IX. CONCLUSION

Such was the tragic story told,And, tired from standing on his feet,This patriarch so gray and oldRelit his pipe and took a seat.As one, inert and overtaxedFrom strenuous toil, he soon relaxedInto that dull composure, whichFatigue accords to poor and rich.The observation could detectNo levity nor disrespect,Nor through his story was there heardRemark or interruptive word,His voice and bearing as he spoke,Admitting not of jest or joke.The common feeling seemed to beRespect and deepest sympathy.As childish incidents recurredIn memory to Dad McGuire,As one who neither saw nor heardHe sat, intent upon the fire;Yet watched the ever-changing blazeWith that intensity of gazeWhich shows the things the eyes have caughtAre not the subjects of the thought,But far beyond their metes and boundsThe vision rests on other grounds.This story of a life rehearsed,Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred;Each with his silent thoughts conversedAnd none presumed to speak a word,Lest sympathy the tears provoke.Old Uncle Jim forgot to smokeAnd though he had replenished it,Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit,Till as the watchdog suddenlyWakes up with apprehensive sniff,He started from his reverieAnd took an unsuccessful whiff;But embers which the fire suppliedSoon changed the fragrant charge insideWith alternating draw and whiff,Into a meerschaum Teneriffe.All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire,Who stirred the embers of the fire,And placed thereon what seemed to be,The remnants of a hemlock tree;'Twas one of those ungainly stumps,Composed of twisted knots and bumps,Which every boy or even man,In chopping wood, skips if he can;'Twas such a chunk as may be seenAfter the woodpile's chopped up clean;The log they split the blocks uponAnd leave when all the rest is gone.This chunk, which none of them could split,Though many had attempted it,By divers and ingenious ways,Was soon enveloped in a blaze,Which shed its glare into the night,As beacons radiate their light.Reclining by his brother's side,Abstracted and preoccupied,The Russian, rubicund and hale,Was importuned to tell his tale,And slightly coughing from the smoke,Forthwith in faultless diction spoke:"My brother's story you have heard,The same should mine be, word for word,Up to that dismal dungeon grate,Which he presumed had sealed my fate.I doubt not he related wellThe horrors of that loathsome cell,So that description, now by me,Would fruitless repetition be.Sufficient be it to declareThat brief was my detention there.Though discontent the action wasWhich constituted my offence,I felt the weight of Russian lawsWhen chained to other malcontents.Before the chains had time to rustI plodded through the mud and dustAs many exiles erst had trod,Their footprints often stained with blood.With clanking chains and painful stride,With Cossack guards on either side,We marched in silence, in the reachOf sabres that discouraged speech.A sad procession, for full wellOur destinations could we tell.Down country lane and village streetWe limped with bruised and blistered feet,In single file, as some infirmThough monstrous centipede or worm,Beset by some tormenting foe,Might move with locomotion slow,And tortured by its enemy,Propel its foul dimensions by.Past where the Urals, bleak and high,Invade the cerulean skyWith summits desolate and gray,With weary tread we wound our way.Where intertwining branches madeA vernal canopy of shade,The song-birds, from their arches highMocked at our chains, as we passed by;The only forms of earth or air,Deprived of rightful freedom there.At night in forest depths profound,We lay upon the cheerless ground,Where on our route we chanced to be,Nor couch nor coverlet had weBetween us and the turf or stones,To soothe our tired and aching bones.Our limbs emaciated grew,Ragged were we and dirty, too,As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains,We dragged our grievous weight of chains.As passed the autumn months awaySix leagues we measured every day,Six leagues our loads were daily borne,On shoulders galled and callous-worn.Each morning was our march begun,Before the advent of the sun,While every evening in the westHe sank, before we paused for rest.Time and again upon the road,The weaker dropped beneath their load,And fainting from fatigue and pain,They sank, but rose not up again.Where the Pacific's broad expanseOf sleeping waters, calm and fair,Divide the mighty continentsWith their pelagic barrier;Upon the Asiatic shore,Some twelve leagues from the sea or more,In course of time, our weary lineWas halted at a penal mine.'Twas there within a log stockadeConstructed in a manner crude,That we our habitation madeThrough many months of servitude.A mine's a mine the world around,A cheerless place wherever found,Dismal and dark beyond compareAnd charged with foul, unwholesome air,Which fills the lungs at every breathWith germs of an untimely death.In caverns subterranean,With limbs not bound by gyve or chain,Of those who toil, few are the menWho reach the threescore years and ten.Such was the smoke-polluted mineWherein we slaved from morn till night,Or when the sun had ceased to shineWe toiled till his returning light,Then dragged each one his ball and chainBack to his bed of straw again.Day after day could there be seenThe same monotonous routine;Such was the drudging life we ledTill hope from every bosom fled,And each became as time rolled onA spiritless automaton.The details of a captive's lotI fear would interest you not,So your forbearance I beseech,While, in impromptu forms of speech,I strive in simple terms to shapeThe narrative of my escape.From out the realms of tropic heat,Invading with contagious feet,Came there a plague, one summer-tide.Up from the south with fatal strideIt stalked, and poured its vials forthUpon the sparsely settled North;A wave of pestilence and fearSwept o'er the northland far and near;The frenzied peasants, in their fright,Sought safety in promiscuous flight;In consternation and alarm,To seek immunity from harm,They left the sick in their distress,And fled into the wilderness;As if, within the solitude,The Nemesis, which had pursued,Might satiate its deadly wrath,And deviate or change its path,And its malignant steps retraceBack to the southern starting-place.The able-bodied left behindThe paralyzed, the halt and blind;The well in abject terror fled,Forsook the dying, while the dead,Unburied in the summer breeze,Became a nidus of disease,Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilenceWere scattered by the elements.Of those who felt its loathsome breath,But few escaped a speedy death;So rapid were the ravagesOf that distemper or disease,That many, stricken in the night,Expired before the dawn of light;For some, who in the morning timeStood well and strong in manhood's prime,The noontide brought the fatal scourge,And evening zephyrs played the dirge;Those who survived the plague directOft died from hunger and neglect;The convalescents woke and foundNo ministering forms around,No watcher sitting by the bed,Alone were they, save for the dead;They called, but Echo's voice aloneAnswered the supplicating moan;They prayed, but no one heard their prayer,Then perished from the want of care.The suffering of the stricken then,Defies descriptive word or pen;I see with memory's vision yetThe beads of suppurating sweatStand on the burning brows of thoseSmitten with agonizing throes;As racking tortures permeateEach swollen and distorted shape,With thirst which none may mitigate,They call for drink with mouths agape;Yet naught may succor such distress,Save coma and unconsciousness;When these the intellect benumb,The sense and feeling overcome,Within its tuneful cavern hungNo longer rests the fluent tongue,But swollen by the pain and drouth,Protrudes from out the parching mouth;The burning and discolored lipImagined moisture tries to sip;Again they vainly strive to speakTheir fevered incoherencies,But vocal organs parched and weakRespond but labored gasp and wheeze.I scent the putrefying air,And see the horror and despairDepicted on the lineamentsOf every stricken countenance;I see them writhe, then suddenly,With ghastly leer convulse and die.As stagnant waters generateA fungous and unsightly freightOf morbid scum and slimy moss,Of origin spontaneous;So latent germs, unnoticed, lurkIn readiness for deadly work;When these the right conditions find,And spread infection to the wind,Chronologers, both far and near,Record an epidemic year.Within the bounds of our stockade,The plague its foul appearance made,And soon inoculated there,Its virus to the very air,Till e'en the genial summer breezeSeemed a dispenser of disease;Then, as impartial lightnings strikeThe nobleman and serf alike,Within this filthy prison yard,It smote both prisoner and guard;The difference of race, of lot,Of rank was speedily forgot,As discipline succumbed to dreadAnd officers and soldiers fled,Save such as, fallen by the way,Helpless and unattended lay,Till death brought silence and relief,From agony intense, though brief.Within the walls of the stockadeNot one unstricken person stayed,Except some convicts who remainedFor one good reason:—we were chained.Our dingy quarters, floor and bed,Were filled with dying and with dead;The only shelter we could claim,A fetid lazar-house became.I need not tell you how the airWas filled with accents of despair,How clamor and entreaty smoteThe air, from blistered tongue and throat,As burning rash and ghastly rheumSupplanted nature's ruddy bloom;How moan and outcry, curse and prayerWere mingled with each other there;Some raved in dialects unknown,Or terms provincial, while the groan,The common tongue of suffering men,Was echoed ever and again.Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp,Saw life receding from their grasp;And some, with stoic countenance,Maintained a stern indifference,For what are death's abstruse alarms,When life is shorn of all its charms;As zealots, when they come to die,Lift their enraptured gaze on high,And clasp to the expiring breastSome crucifix or icon blest,And mutter with stertorious breathSome sacred word or shibboleth,Then sink expectant and resigned,As if in death a boon to find,Some in excruciating pain,Welcomed its foul destroying breathAnd sought from cruel gyve and chainEmancipation, though in death.'Tis not my purpose to declareThe horrors which befell us there,As passed the fatal hours away,Of that most memorable day.Each hour increased our dire distress,Yet found our numbers less and less,Till when the shadows overspread,The major number were the dead.But three survived that awful night,To gaze upon the morning light;And when the noonday breezes blew,That three had been reduced to two;And ere the setting of the sunI was the sole remaining one.A silence strangely mute and dumbSucceeded pandemonium.There when my last companion died,Chained to a corpse on either side,Strange as may seem the miracle,I never felt more strong and well,Nor held my life in less esteem;In that position most extreme,By silent death surrounded, IEnjoyed a weird immunity.'Twould serve no purpose to reciteMy feelings, as approaching night,With his impenetrable pall,Descended and enveloped all.I sat alone in fear and dread,Chained to the floor,—and to the dead.A gruesome and revolting sightIs horrifying in the light,But when dissembling night conceals,The breast a double terror feels.That darkness, black beyond compare,Seemed a fit mantle for despair.Few are the words when hope has failed;An awful quietude prevailed;I sat, a mute and helpless lump,And felt my heart's pulsating thump,With movement regular and strong,Propel life's crimson flood along,But made no sound until the spellOf silence was unbearable.I spoke, but all the ears in reachWere deaf to every charm of speech;I shouted till the roof, the floorAnd walls resounded with the roar;I called the dead men at my side,But Echo's voice alone replied;I was alone, nor man nor bruteWas there, save those so stark and mute;My voice upon my listening earFell, most unnatural and queer,As if with weird, uncanny soundThe walls responsive voices found,And echoed back the tones at will,To mock those tongues so cold and still;Though these vociferations madeMy spirit none the less afraid,The silence seemed more terrible;Words fail me as I strive to tellHow in my desperation, IAbandoned hope, yet could not die.I never craved the morning light,As through that terrifying night,For gentle but erratic SleepWithheld her respite soft and deep,As in that charnel house I lay,Till twilight ushered in the day.When daylight had returned againI strove with the relentless chain,Twisted and tugged until at lengthA more than ordinary strengthPossessed my arm, and at one strokeThe rivets weakened, bent and broke;One master wrench and from the floor,The ring which held the chain I tore;I dragged the dead men o'er the groundTill forge and anvil I had found;There with the hammer, rasp and fileI wrought with diligence the while;At some expense of time and pains,I disengaged the cruel chains,And stood once more erect and free:Thus ended my captivity.A guard lay prostrate on the sand,His rifle in his lifeless hand;I wrenched it from his rigid clutch,Then played the ghoul in self-defence,For clothing and accoutrementsEscaped not my despoiling touch;I breathed the air of liberty,Alone I stood, but armed and free.To mislead any watchful eyes,I donned a militant disguise,And, in the dead man's uniform,Was soon prepared for strife or storm.Unseen, unhindered, unpursued,I soon was in the solitude,Contending with impediments,Which every wilderness presents.Primeval forests, through which pouredRivers unknown to bridge or ford;Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss,Almost impossible to cross;A waste of fallen trees and logs,Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs;Decaying leaves, profusely spread,Which rustled at the slightest tread,While underbrush and thicket madeA thorny maze or barricade,Through which 'twas difficult to forceA passage or retain one's course.There my experience began,Along the lines of primal man;My fare, as I remember well,Was strictly aboriginal,For stupid grouse and ptarmiganWere easily approached and slain;And, as a relish for such food,I had the berries of the wood.Through arches of umbrageous shadeI journeyed onward undismayed,And undisturbed by man or beast,Made daily progress toward the east,Till viewing the Pacific shore,Northward along the coast I bore.I kept that course for many days,Where none but savage eyes might gaze;Full many a mile my footsteps ledThrough regions uninhabited,Till where Kamschatka's barren rocksResist the sea's aggressive shocks,One gloomy afternoon, I stoodAnd watched the wide and trackless flood.'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear,Not meet for recitation here,Should I endeavor to relateThe details of a hermit's fate.To all appearance I was free;A plethora of libertyIs little consolation, whereOne lonely recluse breathes the air;For solitary mortals findBut little joy and peace of mind;When freedom is enjoyed alone,Its fondest attributes are flown;Men of companions destituteSink to the level of the brute;Their sacred essence seems to beDependent on community.Each morning, in the reddening skies,Alone, I watched the sun god rise,While every evening in the west,Alone, I watched him sink to rest.To catch a passing ship, in vainI hourly scanned the watery plain,Till one fair morn a distant sailBrought the conclusion of my tale.The whaler, such she proved to be,Steered landward through a rippling sea,And made directly for the shore;She anchored, then I saw them lowerThe ship's long-boat; at a commandI saw them row, then saw them land.Fearing occasion might requireThe service of a signal fire,A mass of driftwood I had heaped;Behind that pile I hid and peeped.From that concealed position, I,Watching with closest scrutiny,Discovered that the squad of tenWere not my fellow-countrymen.Their purpose I could now discern;One had a spade, which turn by turnEach wielded till their willing handsHad delved a grave within the sands.Six of the party I espiedReturning to the long-boat's side,Where from its bottom they beganTo raise the body of a man,In canvas strips securely sewed,All ready for its last abode;From every motion it would seemThe object of sincere esteem.From my location I could seeThem balance it most tenderly,As on six shoulders broad and strong,They bore it sorrowfully along,While wind and ever-restless surgeJoined in a requiem or dirge.The sun through hazy Autumn skiesShone on the simple obsequies,As round the open grave they stood,In reverential attitude,And shovelled in the brown sea sand;One, with a prayer-book in his hand,Essayed the rôle of corybant;Omitting the accustomed chant,He 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 spanWhich heaven has accorded man;Elysian fields, where perfect peaceSucceeds life's transitory lease;The inextinguishable fireOf faith, the daughter of desire,Glows brightest, when the faltering breathIs conscious of approaching death;Bent 'neath the weight of many years,The form of hoary age appears,E'en as the failing hourglass showsThat life is drawing to its close,And when the final sands are spent,The trembling limbs make their descentInto the shadows, while the rayOf faith illuminates the way.Vain introspection, which descriesNo light behind the mysteriesOf death, engenders in the breastBut vacant yearnings and unrest;Relying on the eye of hope,We look beyond our mundane scope,And with enraptured vision seeThe fore-gleams of futurity.With eager eyes I watched them stand,Upon that barren waste of sand,Until the final words of prayerHad died away upon the air.Their words, euphonious and clear,Were wafted to my listening ear,Borne on a favorable breezeWhich 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 amongThe scions of the English tongue.Forever from the light of dayThey laid his pallid form away,While every word and action provedTheir 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 chainForever 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 meAs human salvage, which the seaHad, in some evil moment, tossedUpon 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 soilIn language not intensely loyal.They ministered to my distress,From ample stores of food and dress,Performed such acts of kindness thenAs might beseem large-hearted men;Nor was there aught perfunctoryIn their solicitude for me;Their acts were of their own accord,Without suspicion of reward.the noble spruce and stately fir"The noble spruce and stately firStood draped in feathery garniture."See page119Although possessed of little skillIn nautical affairs, to fillA 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 crewAs ever sailed a voyage through,The two succeeding years I passedIn northern seas before the mast;Two years from that eventful dayWe 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."

