AN UNCANNY STONE.
(A sequel to the last chapter of "Wooed by a Sphinx of Astlan."')
"Gigantic shadows, dancing in the twilight
Fade with the sun's last golden ray.
On quivering bat-wings, sad and silent,
Flits darkness—night pursuing day.
Hark! as the twelfth hour sounds its knell
At midnight, tolls a whimpering bell
When yawning graves profane their secrecy.
Ghosts stalk in dreamland haunting memory
And spectral visions of departed friends arise
Who freed of sin, that fetter of mortality,
With Angels in their kingdom of Eternal Life
Grace Heaven's choir of harmony."
The third day of July A. D. 1907 was a gala-day for the citizens of Prescott, a historic date for Arizona, as then our governor, in behalf of the territory, formally accepted an equestrian statue from its sculptor.
This monument which commemorates our war with Spain had been erected on the public plaza of Prescott in honor of "Roosevelt's Rough Riders," the first regiment of United States Volunteer cavalry.
A master-piece of modern art the statue breathes life and action in the perfection of its every detail, representing a Rough Rider who is about to draw his weapon while reining his terrified horse as it rears in a last lunge. This is indicated by the steed's gaping mouth, distended nostrils, the bent knees, knotted chords and veins of its neck and body.
The expression of a noble beast's agony is rendered in so life-like a manner that its protruding eyes seem to glaze into the awful stare of death, and instinctively the spectator listens for the stifled whimper and whinnying screams of a wounded creature.
Borglum's splendid statuary, this heroic cast of bronze which so faithfully portrays the destiny of a dumb animal, man's most useful and willing slave, always ready to share its master's fate, even unto death—to my mind is a most eloquent, if silent, argument against all warfare.
But the glory of the monument is its pedestal.
A solid stone, a bed-rock from the cradle of the idol-mountain it was contributed by nature to the memory of one of its noblemen, "Captain William Owen O'Neill," who crowned his life with immortality, suffering a soldier's death.
During the storming of San Juan Hill to anxious friends imploring him not recklessly to expose himself, with smiling lips he gave this message of death's Angel, that mysterious oracle of a Sphinx which from the gaze of mortals veils their ordained doom: "Comrades, sergeant! I thank you for your kindly warning—fear not for me, the Spanish bullet that could kill me is not molded!"—when instantly he fell struck dead—not by a "Spanish" bullet—"no!" but by the bullet fired from a Mauser rifle, "not made in Spain." Not an ordinary stone this Arizona granite rock is entitled to highest honors among the stones of the earth.
By none outclassed in witchery it ranks equally in fame with the Blarneystone of Ireland; old Plymouth Rock does not compare with it, for that derives its prestige only from "Mayflower pilgrims" who accidentally landing at its base merely stepped over it.
Proudly our Arizona stone bears a most precious burden—the tribute of a people who in exalting patriotism honor themselves.
Originally an archaean sea-bottom rock this stone lay submerged in the ocean until during the Jurassic Period, under the lateral pressure of a cooling earthcrust the table-lands and mountain-chains of Arizona rose from the seas.
Then it slumbered through several epochs of geology, representing many millions of years in the bosom of earth, the mother, until at the beginning of the psychozoic era, through erosion or the action of atmospheric influences and nature's chemistry it came to the surface; uncovered and freed from all superimposed stratified rock.
It saw the light of day long before the advent of primitive man; but the giant-flora and fauna of pre-historic time had developed, flourished and vanished while it rested under ground.
Contrary to the habit of rolling stones which gather no moss, this Arizona stone accumulated much, for when it had reached its assigned site on the plaza of Prescott it had become a very valuable, expensive rock.
When first I saw it, this fearful Aztec juggernaut was within a half mile of its destination. Slowly it crawled along, threatening destruction to everything in its path, and in the course of a week had arrived at the Granite-creek bridge.
It moved by main strength and brute force employing men and horses after the custom of the ancients when more than thirty-seven hundred years ago King Menes, son of Cham reigned in Egypt, who albeit surnamed Mizrain the Laggard, yet was the first king of the first dynasty of the children of the sun.
When I saw the direction from whence the stone had come I feared that disaster would overwhelm our town and unfortunately was I not mistaken.
