LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 IPS z^3 ,*>, 
 
 Shelf 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE 
 
 -OF THE- 
 
 LOST CAUSE, 
 
 / 
 
 !Y A. St. J. PICKETT. 
 
 A TRAGIC POEM OF THE WAR. 
 
 1* 
 
 IN T'OTm. ACTS 
 
 Notice.— This work has been adapted to the Stage by the Author, and all per- 
 ons are warned not to recite or represent it in public, upon the Stage, or other- 
 wise, without his consent. 
 
 COLUMBUS : 
 
 THE WESTBOTE PRINTING CO. 
 
 1884. 
 
 

 Enterea according to act of Congress, in the year 1884, by A. St. J. Pickett, in 
 the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
THE 
 
 TRAGEDY OF THE LOST CAUSE, 
 
 By A. St. J. Pickett. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The story of the old soldier ; whose silvery locks 
 Were lovingly mingled with the golden hair 
 Of a beautiful girl who was sleeping there 
 On his battle-scarred breast. 
 
 The great civil war of America — that heroic struggle of 
 the southern people in defence of the Lost Cause, against 
 the stupendous power of the North, wielded in support of 
 the Federal Union — furnished many a tragic incident of sell- 
 sacrifice and noble devotion, worthy to be celebrated in song 
 or woven into the fabric of romance ; but there is no private 
 history of which I know anything as full of dramatic effects 
 as the one I now propose to relate. Nor can I think of one 
 more closely interwoven with those great events that have 
 rendered this beautiful region historic — events that trans- 
 pired, my child, before your fair face had made the world 
 brighter, or these golden curls had coiled themselves so 
 closely around your grandfather's heart. My story relates 
 to those turbulent times when sectional animosity and po- 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Htical antagonism had at last culminated in the disintegration 
 of the Union, and finally precipitated the stupendous catas- 
 trophe of war ; when society was shaken to its center, and 
 the natural ties of blood and association were uprooted and 
 scattered as by a whirlwind ; when religious fanaticism 
 largely usurped the place of piety ; when incendiary speeches 
 were made from the pulpit, and prowling emissaries pene- 
 trated even the more remote and secluded regions of the 
 South, and in the name of humanity and high heaven, in- 
 cited the negroes to revolt and massacre, and the most 
 horrible excesses of infuriate hatred. At the time when 
 my story begins, the storm had not yet broken, or the seal 
 of death been set on these enchanting scenes ; but it was 
 not long ere these peaceful valleys were made the theatre 
 of a gigantic conflict, and the solitude of these mountain 
 fastnesses broken by the bugle-call rallying brave men to 
 battle. Then the tramp of armed legions was heard in the 
 night, and streams of glittering steel poured through our 
 valleys ; nor was it long ere the clash of arms and thunder 
 of heavy guns were heard in the wild tumult and shock of 
 war. 
 
 The speaker was a man far advanced in years ; but his 
 tall, fine form was unbent by time, and his noble features 
 still retained their habitual expression of command. There 
 was in his manner a quiet dignity and conscious power, truly 
 majestic ; and the fine inflections of his voice — deep and soft 
 as the sound of distant summer thunder — gave evidence, if 
 that were wanting, of the thoroughly cultivated gentleman ; 
 whilst his martial bearing, no less than the deep scar which 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 lay in a white seam across his forehead, might well have 
 indicated to one not knowing it, that he had been no stranger 
 to those scenes of havoc to which he had referred ; and yet, 
 upon the lips of that stern, dark man, there was a tremor of 
 emotion — not that of weakness, but of strength of feeling — 
 and in his touch a tenderness like that of woman, as he 
 toyed with those masses of beautiful hair that lay like ripples 
 of sunlight on his battle-scarred breast, and kissed the fair, 
 young face that nestled so lovingly against his own. But 
 why was he silent so long ? Was the story forgotten ? Was 
 the old soldier dreaming ? Yes, dreaming as memory dreams 
 of the past — dreaming of joys that were gone ; of the youth 
 that had fled ; of the hopes that were dead ; of the love, 
 and sorrow, and agony of other years ; of the days of 
 desolation and night of despair ! Then the glory of sunset, 
 and the sweet, serene twilight at last. 
 
