See America First Part 4

Mitche Manito, the Mighty, He the dreaded Spirit of Evil, As a serpent was depicted, As Kenabeek the great serpent.

Very crafty, very cunning, Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, Was the meaning of this symbol.

(footnote From "The Egg and Serpent.")

Here while gazing in wonder at this ancient shrine we recalled how in the stillness and fading light of evening we visited the famous cathedral of Antwerp. The last rays of the descending sun fell through the stained gla.s.s and darkened the vast aisles. The grandeur and solemn beauty of this n.o.ble pile at this time of day touched the imagination most deeply. Then listening to the mellow music falling as it were from the clouds through the tranquil air of evening, we were enchanted. How those light silvery notes filled our imagination with romantic dreams of old Flanders.

Again we recalled our visit to the Great Cathedral of Cologne, the most complete piece of Gothic architecture anywhere to be found. We mounted the steps of one of the gigantic towers which lift their sublime heads to a height of five hundred two feet, the exact length of the cathedral. Here we gazed out over the level plain that stretched away to the marvelous scenic region of the Seven Mountains. The foundation of this beautiful structure was laid two hundred fifty years before the discovery of America and fifty years before the founding of the Turkish Empire. But the last stone was not laid on the south tower until 1880.

As we listened to the deep-toned bells, how we were thrilled with visions of the past! Here lived Colonia Agrippina, the daughter of Germanicus and the mother of Nero. It was from Cologne that Hadrian received his summons to Rome as emperor.

Here, too, Vitellius and Silva.n.u.s were both proclaimed emperor in this remote northern camp on the left bank of the Rhine.

But you do not dwell long on the past, for here stands this colossal, magnificent cathedral with its incomparable towers to call your attention to the glorious achievements of man. Men were not the only ones to use this n.o.ble edifice as a sanctuary, for out and in among its superb towers numerous birds darted to and fro, where they dwelt safely as in a citadel. Pretty falcons circled gracefully about them as though they were crags of some wild mountain; rooks cawed from their lofty stations below the bells; chimney swifts glued their log cabins to rough stone ledges, and in various niches above the doorway pigeons placed their nests and uttered their messages of peace to all who entered. English sparrows, too, had taken possession here and there just as their countrymen had taken possession of the city.

As we entered the cathedral a mingled feeling of awe and devotion came over us. But it was not the blazing shrine of the eleven thousand Virgins, the magnificent windows through which the morning sunbeams filtered, nor yet the choir, perhaps the most wonderful in the world, that produced this feeling of reverence. "We remembered that this glorious structure had been erected to the 'G.o.d of Peace' in the midst of strife and bitterness, and by men estranged by the first principle of the Gospel." But here we beheld French officers, Scotch Highlanders, English and American soldiers, scattered among the Germans, reverently kneeling, devout and hushed at the Consecration. Then we thought how "notwithstanding the pa.s.sions of men and wickedness of rulers, the building up of the Church of G.o.d and of the Christian faith, goes steadily on, unrecorded but continuous."

But here among these lovely Ohio hills, where the Master Architect erected and is still building these wonderful temples that never decay, we were more impressed by their solemn grandeur than any work of man could inspire. Here long before the cathedrals of Europe were thought of, a primitive people erected their altars and offered up their sacrifice to their G.o.ds. Here as the rays of the sun filtered through the leafy windows of the trees falling upon the richly wrought mosaic of ferns and flowers, where the gorgeous cardinal blossoms flamed from a hundred altars and the bell-like song of the wood thrush rang through all the dim aisles, these ancient people felt the presence of a higher power, and not yet knowing that their G.o.d required the sacrifice of n.o.ble lives and loving hearts, brought to the altar the best gifts they knew.