At the bridge the stone gave the first manifestation of its unholy heathen power when it balked, defying modern civilization and through sorcery or in other unhallowed ways contrived to interfere with the public electric traction service, paralyzing the traffic so effectively that every street car in the town was stopped; not merely a few hours, but for days.
Like that colossus of strength and wisdom, the elephant which refuses to pass over a bridge until satisfied that this will uphold its weight, the cunning stone did not budge another inch until the bridge had been braced with many timbers.
As foreseen by me this uncanny rock was sent by the Idol of the mountain, the "Sphinx of Aztlan," to cast a hoodoo, an evil spell over the monument.
It caused dissension among the people and confused their minds into rendering abnormal criticisms, making them indulge in eccentric vagaries and speculations on the artistic and intrinsic value of the monument. Some persons guessed at the value of the metal contained in the statue, while others reckoned the cost of the horse or that of the rider's accoutrements.
However, of thousands of admiring and delighted spectators none shared an exactly like opinion except in this, that the statue bore no individual resemblance; but that also was contradicted by a young lady whom I heard exclaim: "Girls, surely that looks like Buckie O'Neill, but in love and war men are not themselves!" "How do I know? Oh, mamma said so!"
During the ceremony of unveiling the monument a dark, ragged storm cloud hung over the Aztec mountain, fast overcasting the sky. Thousands of people strained their eyes and held their breath in the glad anticipation of seeing the features of their lamented friend, Prescott's honored mayor, immortalized in bronze. When after moments of anxious suspense the veil which draped the statue parted and fell to earth, the sun's rays pierced the clouds, while deafening cheers rent the air. I thought I heard a weird, faint cry, an echo from the past—but cannons boomed, drums crashed as a military band rendered its patriotic airs.
And we saw—not the familiar, fine features of our soldier hero, so strikingly portrayed by a famed artist and molded into exact, lifelike resemblance, but instead we beheld an unknown visage—a type, merely the semblance of a "Rough Rider," its rigid gaze riveted on the Idol-mountain, forever enthralled by the Sphinx.
In nineteen hundred seven, on the third day of July
With shining mien and naming sword earthward St. Michael came
To save—ever auspicious be the blessed day—
From blighting heathen guile a Christian hero's fame
The while, breathless with awe, solemn the people gazed
And rhetoric's inspired flame on Aztlan's altar blazed.
Adore the Saints, behold a miracle Divine!
Hallowed, our Saviour, be Thy Name
And Heaven's glory thine!
Of idol-worship now has vanished every trace
In deepest crevice and highest place
On mesa, butte and mountain-face;
From the Grand Canyon's somber shade
The sun-scorched desert, the dripping glade
And sunken crater of Stoneman's Lake.
The "Casa Grande," a home of ancient race—
A ruin now—is haunted by Montezuma's wraith.
In Montezuma's castle, crumbling from roof to base
The winds and rain of heaven ghosts of the past now chase.
Where erstwhile the Great Spirit's children dwelt
Forever hushed is the papoose's wail, and stilled the squaw's low-crooning lilt.
No longer shimmers starlight from eyes of savage maids
Worshippers of the fire and sun, poor dwellers of the caves—
The sisters of the deer and lo, shy startled fawns of Aztec race
Or coy ancestral dams of moon-eyed Toltec doe.
Now Verde witches bathe in Montezuma's well
And over its crystal waters the tourists cast their spell.
Rejoice! To Arizona has the Saviour vouchsafed His Grace
For our Salvation Army lass teaches true Gospel faith:
"Be saved this night, poor sinner, repent, the hour is late!
Salvation is in store for thee, brother do not delay
As fleeting time and sudden death for no man ever wait!"
"Praise God!" the lassie's war-cry is, the keynote of her song.
To the tune of "Annie Roonie" and kindred fervid lay
With mandolin and banjo, marching in bold array
The devil's strongholds storming, battling to victory—
With banners flying, the tambourine and drum
Forever has she silenced the shamans vile tom-tom.
All Fetish Spirit-medicine she has tabooed, banished away
Except bourbon and rye, sour-mash, hand-made
And copper-distilled, licensed, taxed and gauged,
Then stored in bond to ripen, mellow, age.
God bless the Army, rank and file who fight our souls to save!
Modern disciples of the Son of Man, true followers of Christ,
They work by day, then preach and pray and pound their drum at night.