 He had been dreaming long — how long he knew not, 
 nor cared. Still he rested his chin on the withering hand 
 that held his heavy cane, his dark eyes fixed on scenes that 
 no longer moved before him. 
 
 The beautiful girl, too gentle to disturb his reverie, had 
 crept still closer to the brave old heart, and now lay fast 
 asleep on her grandfather's breast; her fair hair mingled 
 with his silvery locks, and the trembling sweetness of 
 her soft, warm lips still pressed, while she slept, to the 
 brawny cheek of that stern old warrior. But the lovely 
 picture was lost to him ; his thoughts were turned back o'er 
 the years that had fled, and the varied scenes of his eventful 
 life ; and long he sat there, motionless, on that picturesque 
 porch, where the luxurious honeysuckle loaded the air with 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 its rich perfume ; nor thought of the sweet young life whose 
 pure current ran so close to the dark mystery of his own ; 
 still less of the changeful beauty of the evening landscape, 
 as the lengthening shadows crept over the valley, or the 
 magnificent panorama of celestial loveliness passing before 
 him. 
 
 The sun had gone down behind the purple gloom of 
 North Mountain in all the pomp and splendor of the god of 
 day, trailing his robes of royal purple, and crimson, and gold 
 along the rosy-green sky; whilst the Blue Ridge blushed 
 beneath his parting kiss. The graceful form of Mount 
 Massanutton, clothed in opalescent hues, lay in soft lines 
 along the south-west horizon. Down in the valley where 
 the blue mists had gathered, winding away through the olive- 
 green forests, the flashing waters of the bright Shenandoah, 
 with their green, glassy curves and feathery spray, as they 
 curled 'round the rocks on their musical way to the broad 
 Potomac, were lost in the distance and gloom of the coming 
 night. 
 
 No sound disturbed the deep solitude of the hour, save 
 the tinkle of cow-bells beyond the river, and the voice of a 
 solitary fisherman returning from his nets, chanting a melody 
 in a low, monotonous tone to the dip of his oars, as his eyes 
 wandered thoughtfully backwards along the pale wake of 
 his boat. Ever and anon, a fish broke the surface of the 
 mirrored waters with circles of light spreading afar o'er the 
 deep purple shadows in the quiet stream ; then all was still. 
 
 The day was spent. Over the dark curtain of moun- 
 tains in the east the full moon rose with ruddy glow ; and 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 the solitary owl in the lonely forest proclaimed the reign of 
 night. Close by the side of a beautiful brook, that ran 
 through a rocky ravine to the river near by, where the clear, 
 cool current suddenly started from its loitering way, and 
 went dashing and flashing between the green rocks, whose 
 purple and russet sides — sometimes silvered with a winterish 
 frost, or covered in places with spangles of moss — were 
 reflected here and there in the eddying pools ; there stood 
 an humble cottage, half concealed amidst grand, old forest 
 trees, and surrounded with green grass and beds of flowers, 
 with here and there a clump of flowering shrubs. 
 
 A certain air of comfort and refined taste, not unmingled 
 with an unconscious evidence of gentle breeding and former 
 affluence, surrounded the unpretentious home. 
 
 Stretching along the front of the house was a long, low 
 porch, commanding a glorious view, and laden with masses 
 of fragrant honeysuckle in bloom, through which the moon, 
 light streamed, and wrought fantastic forms in bright mosaic 
 on the floor. 
 
 In after years, at such an hour, there sat on that pic- 
 turesque porch and dreamed, an old man, whose silvery locks 
 were lovingly mingled with the golden hair of a beautiful 
 girl, who was sleeping there on his battle-scarred breast ; and 
 the trembling sweetness of her soft, warm lips was pressed, 
 as she slept, to the brawny cheek of that stern old warrior. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. — Not far from this cottage, on the banks of the beautiful river, whose 
 tiny wavelets now flashed in the moonlight like spangles of stars on 
 the bosom of night, stood a hewn-log-cabin, whose appearance of 
 cleanly comfort and contentment was in perfect harmony with the 
 adjacent house to which it evidently belonged. 
 