Standing alone in this fair solitude, as much alone as if we had been on some fairy isle of a distant sea, we felt that we were surrounded by a strange, mysterious presence, and thoughts and fancies, like weird articulate voices of those ancient people, filled the solemn place. The aged trees sighed in the evening wind, telling over and over their mournful legends, lest they forget. The storm-swept maples repeated their "rhythmical runes of these unremembered ages." We allowed ourselves to sink soothingly beneath deep waves of primitive emotions until we seemed to perceive the sagas that the maples told the elms of a more remote history than that of the Pharaohs or storied Greece.

Darkness began to settle over this lonely spot. Along the silent and gloomy road we seemed to see shadowlike forms that flitted here and there through the blackness of darkest night, a blackness only relieved by a few stars that peered like silent spectators from the dark draperies of clouds. Now a band of people was seen moving not swiftly to the accompaniment of martial music, but slowly and silently to the sighing night wind. As we watched a lurid flame burst from the center of the oval while a strange figure bent over it as he performed his weird mystical rites. Now the light from the red and yellow flames fell upon a vast group of dark figures and a thousand gleaming eyes peered out of the velvety canopy around us. The mournful distressing notes of the ghost bird broke the stillness. The scream of some pa.s.sing night bird replied as if in answer to their weird calls. A great horned owl made us shiver with his "hoo, hoo, hoo," as the flame shot upward in scarlet circles. The night wind stirred the branches, which sighed audibly, and died away leaving the place lonelier than before. Then the sharp bark of a fox rang out from a neighboring hill. The breeze started up again and a limb of a tree that rubbed against its neighbor produced a wailing sound as of some one in distress. We could see fantastic shapes out among the gnarled tree trunks and ghostly forms appeared in the velvety shadows and vanished again among the trees. The moon rose out over the rim of the eastern hills and seemed almost to pause as if some Oriental Magic was being wrought. A mist arose from the river and hovered over the valley below us; the complaining water of Brush creek mingled with the wailing of the screech owl as the ghostly footfalls sounded more remote. The bullfrog's harsh troonk "ushered in the night" and, imagining one of them as the very one that escaped the serpent and leaped into the creek centuries ago, we left the place to the spirits of that unknown age and the moonlight.

But why this concern over a vanished race? Why all this worry over the Coliseum or Parthenon? Why so eager to learn of these crumbling mounds and broken down embankments in our own land?

Then as if we heard a voice from the shadowy past, rising from these silent ruins, we begin to gain their secret at last. The Parthenon and Coliseum call up the sad story with its yet sadder truth that true weal can only come to that nation that plans for the future. Yet each adds something to the onward march of civilization.

In the ancient gardens of France and Italy the nightingale still warbles her divine hymn, all unmindful of Caesar's conquests.

The whippoorwill calls in her plaintive notes through the silvery spring nights over the graves of this vanished race of America. Let us concern ourselves about the past only as that past shall contribute to a more glorious future. It is not mounds, pyramids, or bronze tablets we should be building for later generations of archaeologists to puzzle their brains over.

A large and beautiful mound standing in the precincts of the original plat of Columbus, Ohio, was demolished, the clay taken therefrom and used as the material for the bricks with which the first State House was built. Here where a thousand years came and went and the Indian warrior reverently spared the last resting place of these unrecorded dead, another people reared their legislative halls out of their mouldering sepulchres and crumbling bones. O, American Nation, with your wonderful civilization of today, it is well to pause here amid the "steam shriek" career of your harried life with all its getting and spending, to contemplate the ruin of even this once consecrated piece of ground.

Here as you watch, the swift winged swallows dart from their homes in the steep bank of the stream; the kingfisher sounds his discordant rattle and hangs poised in mid air as he gazes into the waters below; the woodbine like a staunch friend still clings round the oak or hangs out its crimson banner in autumn; the meadowlark walks sedately on the vast coils of the serpent calling, "Spring o' the year," or as we fancied, "they are not here," as he did on that first morning. Man, yes, nations pa.s.s away and are forgotten, yet the spirit of life is ever perpetuated in a thousand new and lovely forms. At times we are touched by the fluttering of the maple leaves as if we read a mournful prophecy. Even now the petals of the wood rose are lying around us and we see signs where earlier blossoms have faded. Yet will they never bloom again ? Men may return to dust from whence they sprung, but out of the mould will rise new blossoms to make glad the earth, and while some other nation shall wander over the ruins and tread with solemn step over the resting place of those who now wander here, they too shall listen to the liquid notes of the wood thrush through the hushed aisle of some shadowy forest and also learn that nothing dies.