Such was the tragic story told,

And, tired from standing on his feet,

This patriarch so gray and old

Relit his pipe and took a seat.

As one, inert and overtaxed

From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed

Into that dull composure, which

Fatigue accords to poor and rich.

The observation could detectNo levity nor disrespect,Nor through his story was there heardRemark or interruptive word,His voice and bearing as he spoke,Admitting not of jest or joke.The common feeling seemed to beRespect and deepest sympathy.

The observation could detect

No levity nor disrespect,

Nor through his story was there heard

Remark or interruptive word,

His voice and bearing as he spoke,

Admitting not of jest or joke.

The common feeling seemed to be

Respect and deepest sympathy.

As childish incidents recurredIn memory to Dad McGuire,As one who neither saw nor heardHe sat, intent upon the fire;Yet watched the ever-changing blazeWith that intensity of gazeWhich shows the things the eyes have caughtAre not the subjects of the thought,But far beyond their metes and boundsThe vision rests on other grounds.

As childish incidents recurred

In memory to Dad McGuire,

As one who neither saw nor heard

He sat, intent upon the fire;

Yet watched the ever-changing blaze

With that intensity of gaze

Which shows the things the eyes have caught

Are not the subjects of the thought,

But far beyond their metes and bounds

The vision rests on other grounds.

This story of a life rehearsed,Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred;Each with his silent thoughts conversedAnd none presumed to speak a word,Lest sympathy the tears provoke.Old Uncle Jim forgot to smokeAnd though he had replenished it,Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit,Till as the watchdog suddenlyWakes up with apprehensive sniff,He started from his reverieAnd took an unsuccessful whiff;But embers which the fire suppliedSoon changed the fragrant charge insideWith alternating draw and whiff,Into a meerschaum Teneriffe.

This story of a life rehearsed,

Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred;

Each with his silent thoughts conversed

And none presumed to speak a word,

Lest sympathy the tears provoke.

Old Uncle Jim forgot to smoke

And though he had replenished it,

Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit,

Till as the watchdog suddenly

Wakes up with apprehensive sniff,

He started from his reverie

And took an unsuccessful whiff;

But embers which the fire supplied

Soon changed the fragrant charge inside

With alternating draw and whiff,

Into a meerschaum Teneriffe.

All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire,Who stirred the embers of the fire,And placed thereon what seemed to be,The remnants of a hemlock tree;'Twas one of those ungainly stumps,Composed of twisted knots and bumps,Which every boy or even man,In chopping wood, skips if he can;'Twas such a chunk as may be seenAfter the woodpile's chopped up clean;The log they split the blocks uponAnd leave when all the rest is gone.This chunk, which none of them could split,Though many had attempted it,By divers and ingenious ways,Was soon enveloped in a blaze,Which shed its glare into the night,As beacons radiate their light.

All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire,

Who stirred the embers of the fire,

And placed thereon what seemed to be,

The remnants of a hemlock tree;

'Twas one of those ungainly stumps,

Composed of twisted knots and bumps,

Which every boy or even man,

In chopping wood, skips if he can;

'Twas such a chunk as may be seen

After the woodpile's chopped up clean;

The log they split the blocks upon

And leave when all the rest is gone.

This chunk, which none of them could split,

Though many had attempted it,

By divers and ingenious ways,

Was soon enveloped in a blaze,

Which shed its glare into the night,

As beacons radiate their light.

Reclining by his brother's side,Abstracted and preoccupied,The Russian, rubicund and hale,Was importuned to tell his tale,And slightly coughing from the smoke,Forthwith in faultless diction spoke:"My brother's story you have heard,The same should mine be, word for word,Up to that dismal dungeon grate,Which he presumed had sealed my fate.I doubt not he related wellThe horrors of that loathsome cell,So that description, now by me,Would fruitless repetition be.Sufficient be it to declareThat brief was my detention there.

Reclining by his brother's side,

Abstracted and preoccupied,

The Russian, rubicund and hale,

Was importuned to tell his tale,

And slightly coughing from the smoke,

Forthwith in faultless diction spoke:

"My brother's story you have heard,

The same should mine be, word for word,

Up to that dismal dungeon grate,

Which he presumed had sealed my fate.

I doubt not he related well

The horrors of that loathsome cell,

So that description, now by me,

Would fruitless repetition be.

Sufficient be it to declare

That brief was my detention there.

Though discontent the action wasWhich constituted my offence,I felt the weight of Russian lawsWhen chained to other malcontents.Before the chains had time to rustI plodded through the mud and dustAs many exiles erst had trod,Their footprints often stained with blood.With clanking chains and painful stride,With Cossack guards on either side,We marched in silence, in the reachOf sabres that discouraged speech.A sad procession, for full wellOur destinations could we tell.Down country lane and village streetWe limped with bruised and blistered feet,In single file, as some infirmThough monstrous centipede or worm,Beset by some tormenting foe,Might move with locomotion slow,And tortured by its enemy,Propel its foul dimensions by.

