The sight of the
great tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of its
huge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of
autumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me,
with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!
those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The grass
was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms moved
there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was
dead;--his sword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his
battle-flag was furled forever.
That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of the
saddest that I have ever spent.
The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured,
the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's tent shone under
it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed--it was a
company of ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices
sounded from another world!
II.
BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.
But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time for
musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding to
horse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.
Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last.
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