Lastly the lesson taught by both disasters is the same: that the triumph of a bad cause is but illusory and transient; while for the cause which moves duly in the divine currents of human progress there can be no failure, for, though tossed and buffeted, and seemingly wrecked, its keel is in the eternal waters, the winds of heaven fill its sails, and the hand of the Great Pilot is at the helm.
Returning, we stopped at the “stone house” near the first battle-field, in hopes of getting some personal information from the inhabitants. They were present during the fight, and the outer walls show enduring marks of the destructive visits of cannon-shot. The house was formerly a tavern, and the man who kept it was one of those two-faced farmers, Secessionists at heart, but always loyal to the winning side. By working well his political weathercock, he had managed to get his house through the storm, although in a somewhat dismantled condition. The bar-room was as barren as the intellect of the owner. The only thing memorable we obtained there was some most extraordinary cider. This the proprietor was too proud to sell, or else the pretence that it belonged to the “old nigger” was nearer the truth than my tall friend was willing to admit. At all events, the “old nigger” brought it in, and received pay for it besides, evidently contrary to his expectations, and to the disappointment of the landlord.
“Uncle, what sort of cider is this? how did you make it?” For neither of us had ever tasted anything resembling it before, nor did we wish ever to taste its like again.
Uncle, standing in the door, with one foot on the threshold, ducking and grinning, one hand holding his old cap, and the other his knee, after earnest urging, told us the secret.
“Dat cidah, sah, I made out o’ peaches and apples mixed, ’bout half and half. Dat’s what makes it taste cur’us.”
“Oh, but that’s not all, uncle; you put water in it! You meant to cheat us, I see, with your miscegenated cider and water!”
Uncle did not exactly understand the nature of this charge, but evidently thought it something serious.
“No, no, gentlemen, I didn’t do it for roguishness! I put in de peaches ’case dar wasn’t apples enough. I pounded ’em up wid a pestle in a barrel. Den I put a stake under de house corner wid rocks on to it for a press. I put de water in to make de juice come easier, it was so dry!”
Having learned his method of manufacturing cider, we inquired his opinion of the war.
“Didn’t you think, Uncle, the white folks were great fools to kill each other the way they did?” said my friend.