Here crowning the summits of these ancient mounds of an older race of tillers of the soil dwell the peaceful American farmers in their comfortable rural homes all unmindful of that other race who toiled here. How well the secrets of the past are guarded! "Try as we might we could not roll hack the flight of time, even by the aid of ancient history, by whose feeble light we were able to see but dimly the outlines of the centuries that lie back of us; beyond is gloom soon lost in night. It is hidden by a present veil that only thickens as the years roll on."

The encroaching days of the Red men and the ravages of time, as the centuries came and went, have affected but not obliterated these ancient mounds. The vandal hand of conquering man has destroyed or hid from sight many of the monumental works of this primitive people. But there yet remain many mournful ruins here in Ohio which cannot fail to impress us with a sense of a vanished past.

"To think of our own high state of civilization is to imagine for this nation an immortality. We are so great and strong that surely no power can remove us. Let us learn humility from the past; and when, here and there, we come upon some reminder of a vanished people, trace the proofs of a teeming population in ancient times, and recover somewhat of a history as true and touching as any that poets sing, let us recognize the fact that nations as well as individuals pa.s.s away and are forgotten."

"There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past.

First Freedom, and then glory--when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption,--barbarian at last, And history with its volume vast, Hath but one page."

(footnote NOTE. Many of the quotations given in the above are to be found in "Allan's History of Civilization." We are also indebted to Mr. Randall, State Secretary of the Ohio Archaeological Society, for material used.)

THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY

Shenandoah, "the Daughter of Stars," as the Indians have called this lovely valley, lies in the northwestern part of Virginia between the Blue Ridge mountains on the east and the Alleghanies on the west, beginning near Staunton and extending in a northeastern direction to the Potomac Water Gap at Harpers Ferry. Through it runs what was once known as the "Great Valley Pike" and which is now part of the National Highway. Not only its incomparable scenery but its many thrilling campaigns of historical significance make this valley the Mecca for thousands of tourists. It has been the stage of vast scenic beauty on which the b.l.o.o.d.y drama of war has so often been enacted. How many and varied have been its actors! How sanguine and gruesome the part they played!

"Many and thrilling were the Indian ma.s.sacres that occurred here; it knew the horrors of the French and Indian War; from it during the Revolution Morgan conducted his vigorous operations against the British; last but not least, it was the scene of Stonewall Jackson's brilliant "Valley Campaign" and Sheridan's Ride made famous by Thomas Buchanan Read.

"What stirring campaigns this broad and beautiful plain, stretching from the foot of the Blue Ridge toward the sea, has known! How like a vast citadel, this Old Dominion above the other confederate states to guard their capital! The parallel rivers made a water barrier on the north where the Federals were compelled to wade to victory; while the western front, a high range of the Blue Ridge, stretched along the sky like a vast wall, its purple ramparts frowning down in defiance, or the nearer hills rising impressively up from the plain, forming in the valley ways between well protected avenues for invading the North." (footnote Shenandoah Valley--Pond.) Ages before any battles transpired here, Nature threw up these beautiful fortifications and arranged the field of battle.

The road approaches the valley through its rocky gateway of Harper's Ferry where the Potomac, after breaking through the vast wall of the Blue Ridge, is joined by the Shenandoah. Here great rocks rise and tower above you and the broad stream is filled with boulders of various sizes, making innumerable cascades, which present a scene of rare beauty. After climbing by many and various curves you finally reach the top of a towering cliff and look down on the wondrous picture spread before you. The confluence of these two rivers is one of the many beauty spots of the valley.

The Gap was of vast strategic importance during the Civil war.

