generous showers; Where lily, hollyhock and rose, And many-tinted herbs and flowers Combining, form a floral scene On background of eternal green; Where through the solemn night is heard The warbling plaint of feathered throats, As whippoorwill and mockingbird Pour forth their wealth of liquid notes, While the accompanying breeze Sighs through the underbrush and trees, And rippling waters blend their tune, In salutation to the moon; Where singing insects, bugs and bees Mingle their droning harmonies, With croakings of loquacious frogs In the adjacent swamps and bogs; Where from the water, air and ground, Rises a symphony of sound; Mid nature's fond environment, My boyhood's happy hours were spent. But now, my narrative begins: I had a brother, we were twins, Sunburnt and freckled, light of heart, Resembling each other so That few could tell the two apart. We grew, as two twin pines might grow, Upon the isolated edge Of some lone precipice or ledge, That overlooks the vale below; Remote from every wooded strip, With but each other's fellowship, In solitary station placed, With branches locked and interlaced, As sworn to cherish and defend Each other, to the bitter end. "With swift and spoliating flow, Uprooting many a noble tree, To strew the desert's waste below, With scattered drift-wood and debris." See page 22 The course of uneventful life Ran smoothly on, unmarred by strife, Till childish fancy disappeared, As manhood's sterner age was neared; Then in a city's bustling mart, The cords of fate drew us apart, Through paths of accident and chance, Environment and circumstance; Within their complicated maze, We reached that parting of the ways, Where sentiment is nipped by frost, Where ties of consanguinity Disrupt, and often disagree, Or, through indifference are lost. We happened that eventful spring, To hold a family gathering, To reunite each severed tie So soon to be dissolved for aye. As famines, with their blight respond, When some vile genius waves his wand, And leave a ghastly aftermath Of bleaching bones to mark their path; Or demon hands, in foul offence, Pour out the vials of pestilence, To reap, with desolating breath, A harvest of untimely death; The throes of internecine war Now rent the nation to its core, And smote, with decimating hand The best and bravest of the land, Estranging, never to amend, Father from son and friend from friend; Dissolving many sacred cords Of love in bitterest enmity. Lips once replete with friendly words Now challenged as an enemy; We, who had never quarrelled before, Parted in wrath, and met no more. His firm convictions led him where A banner floated in the air, In silken corrugations curled, The admiration of a world; Beneath its constellated stars, Its azure field and crimson bars, Although no message ever came To tell his fate, or spread his fame, I know that 'mid the shot and shell He served the cause he fought for, well. For aught I know, his manly form Went down before some leaden storm, And lay with mangled flesh and bone Among the numberless unknown, Who filled the trenches where they died, Uncoffined, unidentified. The voice of duty led me where The strains of Dixie filled the air, Where curling smoke in graceful rings Rose on the evening's silent wings, And hovering o'er the mist and damp, Betrayed the presence of the camp. I pass the story of the war,— The cause we lost, but struggled for Through four long years, in southern fens,— To wiser tongues and abler pens. Through four long years of tragedy, I fought, bled, marched and starved with Lee, Till Appomattox's final day, I, in a uniform of gray, Before the cannon's yawning mouth, Defended my beloved South. The struggle ending, in complete, Although most honorable defeat, Footsore and hungry, broken, sad, In ragged regimentals clad, Towards Rappahannock's silver flood, I plodded homeward through the mud, To find a desolated home, The final page in war's red tome. That day, as I remember well, The splashing rain in torrents fell; The pregnant clouds discharged their debt Of moist, apologetic tears, As if in passionate regret For rain withheld in famine years, And from exuberance of grief In drizzling penance found relief; Or, as if tears from unseen eyes Were wafted downward from the skies, In tardy expiation for The carnage of remorseless war: The sorrow of the elements For human woe and violence. The roads which thread the country lanes, Had turned to sheets of liquid mud, As if to cover up the stains Of civil war and human blood. That evening, as a pall of cloud Enveloped nature as a shroud, Bedraggled and dispirited, My footsteps to the old home led: Again I stood before the door I left in wrath, four years before: But what a change! The vandal torch Had long devoured the roof and porch: The gray disintegrating walls Still swayed and tottered in the air, Or lay in heaps within its halls, In melancholy ruin there: The towering chimney, black and tall, Stood, as if mourning o'er its fall: And through the dismal mist and rain, The windows, void of sash and pane, Seemed staring at the gathering night, In wild expression of affright. The fields my infancy had known, With briar and weed were overgrown; The sunlight, heralding the morn, No longer smiled on waving corn. I wandered, aimlessly around, Yet heard not one familiar sound, No stamp of hoof nor flap of wing, No low of cow, nor bleat of sheep, Nor any tame domestic thing; Silence, most horrible and deep. No pony whinnied in its stall, Nor neighed in answer to my call; No purr of cat, nor bark of dog, Naught but the croaking of the frog; No voice of relative or kin, No father paused and stroked his chin, Then rushed with recognizing grasp To hold his son within his clasp; No mother, with her silvered hair, Rocked in the same old rocking chair. First at the ruins, then the ground, I gazed in turn, mechanically, Till, startled by a mournful sound, A piteous and plaintive