O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, but linger still in memory!
In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer days of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away to the grassy knoll where “Stuart’s oak” still stands. 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. The old hall was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an instant; rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the waters—then the caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more, and the coming simoom.
Stuart’s head-quarters disappeared—we bade our kind friends good-bye—and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee’s column was then marching.