Though discontent the action was

Which constituted my offence,

I felt the weight of Russian laws

When chained to other malcontents.

Before the chains had time to rust

I plodded through the mud and dust

As many exiles erst had trod,

Their footprints often stained with blood.

With clanking chains and painful stride,

With Cossack guards on either side,

We marched in silence, in the reach

Of sabres that discouraged speech.

A sad procession, for full well

Our destinations could we tell.

Down country lane and village street

We limped with bruised and blistered feet,

In single file, as some infirm

Though monstrous centipede or worm,

Beset by some tormenting foe,

Might move with locomotion slow,

And tortured by its enemy,

Propel its foul dimensions by.

Past where the Urals, bleak and high,Invade the cerulean skyWith summits desolate and gray,With weary tread we wound our way.Where intertwining branches madeA vernal canopy of shade,The song-birds, from their arches highMocked at our chains, as we passed by;The only forms of earth or air,Deprived of rightful freedom there.

Past where the Urals, bleak and high,

Invade the cerulean sky

With summits desolate and gray,

With weary tread we wound our way.

Where intertwining branches made

A vernal canopy of shade,

The song-birds, from their arches high

Mocked at our chains, as we passed by;

The only forms of earth or air,

Deprived of rightful freedom there.

At night in forest depths profound,We lay upon the cheerless ground,Where on our route we chanced to be,Nor couch nor coverlet had weBetween us and the turf or stones,To soothe our tired and aching bones.Our limbs emaciated grew,Ragged were we and dirty, too,As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains,We dragged our grievous weight of chains.

At night in forest depths profound,

We lay upon the cheerless ground,

Where on our route we chanced to be,

Nor couch nor coverlet had we

Between us and the turf or stones,

To soothe our tired and aching bones.

Our limbs emaciated grew,

Ragged were we and dirty, too,

As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains,

We dragged our grievous weight of chains.

As passed the autumn months awaySix leagues we measured every day,Six leagues our loads were daily borne,On shoulders galled and callous-worn.Each morning was our march begun,Before the advent of the sun,While every evening in the westHe sank, before we paused for rest.Time and again upon the road,The weaker dropped beneath their load,And fainting from fatigue and pain,They sank, but rose not up again.

As passed the autumn months away

Six leagues we measured every day,

Six leagues our loads were daily borne,

On shoulders galled and callous-worn.

Each morning was our march begun,

Before the advent of the sun,

While every evening in the west

He sank, before we paused for rest.

Time and again upon the road,

The weaker dropped beneath their load,

And fainting from fatigue and pain,

They sank, but rose not up again.

Where the Pacific's broad expanseOf sleeping waters, calm and fair,Divide the mighty continentsWith their pelagic barrier;Upon the Asiatic shore,Some twelve leagues from the sea or more,In course of time, our weary lineWas halted at a penal mine.'Twas there within a log stockadeConstructed in a manner crude,That we our habitation madeThrough many months of servitude.

Where the Pacific's broad expanse

Of sleeping waters, calm and fair,

Divide the mighty continents

With their pelagic barrier;

Upon the Asiatic shore,

Some twelve leagues from the sea or more,

In course of time, our weary line

Was halted at a penal mine.

'Twas there within a log stockade

Constructed in a manner crude,

That we our habitation made

Through many months of servitude.

A mine's a mine the world around,A cheerless place wherever found,Dismal and dark beyond compareAnd charged with foul, unwholesome air,Which fills the lungs at every breathWith germs of an untimely death.In caverns subterranean,With limbs not bound by gyve or chain,Of those who toil, few are the menWho reach the threescore years and ten.Such was the smoke-polluted mineWherein we slaved from morn till night,Or when the sun had ceased to shineWe toiled till his returning light,Then dragged each one his ball and chainBack to his bed of straw again.Day after day could there be seenThe same monotonous routine;Such was the drudging life we ledTill hope from every bosom fled,And each became as time rolled onA spiritless automaton.

A mine's a mine the world around,

A cheerless place wherever found,

Dismal and dark beyond compare

And charged with foul, unwholesome air,

Which fills the lungs at every breath

With germs of an untimely death.

In caverns subterranean,

With limbs not bound by gyve or chain,

Of those who toil, few are the men

Who reach the threescore years and ten.

Such was the smoke-polluted mine

Wherein we slaved from morn till night,

Or when the sun had ceased to shine

We toiled till his returning light,

Then dragged each one his ball and chain

Back to his bed of straw again.

Day after day could there be seen

The same monotonous routine;

Such was the drudging life we led

Till hope from every bosom fled,

And each became as time rolled on

A spiritless automaton.

The details of a captive's lotI fear would interest you not,So your forbearance I beseech,While, in impromptu forms of speech,I strive in simple terms to shapeThe narrative of my escape.

The details of a captive's lot

I fear would interest you not,

So your forbearance I beseech,

While, in impromptu forms of speech,

I strive in simple terms to shape

The narrative of my escape.

From out the realms of tropic heat,Invading with contagious feet,Came there a plague, one summer-tide.Up from the south with fatal strideIt stalked, and poured its vials forthUpon the sparsely settled North;A wave of pestilence and fearSwept o'er the northland far and near;The frenzied peasants, in their fright,Sought safety in promiscuous flight;In consternation and alarm,To seek immunity from harm,They left the sick in their distress,And fled into the wilderness;As if, within the solitude,The Nemesis, which had pursued,Might satiate its deadly wrath,And deviate or change its path,And its malignant steps retraceBack to the southern starting-place.

From out the realms of tropic heat,

Invading with contagious feet,

Came there a plague, one summer-tide.

Up from the south with fatal stride

It stalked, and poured its vials forth

Upon the sparsely settled North;

A wave of pestilence and fear

Swept o'er the northland far and near;

The frenzied peasants, in their fright,

Sought safety in promiscuous flight;

In consternation and alarm,

To seek immunity from harm,

They left the sick in their distress,

And fled into the wilderness;

As if, within the solitude,

The Nemesis, which had pursued,

Might satiate its deadly wrath,

And deviate or change its path,

And its malignant steps retrace

Back to the southern starting-place.

The able-bodied left behindThe paralyzed, the halt and blind;The well in abject terror fled,Forsook the dying, while the dead,Unburied in the summer breeze,Became a nidus of disease,Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilenceWere scattered by the elements.

The able-bodied left behind

The paralyzed, the halt and blind;

The well in abject terror fled,

Forsook the dying, while the dead,

Unburied in the summer breeze,

Became a nidus of disease,

Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilence

Were scattered by the elements.

