"How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?
How can ye sing, ye little birds, and I so weary, fu' o' care?"
Towards evening on the third day of suspense the master returned fresh from the prison, weary, ragged, dirty, and utterly woe-begone, for he had been set at liberty only to learn that liberty was but an empty sound. Sadly he confirmed the story of the surrender. The kindly eyes still strove to cheer, but their happy light was forever quenched. The firm lip quivered not as he told to the sorrowing women the woful tale, but the iron had entered his soul and rankled there until its fatal work was accomplished. Ah, many a noble spirit shrunk appalled from the "frowning Providence" which then and long afterwards utterly hid the face of a merciful and loving Father. And yet, as mother Nature with tender hands and loving care soon effaces all traces of havoc and desolation, creating new beauties in lovely profusion to cover even the saddest ruins, so it is wisely ordered that time shall bring healing to wounded hearts. The women who on that April evening long ago grieved so bitterly over the news of the surrender have since known deep sorrow, have wept over many graves. But, like all the women of the South, they have taken up the burden of life bravely, and, God helping them, will not falter or fail until He shall release them.
By and by, the men and boys of the family, from distant Appomattox, from the Army of Tennessee, came straggling home. All had walked interminable miles,—all wore equally ragged, dirty, foot-sore, weary, dejected, despairing. They had done their best and had failed. Their labor was ended.
All over the land lay the ruins of once happy homes. As men gazed upon them, and thought of the past and the future, the apathy of despair crept over them; life seemed a burden too heavy to be borne; they longed to lay it down forever. For a time, men who had faced death again and again while struggling for freedom, could not find courage to look upon the desolation of the land, or to face the dread future. Closing their weary eyes, they slept until the clanking of chains awakened them.
Despotic power wrung the already bleeding, tortured heart of the South, until crying aloud, she held out to her sons her fettered hands. And then, fully aroused, hearing the piteous cries, the rattle of chains, seeing the beloved face, full of woe, conscious of every bitter, burning tear (which as it fell, seemed to sear their own hearts), struggling to reach, to succor her, they found themselves bound and powerless to save.
Alas, dear friends, that the pathway which opened so brightly, which seemed to lead to heights of superlative glory, should have ended beside the grave of hope. Oh, was it not hard to believe that "whatever is is right?" To kneel submissively in this valley of humiliation, and lift our streaming eyes to the heavens, that seemed of brass, to the Father who, it then appeared, had forgotten to be merciful. The glory which even then was apparent to the outside world, could not penetrate the clouds which hung above us.
The land was yet red with blood that had been poured out in vain. From once happy homes came wails of grief and despair.
Even the embers wore dead upon the hearths around which loved ones should never more gather.
And since hope is dead, and naught can avail to change the decrees of Fate, let me close this record of mingled glory and gloom, for hero must be written,—