 Just emerging from the door came an aged negro, who paused 
 a moment upon the threshold and looked around ; then pounding 
 the floor with his heavy cane, he accompanied the action with a 
 merry voice, saying — 
 
 Tom. You, Dina ! You ole gal ! 
 
 What you want, nigga? [answered Dina from within.] 
 
 Tom. Bring dat a' banjo hea' dis minute ; d' yo' hyea' 
 me ? 
 
 Ugh ! [Then lowering his voice into a wierd chant, he 
 sung]— 
 
 Hoo, hoo-ooh ; hoo-ooh ! 
 
 De moon am on de riba; 
 
 Hoo, hoo-ooh ; hoo-ooh ! 
 
 De wata 's all a-quiba ; 
 
 An' de spa'kles bright, 
 
 Like de sta's ob night, 
 
 Am trembl'n on de riba. 
 
 Hoo, hoo-ooh ; hoo-ooh ! 
 
 I's gwine to git de banjo, too ; hoo-ooh ; hoo-ooh. 
 
 [Pausing, he placed his hand to his ear and leaned for- 
 ward in a listening attitude. Far away beyond the river, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 amidst the forest's solitude and mountain mystery, echo 
 answered] — 
 
 Hoo-ooh ; hoo-ooh. 
 
 Old Tom. Ugh, ugh ! You 's been da long 'nough to 
 knows de voice ob Ole Tom widout ax'n me — " Who 's you ! " 
 No, sah, you ca'nt come dat on dis nigga ! [And the old 
 negro then commenced to move in a wierd sort of dance 
 with his shadow, in a manner that showed the dexterity he 
 had possessed in earlier years.] 
 
 Enter Old Dina, an aged negress, wife of Tom. 
 
 Whew ! Lo'd a-mighty, nigga ! [ejaculated the old 
 woman, as she appeared at the door with the banjo, rolling 
 her eyes in astonishment, and showing the ivory in her 
 capacious mouth.] 
 
 Ugh-ugh ! Gugh-faugh ! Hyeah, hyeah, hyeah ! [she 
 continued, convulsed with laughter, winding up with an 
 exhaustive slap on her knee] — 
 
 Am dat you, Tom? Fo' de lo'd, honey; if you isn't 
 git'n young agin', sho' 'nuff. 
 
 Tom. Hyeah, hyeah ? [laughed Old Tom.] 
 
 You 's shout'n now ! But I say, you Dina ; d' you 
 'memba de times when dis ole coon use to shuffle 'roun' dat 
 a' little fat gal dat you wuz, an' tickle you unda de ribs — so ! 
 [mischievously suiting the action to the words.] 
 
 Go 'long, nigga ; no you neba ; [cried Dina with a broad 
 grin, retreating behind the door.] 
 
 Ugh ! Golly ; but dat ole gal 's a caution, sho ! [ex- 
 claimed the old man, looking around in search of something.] 
 
 Bress me ; wha 's dat a' cheer done gone to ? 
 
10 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Ugh-hugh ; hea' you is, is you ? [he continued reaching 
 around for something he felt in his rear.] 
 
 Come 'long roun' hea', now, wha' you 's wanted ; so ! 
 [and he slowly hauled it around with the stern deliberation 
 of a school-master who had detected a youngster pinning 
 paper to his coat tail, and set it down before him ; eyeing it 
 the while as if fearful it might get away again.] 
 
 Now, den [he continued], you jis stay right dar 'till Ole 
 Tom gits de banjo ; you hea' ? [And the good old soul 
 shuffled back to the door for his beloved instrument, where 
 Dina had left it, with an amusingly suspicious glance back- 
 wards at the recreant stool. Having secured his treasure, 
 he retraced his steps and sat down on the rickety old stool 
 with such emphasis that they both went crashing to the 
 ground. Picking himself up very leisurely, he rubbed him- 
 self in various places to ascertain the extent of the damage ; 
 examined his banjo ; inspected the chair ; and felt the bald 
 spot on the top of his head to see if it was still there.] 
 