In nearly every instance the Confederates were aided by the contour of the land in the "Valley Campaign." A confederate advance here would lead straight toward Washington, while a Union advance south would lead from a straight course to Richmond. The Potomac flows at right angles to the line of the ridge, therefore a Confederate force crossing the valley mouth would be in the rear of the north. One day's march from c.u.mberland valley would carry the Southern troops into the farmlands of Pennsylvania. Thus did Nature seem to contribute to the aid of the South.

We soon forgot about the conflict for the valley in all its beauty lay before us, and every day was a holiday. So it was not important just then which way the river flowed or in what direction those glorious mountains led. It was the bloom-time of the year in the uplands; the landscapes of the valley were sparkling in the sunlight, the songs of numerous larks rose like incense from every meadow, the vireo filled in every pause with her rapid voluble song, the clear ringing call of the quail resounded through every valley, and the hillsides were so covered with different hued gra.s.ses, ferns and flowers that they seemed like vast paintings.

Here the fine automobile road wound among scenes of incomparable loveliness. There were vast sheets of ox-eyed daisies; the rich flaming orange of the b.u.t.terfly weed, the purple of various mints, the gleaming gold of numerous compositae making the place rich in floral beauty, while an ever-fragrant breeze stirred the grain into golden billows and the meadows into slight undulating waves like an emerald sea.

Slow indeed was our progress through these glorious places and each stop we made on the high ridges overlooking the valleys unfolded a view more beautiful than the last we beheld.

Cultivation had been here many years, yet this only served to enhance the loveliness of the scene; and we wandered enchanted from place to place in long wavering curves, knowing that each new turn held a vision of delight. Wander where you will in this valley the Blue Ridge mountains are always in sight wearing those misty blue veils on their graceful forest crowned ridges.

Harper's Ferry was not only of great strategic importance as a gateway for the armies but it will ever be a.s.sociated with the memory of John Brown, that impulsive but n.o.ble soul for whom Freedom was a pa.s.sion. What matter though he was hanged, the nation shall ever honor his memory. There is a monument marking the site of the old John Brown fort near the railroad station which may he seen from the high-way intersecting the valley.

As we looked at the monument we thought of this poem which, in its majestic sweep of thought, is as stately as the Potomac:

John Brown of Ossawatomie spoke on his dying day: "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay, But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows stair put up a prayer for me."

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo! a poor slave mother with her little child pressed nigh.

Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the Negro's child.

The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart, And they who blamed the b.l.o.o.d.y hand forgave the loving heart, That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And around the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!

Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!

Long live the generous purpose unstained by human blood!

Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the Negro's spear, But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded pa.s.ses scale, To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snows with clay.

She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love.

--Whittler.

Lee captured Harper's Ferry with eleven thousand men, seventy- three heavy guns and thirteen thousand small arms. After he beat Hooker at Chancelorsville this valley was his route of invasion.

After the battle of Gettysburg he fell back and pitched his camp here. In fact, it witnessed so many captures and defeats that it was known as the "Valley of Humiliation." It had to be wrested from the enemy before the Richmond Campaign could be carried out. General J. F. Johnston, commander of the forces known as the Army of the Shenandoah, was stationed at the outlet of the valley. Jackson, too, began his campaign in 1862. Being checked by Shields, he fell upon Fort Republic, defeated Fremont at Cross Keys, captured the garrison at Front Royal, drove Banks across the Potomac and alarmed Washington by breaking up the junction of McDowell's and McClellan's forces which threatened the capture of Richmond.

Our campaign in search of beauty was a brilliant success, and from many points of vantage did we spy upon the vast expanse of golden grain and fresh green meadows in which cattle were grazing, or ruminating in the shade of friendly elms. Here gush clear springs, whose courses may be traced by tall waving ferns and creeping vines that weave their spell of green. Swift tumbling brooks have worn down the soil and enriched the valley.