Of those who felt its loathsome breath,But few escaped a speedy death;So rapid were the ravagesOf that distemper or disease,That many, stricken in the night,Expired before the dawn of light;For some, who in the morning timeStood well and strong in manhood's prime,The noontide brought the fatal scourge,And evening zephyrs played the dirge;Those who survived the plague directOft died from hunger and neglect;The convalescents woke and foundNo ministering forms around,No watcher sitting by the bed,Alone were they, save for the dead;They called, but Echo's voice aloneAnswered the supplicating moan;They prayed, but no one heard their prayer,Then perished from the want of care.

Of those who felt its loathsome breath,

But few escaped a speedy death;

So rapid were the ravages

Of that distemper or disease,

That many, stricken in the night,

Expired before the dawn of light;

For some, who in the morning time

Stood well and strong in manhood's prime,

The noontide brought the fatal scourge,

And evening zephyrs played the dirge;

Those who survived the plague direct

Oft died from hunger and neglect;

The convalescents woke and found

No ministering forms around,

No watcher sitting by the bed,

Alone were they, save for the dead;

They called, but Echo's voice alone

Answered the supplicating moan;

They prayed, but no one heard their prayer,

Then perished from the want of care.

The suffering of the stricken then,Defies descriptive word or pen;I see with memory's vision yetThe beads of suppurating sweatStand on the burning brows of thoseSmitten with agonizing throes;As racking tortures permeateEach swollen and distorted shape,With thirst which none may mitigate,They call for drink with mouths agape;Yet naught may succor such distress,Save coma and unconsciousness;When these the intellect benumb,The sense and feeling overcome,Within its tuneful cavern hungNo longer rests the fluent tongue,But swollen by the pain and drouth,Protrudes from out the parching mouth;The burning and discolored lipImagined moisture tries to sip;Again they vainly strive to speakTheir fevered incoherencies,But vocal organs parched and weakRespond but labored gasp and wheeze.

The suffering of the stricken then,

Defies descriptive word or pen;

I see with memory's vision yet

The beads of suppurating sweat

Stand on the burning brows of those

Smitten with agonizing throes;

As racking tortures permeate

Each swollen and distorted shape,

With thirst which none may mitigate,

They call for drink with mouths agape;

Yet naught may succor such distress,

Save coma and unconsciousness;

When these the intellect benumb,

The sense and feeling overcome,

Within its tuneful cavern hung

No longer rests the fluent tongue,

But swollen by the pain and drouth,

Protrudes from out the parching mouth;

The burning and discolored lip

Imagined moisture tries to sip;

Again they vainly strive to speak

Their fevered incoherencies,

But vocal organs parched and weak

Respond but labored gasp and wheeze.

I scent the putrefying air,And see the horror and despairDepicted on the lineamentsOf every stricken countenance;I see them writhe, then suddenly,With ghastly leer convulse and die.

I scent the putrefying air,

And see the horror and despair

Depicted on the lineaments

Of every stricken countenance;

I see them writhe, then suddenly,

With ghastly leer convulse and die.

As stagnant waters generateA fungous and unsightly freightOf morbid scum and slimy moss,Of origin spontaneous;So latent germs, unnoticed, lurkIn readiness for deadly work;When these the right conditions find,And spread infection to the wind,Chronologers, both far and near,Record an epidemic year.

As stagnant waters generate

A fungous and unsightly freight

Of morbid scum and slimy moss,

Of origin spontaneous;

So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk

In readiness for deadly work;

When these the right conditions find,

And spread infection to the wind,

Chronologers, both far and near,

Record an epidemic year.

Within the bounds of our stockade,The plague its foul appearance made,And soon inoculated there,Its virus to the very air,Till e'en the genial summer breezeSeemed a dispenser of disease;Then, as impartial lightnings strikeThe nobleman and serf alike,Within this filthy prison yard,It smote both prisoner and guard;The difference of race, of lot,Of rank was speedily forgot,As discipline succumbed to dreadAnd officers and soldiers fled,Save such as, fallen by the way,Helpless and unattended lay,Till death brought silence and relief,From agony intense, though brief.

Within the bounds of our stockade,

The plague its foul appearance made,

And soon inoculated there,

Its virus to the very air,

Till e'en the genial summer breeze

Seemed a dispenser of disease;

Then, as impartial lightnings strike

The nobleman and serf alike,

Within this filthy prison yard,

It smote both prisoner and guard;

The difference of race, of lot,

Of rank was speedily forgot,

As discipline succumbed to dread

And officers and soldiers fled,

Save such as, fallen by the way,

Helpless and unattended lay,

Till death brought silence and relief,

From agony intense, though brief.

Within the walls of the stockadeNot one unstricken person stayed,Except some convicts who remainedFor one good reason:—we were chained.Our dingy quarters, floor and bed,Were filled with dying and with dead;The only shelter we could claim,A fetid lazar-house became.I need not tell you how the airWas filled with accents of despair,How clamor and entreaty smoteThe air, from blistered tongue and throat,As burning rash and ghastly rheumSupplanted nature's ruddy bloom;How moan and outcry, curse and prayerWere mingled with each other there;Some raved in dialects unknown,Or terms provincial, while the groan,The common tongue of suffering men,Was echoed ever and again.

Within the walls of the stockade

Not one unstricken person stayed,

Except some convicts who remained

For one good reason:—we were chained.

Our dingy quarters, floor and bed,

Were filled with dying and with dead;

The only shelter we could claim,

A fetid lazar-house became.

I need not tell you how the air

Was filled with accents of despair,

How clamor and entreaty smote

The air, from blistered tongue and throat,

As burning rash and ghastly rheum

Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom;

How moan and outcry, curse and prayer

Were mingled with each other there;

Some raved in dialects unknown,

Or terms provincial, while the groan,

The common tongue of suffering men,

Was echoed ever and again.

Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp,Saw life receding from their grasp;And some, with stoic countenance,Maintained a stern indifference,For what are death's abstruse alarms,When life is shorn of all its charms;As zealots, when they come to die,Lift their enraptured gaze on high,And clasp to the expiring breastSome crucifix or icon blest,And mutter with stertorious breathSome sacred word or shibboleth,Then sink expectant and resigned,As if in death a boon to find,Some in excruciating pain,Welcomed its foul destroying breathAnd sought from cruel gyve and chainEmancipation, though in death.

Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp,

Saw life receding from their grasp;

And some, with stoic countenance,

Maintained a stern indifference,

For what are death's abstruse alarms,

When life is shorn of all its charms;

As zealots, when they come to die,

Lift their enraptured gaze on high,

And clasp to the expiring breast

Some crucifix or icon blest,

And mutter with stertorious breath

Some sacred word or shibboleth,

Then sink expectant and resigned,

As if in death a boon to find,

Some in excruciating pain,

Welcomed its foul destroying breath

And sought from cruel gyve and chain

Emancipation, though in death.

'Tis not my purpose to declareThe horrors which befell us there,As passed the fatal hours away,Of that most memorable day.Each hour increased our dire distress,Yet found our numbers less and less,Till when the shadows overspread,The major number were the dead.But three survived that awful night,To gaze upon the morning light;And when the noonday breezes blew,That three had been reduced to two;And ere the setting of the sunI was the sole remaining one.A silence strangely mute and dumbSucceeded pandemonium.