cry, I turned, and peering through the storm, Discerned the outlines of a form, Bewailing o'er the ruins there In accents of complete despair. I knew her voice, and felt her woe, She was my nurse, poor Aunty Chloe! Between her sobs disconsolate, This freed, but ever faithful slave, Told of my agÈd parents' fate, Then led me to the double grave. I, who through four long tragic years, Had never yielded once to tears, Clasping her hand, so kind and true, Wept with the rain, and she wept too. Ere daybreak, with increasing light, Evolved from disappearing night The morn, in radiant splendor dressed, I, too, had started for the West." Ere the conclusion of the narrative, Through every crack and cranny of the door The snow had sifted in, as through a sieve, And piled in little cones upon the floor. Without, the raging tempest still assailed; Within, the fire to glowing coals had failed. All smoked, and with their eyes on Dad McGuire, Waited for some one else to build the fire. Such close attention had his tale received, It seemed as if 'twas partially believed; Few of the tales which we enjoy the most In verity, may that distinction boast. The dying embers shed their mellow glow Upon the agÈd face of Dad McGuire, As he swept out the little piles of snow And laid a hemlock log upon the fire. Then followed disconnected colloquies And witticisms in the form of jest; The joke is always where the miner is, The form of levity he loves the best, For cutting truths have thereby been conveyed, Where delicacy all other forms forbade. As some fierce gale that bows the gnarlÈd oak, Sinks till it scarcely sways the underbrush, The laughter, incident to jest and joke, Subsided to a calm and tranquil hush. All husbanded their energy and strength And smoked in silence for a moment's length. V. THE AVALANCHEJust then a crashing sound was heard, That caused each ruddy cheek to blanch, Though no one moved nor spoke a word, All listening to the avalanche With apprehensive ears intent, Knew what a mountain snowslide meant. Nor marvel that each visage paled, Nor that the hardy sinews quailed; These terrors of the solitude The mountain's timbered slopes denude, Sweeping the frozen spruce and fir As with a snowy scimitar; Nor can the stately pines prevent Its irresistible descent; A foe admitting no defence. A moment passed in dire suspense, And at its expiration brief, Each heaved a breath of deep relief; The snowslide, terrible and vast, Had precipice and chasm leapt, And down the rugged mountains swept, Missing the cabin as it passed. The cabin clock had indicated five When due composure was at length restored; As evidence that all were still alive, Queries were made about the "festive board," As sailors shipwrecked on some barren rock, After the first excitement of the shock, Mingle their words of gratitude and prayer With speculations on the bill of fare. No depth of danger man is called to face, No exultation nor extreme disgrace, No victory nor depression of defeat Can shake recurrent Hunger from her seat. The cabin oracle so often used, A pack of playing cards, was soon produced. A turn at whist the afternoon before, Told who should cut the wood and sweep the floor. As one of the disasters of defeat, Washing the dishes fell to Russian Pete. A game of freeze-out, played with equal zeal, Decided who should cook the evening meal; Conspiring cards electing Uncle Jim, The culinary task devolved on him. Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, Abiding by the fortunes of the game, This patriarch, so venerable and odd,— Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, Took a preliminary wash and wipe, And squinting in the mirror at himself, Like most of those possessed of little hair, Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, His capillary wealth, a grayish rim Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called By other miners less completely bald, Fringing his head an inch above the ears, Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. His flowing beard, of venerable air, Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, As if the raven curls that once adorned His occiput, that habitation scorned And took, as an expression of chagrin, A change of venue to his ample chin. When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, The running conversation was resumed, And as the veteran his task pursued, Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, Raking the embers in a little pile, Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, And after greasing with a bacon rind, The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned. Soon from within the oven, partly hid By embers piled upon the cumbrous lid, The baking powder biscuits nestling there With wholesome exhalations charged the air. A pot of beans suspended by a wire Swung like a pendulum above the fire, And answered every flame's combustive kiss With roundelay of bubble and of hiss, While in the esculent commotion swam The residue of what was once a ham. Though epicures, who yearn for fowl and fish, May scorn this plain and inexpensive dish, So free from the extravagance of waste, Yet succulent and pleasant to the taste, Of all the varied products of the soil, The bean is most esteemed by those who toil. Removed, in place less prominent and hot, One might have seen the old black coffee pot, And watched the puffs of aromatic steam Rise on the background of the firelight's gleam. A pleasant sibilation filled the room, As with an unctuous savor or perfume The bacon sizzled in the frying-pan, The bane and terror of dyspeptic man; But those who labor for their daily bread Of sedentary ills have little dread. The simple yet salubrious repast Was on the rustic table spread at last. No cut-glass flashed and sparkled in the light, Nor burnished silver service met the sight. No butter dish, nor sugar bowl was seen, The grains of sugar, white