This valley was called the "Granary of the Confederacy" and a granary it really was, "for it was rich not only in grain but an abundance of fruit and live stock; and what more would the North want for the support of its army? It was in the possession of the Confederates; much wanted by the Federals, and in time came to be a great campaign ground of both armies"--the Belgium of America. What thrilling marching and counter-marching the lower valley might tell! What a history those villages must have had from 1861 to 1865! Perhaps at dawn they sheltered an army of "Yanks," at noon they may have been swarming with men from the South, while night, with her ever-watchful stars, looked down and saw them sleeping beneath the Stars and Stripes! In fact, it was traversed so often that the men from both armies called it, the "Race Course." So many were their journeys over the famous "Valley Pike" that they knew the various springs, houses, and in many instances, the citizens who lived there.

Alas! How many brave sons in the North said farewell to scenes and friends to enter the Union Army in the valley, never to return. How often, too, the gallant sons of the "Sunny South"

gazed with tear dimmed eyes for the last time on those purple hills they knew from childhood. How many were the battles fought here! How terrible the scenes of devastation and the toll of life! Waste were the golden fields of grain upon which we gaze with such rapt admiration. Waste, too, were these mills with their whir of industry. The fury of war fell on those sunny acres like a great pestilence, and their usefulness and beauty became desolation. The only grist mill not burned by Sheridan and his men when they went through is still pointed out to the traveler. But Nature has again a.s.serted her right and on this delightful morning the valley smiles beneath its veil of dreamy blue like the peaceful glow that spreads over the countenance of some great and beneficent soul.

The high range of the Blue Ridge was seen stretching along the sky like a vast purple wall, while, nearer, the lower hills rose impressively up from the plain. How clean and pare and shining the woods appear this lovely morning! The glorious old chestnut trees reflect the sunlight and shimmering ma.s.ses from their shining green leaves, while their creamy white flowers make a grand display amidst the various tinted foliage of all the forest; and the stately ba.s.swood, covered with light yellow bloom filled with the hum of innumerable bees, heightens the picture. The shadowy hemlock and fragrant pine swaying in the breeze still tell their age-old songs. The sunbeams spangled on the broad green leaves of the sycamore tree, their tracery of white boughs relieved against the dense groves of evergreens, made studies in light and shade worthy of an Innes; while beneath these grand trees tall ferns and velvety mosses contrasted their various shades of green over which rose spikes of flaming cardinal flowers and blue mists of mints making the picture complete. Then, too, song birds enlivened the fair scene with their notes. In the bushes along the highway Maryland yellow-throats threw back their masked heads and called, "Witchery, witchery, witchery," as if they appreciated their charming home, while nearby, a cardinal appeared like an arrow of flame from the bow of some unseen archer, and whistled several variations that rang through all the woodland. The house wren was fairly bubbling over with music and his rippling notes seemed to express the exuberance of life in all Nature; while the serene song of the woodthrush floated from far, dim forest depths--fit prelude for the Angelic Choir.

Amid such inspiring music and scenes as this, it is not easy to tell much about the topography of the country in reference to its strategic importance. It is enough to know that from the boughs of the elm above hang the orioles' gray castles where the females' beady eyes from their dangling citadels look out on the alien foes who pa.s.s beneath or up above where the great hawk swims the aerial blue like a plane without bombs. The spider weaves pontoons from tree to bush and sits in his silvery fortress trying to beguile the unwary flies by his kingly demeanor. The great blue heron, like a French sentinel on duty along the muddy Meuse, awaits in silence any hostile demonstrations from those green-coated Boches among their camouflaged fortresses of spatterdocks and lily pads. The muskrat goes scouring the water, searching for booty near the river's bank or submerges like a submarine when discovered by a noisy convoy of Senegalese boys on the bank. A wily weasel, no doubt considered by those cliff-dwellers, the kingfishers, as one of the "Ladies from h.e.l.l," was being hustled out of their dugout at the point of the bayonet. No matter about the "kilts"; if he ever had them they were lost by his hurried flight.