'Tis not my purpose to declare

The horrors which befell us there,

As passed the fatal hours away,

Of that most memorable day.

Each hour increased our dire distress,

Yet found our numbers less and less,

Till when the shadows overspread,

The major number were the dead.

But three survived that awful night,

To gaze upon the morning light;

And when the noonday breezes blew,

That three had been reduced to two;

And ere the setting of the sun

I was the sole remaining one.

A silence strangely mute and dumb

Succeeded pandemonium.

There when my last companion died,Chained to a corpse on either side,Strange as may seem the miracle,I never felt more strong and well,Nor held my life in less esteem;In that position most extreme,By silent death surrounded, IEnjoyed a weird immunity.

There when my last companion died,

Chained to a corpse on either side,

Strange as may seem the miracle,

I never felt more strong and well,

Nor held my life in less esteem;

In that position most extreme,

By silent death surrounded, I

Enjoyed a weird immunity.

'Twould serve no purpose to reciteMy feelings, as approaching night,With his impenetrable pall,Descended and enveloped all.I sat alone in fear and dread,Chained to the floor,—and to the dead.A gruesome and revolting sightIs horrifying in the light,But when dissembling night conceals,The breast a double terror feels.That darkness, black beyond compare,Seemed a fit mantle for despair.Few are the words when hope has failed;An awful quietude prevailed;I sat, a mute and helpless lump,And felt my heart's pulsating thump,With movement regular and strong,Propel life's crimson flood along,But made no sound until the spellOf silence was unbearable.

'Twould serve no purpose to recite

My feelings, as approaching night,

With his impenetrable pall,

Descended and enveloped all.

I sat alone in fear and dread,

Chained to the floor,—and to the dead.

A gruesome and revolting sight

Is horrifying in the light,

But when dissembling night conceals,

The breast a double terror feels.

That darkness, black beyond compare,

Seemed a fit mantle for despair.

Few are the words when hope has failed;

An awful quietude prevailed;

I sat, a mute and helpless lump,

And felt my heart's pulsating thump,

With movement regular and strong,

Propel life's crimson flood along,

But made no sound until the spell

Of silence was unbearable.

I spoke, but all the ears in reachWere deaf to every charm of speech;I shouted till the roof, the floorAnd walls resounded with the roar;I called the dead men at my side,But Echo's voice alone replied;I was alone, nor man nor bruteWas there, save those so stark and mute;My voice upon my listening earFell, most unnatural and queer,As if with weird, uncanny soundThe walls responsive voices found,And echoed back the tones at will,To mock those tongues so cold and still;Though these vociferations madeMy spirit none the less afraid,The silence seemed more terrible;Words fail me as I strive to tellHow in my desperation, IAbandoned hope, yet could not die.

I spoke, but all the ears in reach

Were deaf to every charm of speech;

I shouted till the roof, the floor

And walls resounded with the roar;

I called the dead men at my side,

But Echo's voice alone replied;

I was alone, nor man nor brute

Was there, save those so stark and mute;

My voice upon my listening ear

Fell, most unnatural and queer,

As if with weird, uncanny sound

The walls responsive voices found,

And echoed back the tones at will,

To mock those tongues so cold and still;

Though these vociferations made

My spirit none the less afraid,

The silence seemed more terrible;

Words fail me as I strive to tell

How in my desperation, I

Abandoned hope, yet could not die.

I never craved the morning light,As through that terrifying night,For gentle but erratic SleepWithheld her respite soft and deep,As in that charnel house I lay,Till twilight ushered in the day.

I never craved the morning light,

As through that terrifying night,

For gentle but erratic Sleep

Withheld her respite soft and deep,

As in that charnel house I lay,

Till twilight ushered in the day.

When daylight had returned againI strove with the relentless chain,Twisted and tugged until at lengthA more than ordinary strengthPossessed my arm, and at one strokeThe rivets weakened, bent and broke;One master wrench and from the floor,The ring which held the chain I tore;I dragged the dead men o'er the groundTill forge and anvil I had found;There with the hammer, rasp and fileI wrought with diligence the while;At some expense of time and pains,I disengaged the cruel chains,And stood once more erect and free:Thus ended my captivity.

When daylight had returned again

I strove with the relentless chain,

Twisted and tugged until at length

A more than ordinary strength

Possessed my arm, and at one stroke

The rivets weakened, bent and broke;

One master wrench and from the floor,

The ring which held the chain I tore;

I dragged the dead men o'er the ground

Till forge and anvil I had found;

There with the hammer, rasp and file

I wrought with diligence the while;

At some expense of time and pains,

I disengaged the cruel chains,

And stood once more erect and free:

Thus ended my captivity.

A guard lay prostrate on the sand,His rifle in his lifeless hand;I wrenched it from his rigid clutch,Then played the ghoul in self-defence,For clothing and accoutrementsEscaped not my despoiling touch;I breathed the air of liberty,Alone I stood, but armed and free.To mislead any watchful eyes,I donned a militant disguise,And, in the dead man's uniform,Was soon prepared for strife or storm.

A guard lay prostrate on the sand,

His rifle in his lifeless hand;

I wrenched it from his rigid clutch,

Then played the ghoul in self-defence,

For clothing and accoutrements

Escaped not my despoiling touch;

I breathed the air of liberty,

Alone I stood, but armed and free.

To mislead any watchful eyes,

I donned a militant disguise,

And, in the dead man's uniform,

Was soon prepared for strife or storm.

Unseen, unhindered, unpursued,I soon was in the solitude,Contending with impediments,Which every wilderness presents.Primeval forests, through which pouredRivers unknown to bridge or ford;Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss,Almost impossible to cross;A waste of fallen trees and logs,Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs;Decaying leaves, profusely spread,Which rustled at the slightest tread,While underbrush and thicket madeA thorny maze or barricade,Through which 'twas difficult to forceA passage or retain one's course.

Unseen, unhindered, unpursued,

I soon was in the solitude,

Contending with impediments,

Which every wilderness presents.

Primeval forests, through which poured

Rivers unknown to bridge or ford;

Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss,

Almost impossible to cross;

A waste of fallen trees and logs,

Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs;

Decaying leaves, profusely spread,

Which rustled at the slightest tread,

While underbrush and thicket made

A thorny maze or barricade,

Through which 'twas difficult to force

A passage or retain one's course.

There my experience began,Along the lines of primal man;My fare, as I remember well,Was strictly aboriginal,For stupid grouse and ptarmiganWere easily approached and slain;And, as a relish for such food,I had the berries of the wood.

There my experience began,

Along the lines of primal man;

My fare, as I remember well,

Was strictly aboriginal,

For stupid grouse and ptarmigan

Were easily approached and slain;

And, as a relish for such food,

I had the berries of the wood.