and saccharine, Imprisoned in a baking powder can, Rose in a wilderness of pot and pan. The butter firkin stood upon a shelf Where every one could reach and help himself. The nibbling rodent and destructive moth Found naught to lure them in the shape of cloth. No tablespread of costly linen lent Its white disguise or figured ornament To catch the bacon or the coffee stain. Nor was there cup or plate of porcelain, For empty cans, stripped of their labels, bare, And pie tins held the same positions there. All congregated 'round the simple spread And ate the beans and baking powder bread, With all the satisfaction and delight That crown the hungry miner's appetite; Not gluttony, that enemy to health, That often follows in the trail of wealth, But wholesome relish, which the laboring poor Enjoy, who eat their fill, but eat no more. "Arrayed in Nature's pristine dress This was, indeed, a wilderness." See page 29 The final course was ushered in at last, When apple sauce around the board was passed; As Uncle Jim stretched forth his hand across The table to the dish of apple-sauce, And on his ample pie tin placed some more, A hurried knock resounded from the door, And Steve McCoy, a miner in the camp, With brow from snow and perspiration damp, Rushed in, from out the white and whirling waste, In the excitement incident to haste, And waiving further ceremony cried:— "Our cabin has been taken by a slide!" Steve as a snowy Santa Claus appeared, Pulling the icicles from off his beard, Relating, in his intervals of breath, His tale of dire disaster and of death; He, and his partner "Smithy," were on shift Within the tunnel working in a drift, Chasing a stringer in their search for ore, Within the hill a thousand feet or more. The rock was hard and both of them were tired, The holes were blasted as the work required; Then to their consternation and surprise, Upon emerging from the tunnel's mouth, No hospitable cabin met their eyes Upon the hillside, sloping toward the south; The hut of logs where they had cooked and slept Had been from human eyes forever swept. Their partners, it were reason to presume, Were suffocating in a snowy tomb. "Smithy" had gone to Uncle Bobby Green, Whose cabin lay the nearest to the scene, To summon help, and get the boys to go To probe with poles and shovels in the snow, To find the living, or if life had sped, To make the avalanche yield up its dead. Of partners, Steve and Smithy had but two, "Daddy" McLaughlin and young Dick McGrew, Uncle and nephew, patriarch and youth, Both men of strict integrity and truth. Four other miners on another lease Dwelt with the boys in harmony and peace. Two strangers, who arrived the night before, Had been invited, till the storm was o'er, To share their hospitality. Their fate Had raised the list of dead, perhaps, to eight. Ere Steve had panted forth his final word, The boys had risen up with one accord; The rescue must be tried at any cost, The chance, however slight, must not be lost. Steve as a runner who has reached his goal, Leaned half exhausted on his snowshoe pole, The while his sturdy auditors began To don their caps and mittens, to a man, Then wrapping mufflers 'round their ears and throats, Put on their clumsy, canvas overcoats. Thanks to the providence of Dad McGuire, Who always kept a stock of baling wire And odds and ends of everything around, Their feet were quickly and securely bound With canvas ore sacks or with gunny-sacks, A thing the miner's wardrobe seldom lacks. VI. THE RESCUESee page 57 'Tis human nature to review again The stirring incidents of joy or pain; So on the eve of the succeeding day, When four-and-twenty hours had passed away, The party grouped around the blazing light Which from the fireplace streamed into the night, And in its glow, so comfortable and warm, Recounted the disasters of the storm. Like some informal gathering, at first All spoke at once, as with a common burst; Then as the intermittent tempest wailed, The talk subsided and a calm prevailed. All watched the pitch ooze from the knots and burn, Or smoked their pipes in silent unconcern. Some moments passed, when Uncle Jim arose, Nudged Dad McGuire, who seemed inclined to doze, And as he started up and rubbed his eyes Addressed him and the Russian in this wise: "Two days ago the three of us confessed The reasons, that impelled us to come West; Now if it please your brethren to relate The strange caprice of fortune or of fate, Which led them hither,—after all these years, The boys will listen with attentive ears." VII. THE BLIGHT OF WARAll eyes now sought the brother of McGuire, Who sat apart, some distance from the fire Smoking in silence, while the flickering light Mingled its crimson with his locks of white; He, with his flowing, patriarchal beard, A sage, from some forgotten age, appeared, Or wrinkled seer from some enchanted clime, Whose eye could pierce the veil of future time. There in the ever thickening haze of smoke, He, being three times importuned,—awoke. As from his corncob pipe and nostrils broke The spiral wreaths of blue tobacco smoke, Which formed a smoky halo, as they spread A foot above his venerable head, Resembling halos which the artist paints O'er angel heads, or mediÆval saints, This man of years, so calm and circumspect, Stroked his long beard, yawned twice and stood erect. Like to a wizard, or magician old, With some mysterious secret to unfold, This man, whose bearing would command respect, Stepped forth and eyed his listeners direct; Then waiving preludes or apologies, Addressed his auditors in terms like these: "These lips, which now their secret shall reveal, For more than forty years have worn a seal. For years as hunter, pioneer and scout, I roamed the western solitudes about, Not caring whether fortune smiled or not, If memory's painful twinges were forgot. I sought, as many other men have done, Within the wilderness,—oblivion. Work is the only sure