 Hyeah, hyeah ! [he exclaimed.] Dah you is yit ; de 
 same ole spot ! [Finding everything in working order, he 
 balanced himself carefully on the three remaining legs of 
 the stool, and began to tune his banjo. Having done so to 
 his satisfaction, he said merrily] — 
 
 Dat ah ole song ; I neba does git tia'd ob dat ole song ; 
 it sort o' brings back de mem'ry ub de good ole times. 
 [Then raising his deep full voice — which trembled, however, 
 a little with age — he sang to an accompaniment] — 
 
 Wha' de moonbeam am de brightest, da dis nigga lubs 
 to be, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 11 
 
 An' dance wi' dis hea' nigga [pointing at his shadow], 
 
 dat 's de nigga shape ob me ; 
 An' 'magine dat 's de coon dat use to climb de ole gum 
 
 tree 
 By moon-light a'ta possums in de woods ob Tennessee. 
 
 Burden : Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 An' 'magin 'dat 's de coon dat use to climb de ole gum 
 
 tree — 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 By moonlight a'ta possums in de woods ob Tennessee. 
 [As he paused, the voices of a company of negroes in the 
 distance rose in a grand chorus] — 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 An' 'magin 'dat 's de coon dat use to climb de ole gum 
 
 tree — 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 By moonlight a'ta possums in de woods ob Tennessee. 
 
 Tom. Hyeah, hyeah ! [laughed Old Tom.] Dey 's 
 com'n, sho ! [And the old fellow slapped his knee in great 
 glee, and squirmed around, rolling his eyes with delight ; 
 then raised his voice again in song] — 
 
 Wha de moonbeam am de brightest, da dis nigga lubs 
 
 to be, 
 An' 'magin 'dat 's de nigga [shadow] dat dis nigga use 
 
 to see 
 When I dance wid lubly Dina in de yea's so long 
 
 gone by, 
 Afo' de stary brightness had died out ob her black eye. 
 
12 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 I dance wid lubly Dina in de yea's so long gone by — 
 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 Afo' de stary brightness had died out ob her black eye. 
 
 [As he softly picked an interlude in a meditative way, 
 the negro chours, now evidently nearer, again caught his 
 ear, rising clear and full on the night air.] — 
 
 Negro Chorus. Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 He dance wid lubly Dina in de yea's so long gone by — 
 
 ° n . n igg as 5 yes, niggas ; 
 
 Afo' de stary brightness had died out ob her black eye ! 
 
 [Shaking his head sadly, as if to deprecate the ravages 
 of time, Old Tom added in a soft, low solo] — 
 
 Afo' de stary brightness had died out ob her black eye ! 
 
 [Then he picked an interlude and resumed his song] — 
 
 When de moonbeam am de brightest, an' dis nigga 
 
 [shadow] da'kest seems, 
 De fo'ms ob ea'ly joys come back in dis hea' nigga's 
 
 dreams ; 
 An' I 'magin' I is young agin, an' Dina wid dis coon 
 Am danc'n by de riba in de bright light ob de moon. 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 I 'magin' I is young agin, an' Dina wid dis coon — 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 Is danc'n by the riba in the bright light ob de moon. 
 
 [Arising, he resumed that slow, grotesque dance with 
 his shadow. And sure enough, out glided Old Dina and 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 13 
 
 skipped, and hopped, and shuffled around Old Tom to his 
 infinite delight, until, in the excitement, they both broke 
 into a double shuffle. And now was heard a grand chorus, 
 swelling loud, as a large company of negroes came upon the 
 scene and joined in the dance.] 
 
 Chorus — all. Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 
 We 'magin' Tom am young agin, an' Dina wid dat 
 
 coon — 
 Oh, niggas ; yes, niggas ; 
 Am dance'n by the riba in de bright light ob de moon ! 
 
 Shoo, dah ! [suddenly exclaimed Tom, with a gesture 
 to enjoin silence, as he leaned eagerly forward on his cane, 
 and peered into the gloom in the direction of the cottage.] 
 