Through arches of umbrageous shadeI journeyed onward undismayed,And undisturbed by man or beast,Made daily progress toward the east,Till viewing the Pacific shore,Northward along the coast I bore.I kept that course for many days,Where none but savage eyes might gaze;Full many a mile my footsteps ledThrough regions uninhabited,Till where Kamschatka's barren rocksResist the sea's aggressive shocks,One gloomy afternoon, I stoodAnd watched the wide and trackless flood.

Through arches of umbrageous shade

I journeyed onward undismayed,

And undisturbed by man or beast,

Made daily progress toward the east,

Till viewing the Pacific shore,

Northward along the coast I bore.

I kept that course for many days,

Where none but savage eyes might gaze;

Full many a mile my footsteps led

Through regions uninhabited,

Till where Kamschatka's barren rocks

Resist the sea's aggressive shocks,

One gloomy afternoon, I stood

And watched the wide and trackless flood.

'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear,Not meet for recitation here,Should I endeavor to relateThe details of a hermit's fate.To all appearance I was free;A plethora of libertyIs little consolation, whereOne lonely recluse breathes the air;For solitary mortals findBut little joy and peace of mind;When freedom is enjoyed alone,Its fondest attributes are flown;Men of companions destituteSink to the level of the brute;Their sacred essence seems to beDependent on community.

'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear,

Not meet for recitation here,

Should I endeavor to relate

The details of a hermit's fate.

To all appearance I was free;

A plethora of liberty

Is little consolation, where

One lonely recluse breathes the air;

For solitary mortals find

But little joy and peace of mind;

When freedom is enjoyed alone,

Its fondest attributes are flown;

Men of companions destitute

Sink to the level of the brute;

Their sacred essence seems to be

Dependent on community.

Each morning, in the reddening skies,Alone, I watched the sun god rise,While every evening in the west,Alone, I watched him sink to rest.To catch a passing ship, in vainI hourly scanned the watery plain,Till one fair morn a distant sailBrought the conclusion of my tale.

Each morning, in the reddening skies,

Alone, I watched the sun god rise,

While every evening in the west,

Alone, I watched him sink to rest.

To catch a passing ship, in vain

I hourly scanned the watery plain,

Till one fair morn a distant sail

Brought the conclusion of my tale.

The whaler, such she proved to be,Steered landward through a rippling sea,And made directly for the shore;She anchored, then I saw them lowerThe ship's long-boat; at a commandI saw them row, then saw them land.Fearing occasion might requireThe service of a signal fire,A mass of driftwood I had heaped;Behind that pile I hid and peeped.From that concealed position, I,Watching with closest scrutiny,Discovered that the squad of tenWere not my fellow-countrymen.

The whaler, such she proved to be,

Steered landward through a rippling sea,

And made directly for the shore;

She anchored, then I saw them lower

The ship's long-boat; at a command

I saw them row, then saw them land.

Fearing occasion might require

The service of a signal fire,

A mass of driftwood I had heaped;

Behind that pile I hid and peeped.

From that concealed position, I,

Watching with closest scrutiny,

Discovered that the squad of ten

Were not my fellow-countrymen.

Their purpose I could now discern;One had a spade, which turn by turnEach wielded till their willing handsHad delved a grave within the sands.Six of the party I espiedReturning to the long-boat's side,Where from its bottom they beganTo raise the body of a man,In canvas strips securely sewed,All ready for its last abode;From every motion it would seemThe object of sincere esteem.From my location I could seeThem balance it most tenderly,As on six shoulders broad and strong,They bore it sorrowfully along,While wind and ever-restless surgeJoined in a requiem or dirge.

Their purpose I could now discern;

One had a spade, which turn by turn

Each wielded till their willing hands

Had delved a grave within the sands.

Six of the party I espied

Returning to the long-boat's side,

Where from its bottom they began

To raise the body of a man,

In canvas strips securely sewed,

All ready for its last abode;

From every motion it would seem

The object of sincere esteem.

From my location I could see

Them balance it most tenderly,

As on six shoulders broad and strong,

They bore it sorrowfully along,

While wind and ever-restless surge

Joined in a requiem or dirge.

The sun through hazy Autumn skiesShone on the simple obsequies,As round the open grave they stood,In reverential attitude,And shovelled in the brown sea sand;One, with a prayer-book in his hand,Essayed the rôle of corybant;Omitting the accustomed chant,He 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 spanWhich heaven has accorded man;Elysian fields, where perfect peaceSucceeds life's transitory lease;The inextinguishable fireOf faith, the daughter of desire,Glows brightest, when the faltering breathIs conscious of approaching death;Bent 'neath the weight of many years,The form of hoary age appears,E'en as the failing hourglass showsThat life is drawing to its close,And when the final sands are spent,The trembling limbs make their descentInto the shadows, while the rayOf faith illuminates the way.Vain introspection, which descriesNo light behind the mysteriesOf death, engenders in the breastBut vacant yearnings and unrest;Relying on the eye of hope,We look beyond our mundane scope,And with enraptured vision seeThe fore-gleams of futurity.

The sun through hazy Autumn skies

Shone on the simple obsequies,

As round the open grave they stood,

In reverential attitude,

And shovelled in the brown sea sand;

One, with a prayer-book in his hand,

Essayed the rôle of corybant;

Omitting the accustomed chant,

He 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 prayerHad died away upon the air.Their words, euphonious and clear,Were wafted to my listening ear,Borne on a favorable breezeWhich 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 amongThe scions of the English tongue.

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 dayThey laid his pallid form away,While every word and action provedTheir 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.

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 chainForever 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 meAs human salvage, which the seaHad, in some evil moment, tossedUpon 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.

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 soilIn language not intensely loyal.They ministered to my distress,From ample stores of food and dress,Performed such acts of kindness thenAs might beseem large-hearted men;Nor was there aught perfunctoryIn their solicitude for me;Their acts were of their own accord,Without suspicion of reward.

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

"The noble spruce and stately firStood draped in feathery garniture."See page119

"The noble spruce and stately firStood draped in feathery garniture."

"The noble spruce and stately fir

Stood draped in feathery garniture."

See page119

Although possessed of little skillIn nautical affairs, to fillA 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 crewAs ever sailed a voyage through,The two succeeding years I passedIn northern seas before the mast;Two years from that eventful dayWe 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."

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."

Seeking a home with freedom blest,

I've cast my fortunes with the West."

Concluding, he resumed his seatBeside his brother, Russian Pete;Yet ever and anon expressedHis views on points of interest,And details, which this narrativeIn its abridgment may not give,As Dad McGuire and Uncle JimBy 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 scoreMust build the fire and sweep the floor.Time spread his wings, the moments flewUnheeded for an hour or two,Until at length the measured strokeOf twelve, in timely accents brokeFrom 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 timeTo 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 fireServed 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 clearThat nebulæ and satellites,Unseen on ordinary nights,Now filled the broad expanse of skyWith unaccustomed brilliancy;The astral vacuums and voids,Were filled with discs and asteroids;Dissevering the firmament,The Milky Way disclosed to sightIts pearly avenue of whiteWith planetary crystals blent;Transparently it shone, and pale,As some celestial gauze or veil;A silvery baldric o'er the goldOf constellations manifold.A silence, undisturbed, prevailed,The wind no longer moaned and wailed,The elements had worked their willAnd now were motionless and still;From forest growth or underbrushNo whisper broke the solemn hush;The tempest king on airy waves,Retreated to his secret caves,And chained the winds, which his behestHad lately stirred to wild unrest.The clouds had vanished, not a traceRemained upon the arch of space,To interpose a curtain rudeBetween earth and infinitude;Pellucid as the vault o'erhead,The snows a layer of beauty spread,Save where the genii of the stormHad 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 skiesThe 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 sheenThe 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 seenFestooned 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.