iconoclast For the unpleasant memories of the past; So as a placer miner, prospector, And half a dozen avocations more, Within the city, and the solitude, The star-eyed Goddess of Success I wooed. Twice was I numbered with the men of wealth, Twice lost I all, including strength and health. For wealth, when fortune's fickle wheel revolves Adversely, into empty air dissolves. Till fate so strangely led my footsteps here, Mine was, indeed, a versatile career. Yet none my antecedents ever guessed, Nor learned from me the cause that led me west. This hair and beard which envy not to-night The drifting snowbanks their unbroken white, Methinks, as memory scans the backward track, Vied with the raven's glossy coat of black, When I, with some adventurous emigrants, First crossed the plain's monotonous expanse, To leave my former history behind. But who can regulate his peace of mind, Or drop the morbid burdens of the breast By simply going east or coming west? 'Way down upon the Rappahannock's shore, Enshrined in memory, though seen no more, There lies an old plantation. There I drew My infant breath, and into manhood grew. Its fields are overgrown with willows now, For more than forty years unturned by plough, While war's red desolation razed to earth The old stone manor-house that claimed my birth. Ah, yes! 'Tis forty years ago, or more, Since, standing near the old paternal door, One pleasant morning in the early spring, With some few friends and kinfolks visiting, Two mounted neighbors stopped in passing by, And reining up their horses hurriedly Told us the news, which like a cannon ball Sped through the land, announcing Sumter's fall. The animus with which their comments fell, I heard months later in the rebel yell. In civil war or fratricide is found No place for such as seek a middle ground. Though lines of demarcation intervene, No peaceful neutral zone may lie between. 'Tis not an easy thing to breast the tide Of public sentiment, and to decide In opposition, though the cause be right, When crossing public sentiment means fight. 'Tis easier to let the moving throng Without resistance carry you along. When he who hesitates, or turns around, May in the grist of public wrath be ground. But men there are you cannot drive in flocks; They dash like breakers, or resist like rocks. Within my breast I fought my sternest fight, I could not view the southern cause as right, And yet I loved the people of the south; Debating thus I opened not my mouth. Both in my waking hours and in my dreams, I heard the arguments of two extremes. My conscience said: 'A uniform of blue Awaits your coming, wear it and be true.' My interests argued: 'Though the cause be wrong, Your people have espoused it right along. Your worthy family has for many years Seen sorrow only in the white man's tears. Desertion means to wear the traitor's brands, And face your friends with muskets in their hands, To slay them with the bayonet and ball, Or by, perhaps, your brother's hand to fall.' I heard the clarion accents of the fife Fan into flames the dormant coals of strife. With blast prophetic and reverberant swell, I heard the bugle's echoing voice foretell The coming conflict, while the brazen notes Were answered by the cheers from many throats. I heard the measured rattle of the drum, Proclaiming that the day of wrath had come. I heard harangues, incendiary and loud, Meet with the approbation of the crowd. I saw the faltering and irresolute, Greeted with jeer and deprecating hoot. I saw the threatening clouds of war increase, Yet prayed for peace, where there could be no peace. The winds of slavery their seed had sown; That seed to rank maturity had grown; The cup was full, and now from branch and root, The whirlwind came to strip its lawful fruit. I saw my friends and neighbors march away With martial tread, in uniforms of gray. I saw them raise their caps in passing by And fair hands wave their kerchiefs in reply. Then I, who had in military schools Received some insight into army rules, And, being of a martial turn of mind, Was offered a commission, and,—declined. My declination was a shock to all, 'Coward!' said they, 'to shun your country's call,— Then stay at home, from wounds and scars exempt, But pay the price,—your former friends' contempt.' That action was, for me, the Rubicon, Which crossed, I had no choice but follow on. But what a change! The penalty was high, My childhood's friends now passed me coldly by. I, who had been a social favorite, Received no salutation when we met. Fair ones, who used to smile, now looked askance, Or eyed me with a cold indifference. My action seemed base cowardice in their eyes, They knowing not my secret sympathies. Though of a family rich and widely known, I stood in the community, alone, Like a pariah none would recognize, Inaction was enough to ostracize. I seemed to see, like Hagar's fated son, Against me raised the hand of every one. The time had come when I must make my choice, Defend one side with musket and with voice; Then I, to conscience and convictions true, Seemed an apostate,—for I chose the blue. There are inscriptions on the scrolls of fate Which seem too bitter even to relate. I waive the details,—better to conceal The secret skeletons, than to reveal. I shall not tell you how my brother stormed, When he of my intentions was informed. I pass the story, how my ringing ears Were filled with threats, entreaties and with sneers. And how with tear-stained face the maiden came, Who was to be my bride and bear my name; How she appealed to sentiment and pride, Plead, supplicated,—then forsook my side; And how one evening, in an angry burst, My sire pronounced his favorite son accurst; And how a mother, clinging to her child, Saw son and father still unreconciled; And how that father, pointing to the door, Forbade that son to cross the threshold more; 'Go, go!' said he, 'but never more return! Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn! But never while the golden sun doth shine, Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I state not what in anger I replied, For anger in my breast has long since died. Renounced, despised and disinherited, I trod the path of duty where it led, And ten days later, in the rain and damp, Stood as a sentry near a Union camp. Fain from my recollections would I blot These images, which time erases not, And leave to history's undying page, The recitation of those acts of rage. Incarnadined with human blood appears The record of the four succeeding years. Black with the ruins of the vandal flame, A carnival of misery and shame. I must abridge, and if my hearers please, Confine myself to generalities. From first Manassas to the Wilderness, A period of some four years,—more or less, But anyway, till long in sixty-four, A musket or a shoulder-strap I bore. Though years have passed, I have remembrance yet Of musketry and glistening bayonet. As retrospective moods attune the ear To memory's voice, again I seem to hear The cannon's deep and minatory roar, Like breakers dashing on a rock-bound shore. The bursting bomb and fulminating shell, Again their stories of destruction tell. Again to-night, with memory's eye I view The sanguinary scenes of sixty-two, The march of infantry, the reckless dash Of cavalry, with onslaught fierce and rash; I see their sabres, glittering and bare, Flash from their scabbards in the smoky air; I hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs, And see the smoke expand in greyish puffs; As rifles flash and speed the deadly ball, I see the riders from their horses fall; Yet forward moves the furious attack, The opposing column wavers and falls back; I see the impact, combat hand to hand, Horses and riders writhing on the sand; I see the steeds with perspiration wet, Sink on the well-directed bayonet; I see them, wounded by the fatal lunge, Become unmanageable and madly plunge; Foaming and snorting with the sudden pain, They trample on the wounded and the slain; I see their riders in the stirrups stand And grasp their pistols with the bridle hand; I see the pistols flash and sabres thrust, A scene of wild confusion, smoke and dust; I hear the bugle sounding a retreat, They now retire, their victory complete; But mark the price paid for their brief success; Horses with blood-stained saddles,—riderless. I see an army bivouac on the field, To nature's obdurate demands they yield, And on the ground, from sheer exhaustion spent, They lie without protecting roof or tent. So silently their prostrate forms are spread, One may not tell the sleeping from the dead. I see, before the campfire's fitful gleam, The sentry pace, as in a waking dream, Yet manfully subduing the fatigue Of battle, and the march of many a league, For no excitement or emotion serves To buoy his spirits or sustain his nerves. Weak from the loss of their accustomed rest, With heavy eyes and aching bones distressed, The while their weary comrades soundly sleep, The sentinels their lonely vigils keep, As from the glittering expanse of skies, The stars look down with cold, impassive eyes. I see brigades, magnificent and large, With bristling bayonets prepare to charge; I see their banners in the distance gleam, Reflecting back the sun's resplendent beam; Within the shelter of the rifle pits, Another army with composure sits, While ever and anon a rifle's crack Seems to invite the spirited attack. From a commanding, wooded eminence, By nature calculated for defence, Upon the advancing regiments I see The murderous belching of artillery; I see their proud and militant array, Before the deadly grapeshot melt away; Before the rifle's supplementing breath, Whole columns sink in ghastly heaps of death; I see them close their gaps and press ahead, But only to augment the list of dead; I see them, stretched upon the burning sands, Clutching the air with lacerated hands; From underneath the mutilated heap, The wounded, with great difficulty, creep; Dragging a helpless arm, or shattered limb, With reeling brain and sight confused and dim, They grope, they crawl, or limp with painful tread; Their uniforms no longer blue, but red; And pinioned underneath the ghastly pile, I hear them struggle for release the while; But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries, Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise; Weaker and weaker are their throes, until With one last quivering throb, they too, are still. I see the vultures, as they scent afar Their portion in the reeking spoils of war; Far in the distance scattering specks appear, Which multiply in size as they draw near, Until they balance with their pinions spread, Or circle 'round the dying and the dead. This is the realistic side of war, Which most men overlook and all abhor, Which differs from the sentiments conveyed By spotless uniforms on dress parade. War is a crucible that tries men's souls, A drama, stern in all its various rÔles; Though saturated with all forms of crime, 'Tis celebrated in heroic rhyme; Though opposite to every humane thought, With murder, pillage and destruction fraught, In literature, in history and art, It forms the theme, or plays a leading part; Though at the best, deplorable and bad, 'Tis yet with sentiment and romance clad; Thus are the gory deeds of sword and fire, Commemorated by the bardic lyre. Its eras, though with tragedy replete, Form stepping-stones whereon ambitious feet May mount to prominence, perhaps to fame, And write in crimson an illustrious name. 