 You niggas, git away fum hea', quick ! D' you hea' me ? 
 Fo' de lo'd, da comes de Miss Lilly, sart'n, sho ! [The 
 negroes all quickly roll their eyes in the direction indicated 
 by Tom ; and with broad grins and suppressed tee-hees, 
 shyed and shuffled away with apish antics and every form 
 of grotesque attitude.] 
 
 [Exeunt company of negroes. 
 
 Oh, here you are, you dear, dear, dear old Uncle Tom ! 
 [exclaimed a lovely, fair-haired girl of seventeen summers, 
 in a silvery voice, twirling by the ribbons her pretty straw 
 hat as she bounded into view.] 
 
 Oh, how glad, glad, glad I am to see my. old play-fellow 
 once more ! [she continued, placing her little, white-gloved 
 hand into his great, black paw]. 
 
 Lo'd bress yo' heart, honey [ejaculated the old black 
 
14 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 man, delightedly, pressing the little hand to his lips with 
 infinite delicacy and tender respect]. 
 
 Wha 's you done come fum now ? Fo' de lo'd, chile, 
 I 's jis dy'n kase I 's so glad to see de little Miss Lilly, sho 
 'nuf, back hea' ! Bress de good lo'd ! [continued the faith- 
 ful old creature, slapping his knee as was his wont to testify 
 his pleasure, and fairly squirming with excess of joy] — 
 
 Golly ! But it do tickle dis ole nigga, sho, to see dem 
 eyes once agin a-fo' I dies ! An' so de Miss Lilly an't done 
 gone 'n fo'got Ole Tom a'ta all ? Ugh ? 
 
 Forgotten you, Uncle Tom ! If [exclaimed the lovely 
 girl, a slight shade passing over her beautiful face] — 
 
 Do you not know that my recollections of you are 
 associated with all that is brightest and sweetest in life? 
 Then how could I forget you ? 
 
 No, no, chile; bress de sweet life. I knowed you neba 
 could fo'git Ole Tom. But [added the kind-hearted old 
 negro, his voice a little thick with emotion] — it 's done gone 
 twelve long yea's, honey, since de times ub dem happy days 
 when Uncle Tom an' de child'n use to play all oba dese hills, 
 an' sail de little boats down dah in de meado'-brook, and pick 
 de wild flowas 'n de fields. 
 
 Dem was happy days, chile ; yes, dey was. [And the. 
 old man wiped away a silent tear]. 
 
 Yes, Uncle Tom ; and oh ! [she cried, clapping her 
 hands with glee] do you remember how we used to make 
 wreaths of them for your head ; and lead you home captive 
 with a rope of flowers ? 
 
 Tom. Bress yo' heart, chile ; I 'membas all dat zif 't 
 was yesterday ; an' sometimes de child'n 'd ride on de 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Ca?<se. 15 
 
 back ob de ole hoss, too ! Hyeah, hyeah, hyeah ! Yes, in- 
 deed ; yes, indeed ! 
 
 Lillian. Oh, how sweet the memory of those unclouded 
 days ! Ah, me [she sighed, as a flood of sweet recollections 
 overwhelmed her], how I should love to live those years all 
 over again ! 
 
 And so should I ! [exclaimed a manly voice behind 
 them, as Augustus Hampton came upon the scene.] 
 
 Oh ! [cried Lillian with a start, the color rushing to her 
 cheeks, and her eyes lighting up with a thrill of pleasure as 
 she turned with mingled timidity and childish confidence] — 
 
 Oh, dear ! [she continued, catching her breath, and 
 instinctively laying her hand upon her heart] — 
 
 I knew who it was, though [she said coyly, yielding to 
 his strong embrace, and pouting her pretty lips for his eager 
 kiss. By this time the faithful old playmate, finding himself 
 involved in such a delicate scene, and feeling that he might 
 have outlived his usefulness, commenced to withdraw respect- 
 fully from the presence of the young folks. 
 
 Turning, he percieved a young darky standing with his 
 arms a-kimbo, and his eyes and mouth engaged in violent 
 competition to see which could open widest ; evidently 
 experiencing for the first time a revelation of love in high 
 life. Cracky ! [ejaculated the imp, in a whisper.] 
 