Concluding, 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.

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 scoreMust build the fire and sweep the floor.Time spread his wings, the moments flewUnheeded for an hour or two,Until at length the measured strokeOf twelve, in timely accents brokeFrom 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 timeTo serve the purpose of this rhyme.

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.

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 fireServed 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.

'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 clearThat nebulæ and satellites,Unseen on ordinary nights,Now filled the broad expanse of skyWith unaccustomed brilliancy;The astral vacuums and voids,Were filled with discs and asteroids;Dissevering the firmament,The Milky Way disclosed to sightIts pearly avenue of whiteWith planetary crystals blent;Transparently it shone, and pale,As some celestial gauze or veil;A silvery baldric o'er the goldOf constellations manifold.

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 willAnd now were motionless and still;From forest growth or underbrushNo whisper broke the solemn hush;The tempest king on airy waves,Retreated to his secret caves,And chained the winds, which his behestHad lately stirred to wild unrest.

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 traceRemained upon the arch of space,To interpose a curtain rudeBetween earth and infinitude;Pellucid as the vault o'erhead,The snows a layer of beauty spread,Save where the genii of the stormHad fashioned in fantastic form,With alternating whirl and sift,The pendent comb and massive drift.

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 skiesThe 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 sheenThe 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.

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 seenFestooned 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.

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 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]

I will sing of a quaint old tradition,A legend romantic and strange,Which was whispered to me by the pine treesHigh up on the wild mountain range.Far away in the mystical Westland,From the mountain peaks crested with snow,Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow,Dolores, the river of woe.Time was when this river of sorrowHad never a thought to be sad,But meandered in joy through the meadows,With bluebell and columbine clad.Her ripples were ripples of laughter,And the soft, dulcet voice of her flowWas suggestive of peace and affection,Not accents of anguish and woe.Long ago, ere the foot of the white manHad left its first print on the sod,A people, both free and contented,Her mesas and cañon-ways trod.Then Dolores, the river of sorrow,Was a river of laughter and glee,As she playfully dashed through the cañonsIn her turbulent rush to the sea.High up on the cliffs in their dwellings,Which were apertures walled up with rocks,Lived this people, sequestered and happy;Their dwellings now serve the wild fox.They planted the maize and potato,The kind river caused them to grow,So they worshipped the river with singingWhich blent with its musical flow.This people, so artless and peaceful,Knew nothing of carnage and war,But dwelt in such quiet and plentyThey knew not what weapons were for.They gathered the maize in its season,Unmindful of famine or foeAnd chanted their thanks to the spiritsThat dwelt in the cañons below.But one evil day from the NorthlandSwept an army in battle array,Which fell on this innocent peopleAnd massacred all in a day.Their bodies were cast in the river,A feast for the vultures, when lo!The laughter and song of the riverWere changed to the wailing of woe.Gone, gone are this people forever,Not a vestige nor remnant remainsTo gather the maize in its seasonAnd join in the harvest refrains;But the river still mourns for her peopleWith weird and disconsolate flow,Dolores, the river of sorrow,Dolores—the river of woe.

I will sing of a quaint old tradition,

A legend romantic and strange,

Which was whispered to me by the pine trees

High up on the wild mountain range.

Far away in the mystical Westland,

From the mountain peaks crested with snow,

Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow,

Dolores, the river of woe.

Time was when this river of sorrowHad never a thought to be sad,But meandered in joy through the meadows,With bluebell and columbine clad.Her ripples were ripples of laughter,And the soft, dulcet voice of her flowWas suggestive of peace and affection,Not accents of anguish and woe.

Time was when this river of sorrow

Had never a thought to be sad,

But meandered in joy through the meadows,

With bluebell and columbine clad.

Her ripples were ripples of laughter,

And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow

Was suggestive of peace and affection,

Not accents of anguish and woe.

Long ago, ere the foot of the white manHad left its first print on the sod,A people, both free and contented,Her mesas and cañon-ways trod.Then Dolores, the river of sorrow,Was a river of laughter and glee,As she playfully dashed through the cañonsIn her turbulent rush to the sea.

Long ago, ere the foot of the white man

Had left its first print on the sod,

A people, both free and contented,

Her mesas and cañon-ways trod.

Then Dolores, the river of sorrow,

Was a river of laughter and glee,

As she playfully dashed through the cañons

In her turbulent rush to the sea.

High up on the cliffs in their dwellings,Which were apertures walled up with rocks,Lived this people, sequestered and happy;Their dwellings now serve the wild fox.They planted the maize and potato,The kind river caused them to grow,So they worshipped the river with singingWhich blent with its musical flow.

High up on the cliffs in their dwellings,

Which were apertures walled up with rocks,

Lived this people, sequestered and happy;

Their dwellings now serve the wild fox.

They planted the maize and potato,

The kind river caused them to grow,

So they worshipped the river with singing

Which blent with its musical flow.

This people, so artless and peaceful,Knew nothing of carnage and war,But dwelt in such quiet and plentyThey knew not what weapons were for.They gathered the maize in its season,Unmindful of famine or foeAnd chanted their thanks to the spiritsThat dwelt in the cañons below.

This people, so artless and peaceful,

Knew nothing of carnage and war,

But dwelt in such quiet and plenty

They knew not what weapons were for.

They gathered the maize in its season,

Unmindful of famine or foe

And chanted their thanks to the spirits

That dwelt in the cañons below.

But one evil day from the NorthlandSwept an army in battle array,Which fell on this innocent peopleAnd massacred all in a day.Their bodies were cast in the river,A feast for the vultures, when lo!The laughter and song of the riverWere changed to the wailing of woe.

But one evil day from the Northland

Swept an army in battle array,

Which fell on this innocent people

And massacred all in a day.

Their bodies were cast in the river,

A feast for the vultures, when lo!

The laughter and song of the river

Were changed to the wailing of woe.

Gone, gone are this people forever,Not a vestige nor remnant remainsTo gather the maize in its seasonAnd join in the harvest refrains;But the river still mourns for her peopleWith weird and disconsolate flow,Dolores, the river of sorrow,Dolores—the river of woe.

Gone, gone are this people forever,

Not a vestige nor remnant remains

To gather the maize in its season

And join in the harvest refrains;

But the river still mourns for her people

With weird and disconsolate flow,

Dolores, the river of sorrow,

Dolores—the river of woe.

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