'Tis said that heroes are the fruits of war, No matter what the struggle may be for, As men will fight to make, or unmake laws, Will fight for, or against the worthiest cause. They must have heroes, though to make them drains The life-blood from the nation's noblest veins. And though no vocal adulations rise, Their heroes many men apotheosize. Man is so strangely constituted, he Must hero-worshipper, or hero be,— So give him heroes, let the armies bleed, And he will worship them with word and deed; Though down within their breasts most men prefer To be the hero, than the worshipper. To gain the plaudits of the multitude, The warrior, with ambitious zeal imbued, Climbs upward, and accomplishing his ends To take his share of worship condescends, Forgetting that his honors are bedewed With human tears and based on human blood. Some streaks, in military pomp, we see, That savor much of pride and vanity, As thirst for notoriety and fame Has often fanned the patriotic flame. Though one might think that men would be content To pluck one star from glory's firmament, Yet, when they mount the ladder a few rounds, Their envy and ambition know no bounds. To wear the epaulette and strut with pride, Makes men forget that war is homicide. Some call it fate, some call it destiny, Some call it accident; what'er it be, It seems that some have been created for The honors, some, the sacrifice of war. When I enlisted as a raw recruit, Promotion was no object of pursuit, But liking honor more than sacrifice, On shoulder-straps I soon cast envious eyes. For one rash act,—'twas counted bravery, Good fortune made a corporal of me. Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm, I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm. Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field Before my wounds had been completely healed. I carry yet, and shall until I die, A musket ball, encysted in my thigh. Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war. As if some guardian star my course arranged, Once I escaped, and once was I exchanged. Then, as lieutenant, rose I from the ranks, Received a medal and a vote of thanks. The ladder of promotion, round by round, I soon ascended and henceforth was found Among the few selected favorites Whom fortune decks with stars and epaulettes. Though liking not the rÔle of matador, Within the ruthless theatre of war, From private soldier every part I played, Until my sword directed a brigade. I wore, the night before I started west, Four medal decorations on my breast. The war progressed, for time rolls on the same In peace or war, and sixty-three became A chapter in the annals of the past. When sixty-four was ushered in at last, To write in characters of blood and fire Its page of human immolation, dire, The waiting army lay encamped, before The Rapidan's inhospitable shore. The first few weeks, devoid of incident, Were in the army's winter quarters spent, Until the winter, on his snowy wing, Retired before the genial breath of spring. In speculation on the moves to come, The tongue of prophecy remained not dumb, But showered prognostications of defeat, Succeeded by the usual retreat, When rumors of offensive action planned As spring approached, were spread through each command. Until the troops were mobilized and massed, Until the final orders had been passed, The veterans, who had remembrance still, Recounted Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. But soon the dreadful Wilderness campaign, With its long lists of wounded and of slain, Vied with the carnage of the year before, If it be possible to measure gore. The tactics had been changed, for no retreat Was ordered, as the sequel of defeat; Instead of faltering or turning back, There came another furious attack, Another movement with invasive tread, And, Spottsylvania claimed its heaps of dead. Defeated, but uncrushed and undismayed, The weakened corps, including my brigade, With sadly thinned and decimated ranks, Was hurled once more against the rebel flanks. There in a hurricane of shot and shell, One-half of its surviving numbers fell; 'Twas thus Cold Harbor's quarry made complete The trio of victorious defeat. Three Southern victories, yet like a knell Upon the Southern ear these triumphs fell; For those who perished in that dismal waste, Had fallen and could never be replaced. Though stubbornly contested inch by inch, The lines were tightened like a horse's cinch. We watched the Southern forces day by day, From natural abrasion, wear away. One evening as the disappearing light, Unveiled the beauties of a cloudless night, With much diminished numbers, my brigade Its camp beside the Rappahannock made, Some five miles distant from the spot of earth Associated with my humble birth. Next morning, ere the twinkling stars had set, While officers and men were sleeping yet, A courier rode up to my command, And placed a cipher message in my hand; Then spurring well his horse of dapple grey, With parting salutation rode away. This was the import of that message stern: 'Lay waste the district. All the fences burn. Leave not a house or stable unconsumed.' My father's house among the rest was—doomed. I read that message and my anger blazed, My home to be, by my own orders, razed! A vision rose before my swimming brain, I saw the old parental roof again, I saw my father, as in days of yore, Smoking his pipe beside the