 You, Klack ! You, nigga ! [shouted Tom, making a 
 dive for him] come hea', you tarnal moke ! Jis lef me 
 kotch hold 'n dat inquisitum imp ; 'n if I don't makes de 
 fur fly an' larn dat ah coon to stan' dah a-kimbo — you hea' 
 me ! [But Klack had vanished long before this tirade had 
 
16 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 ended ; and poor old Tom was left to shuffle away in his 
 wake as fast as he could, but without the least prospect of 
 overtaking him. Augustus and Lillian laughed softly at the 
 incident.-] 
 
 Faithful Old Tom [said Augustus, affectionately.] We 
 shall miss him sadly when he goes to return no more. But, 
 Lillian, I heard that you were coming, darling, and hastened 
 home as fast as the wings of love and hope of happiness 
 could bring me ; but I find that you have won the race. 
 
 'Tis little worth, Augustus ; if that is all [she said co- 
 quettishly.] 
 
 Aug. Tut, tut ! You know full well all else was won 
 Ere the race of life had well begun. 
 
 But, Lillian [he exclaimed with exultant joy], how it 
 makes my heart to stand tip-toe to see you here once more 
 amidst the very scenes where this sweet dream of love be- 
 gan ! ' 
 
 And is it but a dream, Augustus ? [persisted she, with 
 tantalizing sweetness, in tones as liquid and tremulous as the 
 music of those crystal waters that ran beside them.] Ah, 
 then [she continued, nestling closer against his heart], may 
 there be in life no waking. 
 
 If it is a dream, 'tis one of paradise ! [exclaimed her 
 lover, rapturously, pressing the danity form to his heart.] 
 But listen [he added sharply.] I fancied I heard a footstep. 
 Ah, sir ; good evening, Mr. Rathmore ! [he continued, with 
 a spice of irony in his tone, as a tall, dark figure, muffled in 
 a short cloak, emerged from the deep shadow of a clump of 
 bushes into the full light of the moon.] 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 17 
 
 Ahem ! Good evening ; beg pardon, sir [said the new. 
 comer, cooly, raising his hat with sarcastic politeness.] I 
 was enjoying my cigar and an evening stroll, and so chanced 
 this way. Ahem ! A tru-ly delightful evening, especially 
 for those who are in a tru-ly delightful position to enjoy it. 
 It is, indeed ! [he added, bowing repeatedly, and again rais- 
 ing his hat with a graceful flourish as he proceeded on his 
 way.] 
 
 A very delightful evening, sir [replied Augustus, with 
 stern formality, touching his hat.] I trust that you, sir, are 
 in a position to enjoy it? [he continued with the same cold, 
 ironical tone ; for Augustus Hampton knew enough of Ralf 
 Rathmore to feel assured that his presence there was not the 
 result of accident.] 
 
 Thank you, sir; I think I am. Such displays of nature 
 are quite refreshing [retorted the other, facing about, and 
 allowing his eyes to rest insolently on the shrinking Lillian.] 
 These rustic scenes are tru-ly charming in their native sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 Quite true, sir ; especially to a native simpleton. 
 
 Gentlemen [cried Lillian, pale and trembling with fear 
 under that vague presentiment of evil peculiar to delicate or- 
 ganizations] : Will you be kind enough to desist from this ? 
 Augustus [she continued in a tone of gentle entreaty], will 
 you please take me to the house? Good evening, sir [she 
 added coldly, inclining her head slightly to Rathmore as she 
 moved away.] 
 