open door; I saw his gaze, with penetrating look, Fixed on the pages of some wholesome book; I saw my mother sit beside him, there, Recumbent in her old reclining chair. The vision changed,—I saw her parting tears, My father's parting curse rang in my ears; 'Go! Go!' said he, 'but nevermore return, Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn, But never while the golden sun doth shine Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I felt but little longing to return, And less desire to pillage, sack and burn. And yet,—those cruel orders I must give, No power had I to voice the negative. In commonplace affairs of life, 'tis true, Men may elect to do, or not to do. In military operations, they Have no alternative, but to obey. Ah! Fain, from that impending holocaust Would I have snatched them! Rather had I lost The tinselled honors and the epaulettes, And doffed my uniform without regrets, Than harm by word or deed that agÈd sire; Yet I must start, who fain would quench the fire. I read and read that cipher message there, How many times, I have not to declare, But over and again I scanned the lines, And pondered well its symbols and its signs; Ironclad were they, from every standpoint viewed, Admitting not of choice or latitude; So, to the officers of my command, I gave their orders, with a trembling hand, And swift as horseflesh ever travelled, went To seek the corps commander in his tent, To crave this boon, or favor, at his hand,— My father's house be still allowed to stand. 'Twas long before I gained an audience; I felt, but cannot picture the suspense Of that long hour's involuntary wait; Too late, my heart would beat, too late, too late! I took a seat and pulled my watch out once; 'Too late, too late,' the timepiece ticked response! I paced the ground with quick, impatient tread; 'Too late, too late, too late,' my footsteps said! 'Too late, too late, too late!' With fluttering beat My heart responded to my echoing feet. The General, who a kindly heart possessed, No sooner heard, than granted my request; 'Twas but a moment's work to mount my steed, And spur him to his maximum of speed; The faithful creature seemed to understand And needed little urging from my hand, As down the turnpike, toward my childhood's home, He fairly flew, his bridle white with foam; His hoofbeats, as we clattered o'er the ground, Returned a dull, premonitory sound, Which seemed to echo and accentuate The burden of my heart, 'Too late! Too late!' The fences, near the turnpike, as we passed, Were by my orders disappearing fast; The rails were piled in heaps and soon became A prey to war's red ally,—vandal flame. Houses, familiar to my childish sight, Glowed strangely with an unaccustomed light, While from adjacent barns and hay-ricks broke Incipient tongues of flame and clouds of smoke. The orders, ruthless and inflexible, Were by the soldiers executed well. Still down the turnpike dashed my sweating horse, I plied the cruel spurs with double force, When in the distance there appeared to view The old stone manor-house my childhood knew. My spirit sank,—though I was not surprised, My worst misgivings had been realized, For from the roof and upper windows came Dense clouds of smoke and lurid sheets of flame. It had its portion in the common fate, 'Too late!' the mocking hoof-beats rang, 'Too late!' We passed a company, on their return From executing those instructions stern; It was the company of my brigade Wherein I first was a lieutenant made; Its officers and men I knew by name; They cheered me when their captain I became; They cheered me when I left a major's tent, To be the colonel of their regiment. They did my bidding. How could I condemn! They honored me and I respected them; And yet, these favorites of my command Had not one hour before applied the brand Which was transforming with its wand of fire My father's house into—his funeral pyre. That they had met resistance, I could see, For wounded men, in number two or three, Were by their comrades carted in advance, While one more limped behind the ambulance. Upon a stretcher carried in their van, The soldiers bore the body of a man; He was their captain, and my bosom friend; He plied that torch,—and met a bloody end. I plunged the spurs, but not without remorse, Into his steaming flanks and urged my horse, Which I disliked to tax beyond his strength; Such speed had he maintained, that now, at length, He was compelled to pant and hesitate; With labored effort we dashed through the gate, Or where the gate had been an hour before, For gate and fence alike, were seen no more, Save in the scattered bonfires, while at most All that remained was here and there a post. There was a fascination in that sight Which seemed to conquer and unnerve me, quite; A sense of horror, not akin to fear, Possessed my being as we galloped near; All sorts of evil pictures filled my mind, As one who seeks, yet dreads what he may find; As we drew nearer, I remember well, With hissing crash the roof collapsed and fell; Dismounting, I the premises surveyed, And viewed the havoc and destruction made; Crushed by the disappointment, the suspense, And failure of my planned deliverance, I moved about with apprehensive tread, To seek my relatives, alive or dead; And, near a haystack's smouldering ruins found My father's body,
e read a burial service there, Concluding with its words of prayer: 'Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!' These words of that abiding trust, In life beyond the fleeting span Which heaven has accorded man; Elysian fields, where perfect peace Succeeds life's transitory lease; The inextinguishable fire Of faith, the daughter of desire, Glows brightest, when the faltering breath Is conscious of approaching death; Bent 'neath the weight of many years, The form of hoary age appears, E'en as the failing hourglass shows That life is drawing to its close, And when the final sands are spent, The trembling limbs make their descent Into the shadows, while the ray Of faith illuminates the way. Vain introspection, which descries No light behind the mysteries Of death, engenders in the breast But vacant yearnings and unrest; Relying on the eye of hope, We look beyond our mundane scope, And with enraptured vision see The fore-gleams of futurity. With eager eyes I watched them stand, Upon that barren waste of sand, Until the final words of prayer Had died away upon the air. Their words, euphonious and clear, Were wafted to my listening ear, Borne on a favorable breeze Which blew directly from the seas; My breast, with deep emotion stirred, I recognized their every word, An English burial ritual read, On this wild shore, above the dead. This dissipated every fear, I knew deliverance was near; My secret would be safe among The scions of the English tongue. Forever from the light of day They laid his pallid form away, While every word and action proved Their rites were over one they loved. Soon from the level of the ground, There rose another silent mound, To teach, beside that northern sea, Its lesson of mortality. Death on that dismal northern main, In binding with its silent chain Forever their lamented mate, Had freed me from a sterner fate. Leaving my earstwhile hiding place, I stood before them face to face; Then in their own vernacular, Gave proper salutation there. 'Twas plain that they regarded me As human salvage, which the sea Had, in some evil moment, tossed Upon that bleak and barren coast, Like broken wreckage or debris, Cast up by the capricious sea. With frank but sympathetic eyes, They watched me with no small surprise, While I rehearsed without delay, My story as a castaway. Repairing to the ship's long-boat, Which soon was in the surf afloat, I bade farewell to Russian soil In language not intensely loyal. They ministered to my distress, From ample stores of food and dress, Performed such acts of kindness then As might beseem large-hearted men; Nor was there aught perfunctory In their solicitude for me; Their acts were of their own accord, Without suspicion of reward. "The noble spruce and stately fir Stood draped in feathery garniture." See page 119 Although possessed of little skill In nautical affairs, to fill A seaman's watch I volunteered, As we toward Arctic waters steered, Pursuant of the spouting whale; I plied each task with rope and sail, And ere we reached a harbor bar, Was rated as a first-class tar; By sufferance of as brave a crew As ever sailed a voyage through, The two succeeding years I passed In northern seas before the mast; Two years from that eventful day We moored in San Francisco Bay. I bade the sea farewell for aye, Bade my deliverers good-bye, With fervent pressure of the hand, Then straight betook myself to land. Seeking a home with freedom blest, I've cast my fortunes with the West." IX. CONCLUSIONConcluding, he resumed his seat Beside his brother, Russian Pete; Yet ever and anon expressed His views on points of interest, And details, which this narrative In its abridgment may not give, As Dad McGuire and Uncle Jim By turns interrogated him. To say his hearers listened well, Were too self-evident to tell, For some who dozed before he spake, Woke up and then remained awake. As all the inclination felt, To play a game, the cards were dealt; The winners, it was understood, To be exempt from chopping wood; While he who made the lowest score Must build the fire and sweep the floor. Time spread his wings, the moments flew Unheeded for an hour or two, Until at length the measured stroke Of twelve, in timely accents broke From an old clock upon the shelf, As old as Uncle Jim himself; A good old clock, as old clocks go, But usually too fast or slow, But near enough the proper time To serve the purpose of this rhyme. The honors passed to Russian Pete, When Dad McGuire sustained defeat, As mighty warriors often do, In some Chalons, or Waterloo; The fortunes of the final game, Adding fresh laurels to his fame; Then all abstained from further play, And forthwith put the cards away. 'Twas passing late, the dying fire Served as the summons to retire, And soon the gentle wand of sleep, Which works the dream god's drowsy will, Laden with slumbers soft and deep, Passed over them and all was still. The storm was over, far and near, The heavens shone, so cold and clear That nebulÆ and satellites, Unseen on ordinary nights, Now filled the broad expanse of sky With unaccustomed brilliancy; The astral vacuums and voids, Were filled with discs and asteroids; Dissevering the firmament, The Milky Way disclosed to sight Its pearly avenue of white With planetary crystals blent; Transparently it shone, and pale, As some celestial gauze or veil; A silvery baldric o'er the gold Of constellations manifold. A silence, undisturbed, prevailed, The wind no longer moaned and wailed, The elements had worked their will And now were motionless and still; From forest growth or underbrush No whisper broke the solemn hush; The tempest king on airy waves, Retreated to his secret caves, And chained the winds, which his behest Had lately stirred to wild unrest. The clouds had vanished, not a trace Remained upon the arch of space, To interpose a curtain rude Between earth and infinitude; Pellucid as the vault o'erhead, The snows a layer of beauty spread, Save where the genii of the storm Had fashioned in fantastic form, With alternating whirl and sift, The pendent comb and massive drift. The wilderness of ice and snow, Transfigured with a mellow glow, Received from the translucent skies The stellar groups and galaxies; A record of the starry waste, By Nature's faultless pencil traced; The vernal phalanxes of pine, In cassocks clear and crystalline, Seemed as a mirror, in whose sheen The glimmering lamps of night were seen. The replica of pearl and gem, In heaven's twinkling diadem; Golconda's treasury displayed, On background of the forest shade. Divested of their transient green, By Autumn winds in wanton rage, The aspen's leafless limbs were seen Festooned with frosty foliage; As fell upon their vestal white, The placid moon's aspiring light, The noble spruce and stately fir, Stood draped with feathery garniture; Configurated and embossed, With lace and tapestry of frost, In quaint and curious design, The willows and the underbrush, Were crystallized in silvery plush, And shimmered in the cold moonshine. The azure dome of space o'erhead, With scintillating grandeur spread, Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, On earth with all her mysteries; The while reflecting in their snows, These glittering jewels of the night, The mountains lay in calm repose, Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. [THE END] |
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