 I crave your pardon, my lady [replied the latter with a 
 mocking leer], for having so rudely disturbed you in your 
 
 2 
 
18 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 astronomical observations. I hope no other wandering sat 
 ellite or vapory meteor may come to circulate in your charm- 
 ingly charmed and charming vicinity, the harbinger of ill ; 
 hugh — hugh ! So, good night. But hold : What troop of 
 wierd, fantastic forms is this that comes this way with jing- 
 ling bells to tickle the ears of night ? Oh, ho [he added aside] : 
 I know them well ; 'tis the Gnome of Weyer's Cave, and her 
 spectral crew. Fair lady [he continued, addressing the lovely 
 Lillian], there comes a mystery who can mystery unveil ; 
 mayhap she can unravel your knotty thread of life, and read 
 your destiny. Farewell ! [And the tall, dark form of Ralf 
 Rathmore glided away into the black shadows of the night.] 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, came the sound of tinkling bells ; 
 jingle, jingle ; tinkle, tinkle ; here they come : mules and 
 cows, and dirty children ; horses, dogs, and ragged men ; 
 wagons full of pots and pans, bags and baggage, beds and 
 bedding, babes and women ; one promiscuous dirty muddle 
 and squalid huddle of wandering gipsy life. On a white ass 
 in the middle rode the Gipsy Queen — 
 
 Tall and thin ; grizzled locks and cheeks sunk in ; 
 
 And eyes that burned like fire : 
 
 Her toothless mouth, save here and there, 
 
 As if to add a hideous air, 
 
 A blackened fang on which to hang 
 
 Her shriveled lips, — 
 
 Looked less like that of human kind, 
 
 Than the wild creation of a frenzied mind, 
 
 Or insatiate beast of prey ; 
 
 Starting from her shaggy brows like some old snag, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 19 
 
 O'er the slimy lips of the hideous hag, 
 Her nose hooked round and nearly reached 
 Her upturned chin. 
 
 Clutching her rein with her long claw, as she appeared 
 upon the scene, she came to a halt and slipped to the ground 
 with surprising agility. Peering into the face of the shrink- 
 ing Lillian, the old crone croaked — 
 
 Say, say, lady fair : 
 
 Can you tell us where we are, 
 
 Wand'ring in the night ? 
 
 Off, — off, ye phantoms, there : 
 
 Vanish in the misty air ; 
 
 Here we find a happy pair 
 
 Who may set us right ! 
 
 Hoo — hoo — hoo, hoo ! 
 
 In hollow accents running through 
 
 The shadowy throng or motley crew— - 
 
 Might is right ; and following in her train, 
 
 'Round and 'round we'll come and go, 
 
 Through the carnage, wreck, and wo ; 
 
 And when 'tis done, and lost and won, 
 
 'Round and 'round we'll come again ! 
 
 Then croaked the crone in a strange, sepulchral tone — 
 
 In the whirligig of time, 
 
 When the Fates avenge a crime ; 
 
 When in battle ring and rattle 
 
 The devil's chains in hideous chime ; 
 
 When the storm rolls long and far, 
 
20 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Bending the gates of hell ajar, — 
 And belching flame in heaven's name, 
 The legions damned march forth to mar 
 With fire and sword the face of nature ; 
 Then indeed is little heed 
 Paid to beauty, worth, or age ! 
 So, lady fair ; take heed ; beware ! 
 Danger's in the trembling air ! 
 War, war ; wo, wo ; 
 Tarry not — but go ! 
 
 Have done with this, old lady ; what meaning may there 
 be in all this mummery? [demanded Augustus, half laughing 
 and half seriously.] Tell us what you want, and then be 
 gone. 
 
 Tell ye? And for what? [she cried.] 
 
 Yet I can tell ye that will make your blood run cold ! 
 Yea, yea, lady gay ; and lordly gentleman though you be ; 
 As I wander to and fro, / know ; / see ; 
 Even so — even so. 
 
 Say! [she cried, with a sudden fierceness, that made 
 them both recoil.] Hast thou a sire, fair sir? — or thou? [she 
 continued, pointing her long bony finger at the frightened 
 girl]— 
 
 Living or dead ; what e'er be said ; 
 Can ye say it — yes or no ? 
 
 A sire? Infernal wretch, would you insinuate? [hissed 
 Augustus between his teeth, as he glared like a tiger on the 
 horrid hag.] Shall I tear your rotten carcass limb from limb? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 21 
 
 Away, you slimy reptile ; or by the sacred name of her you 
 would revile, I'll thrash the earth with your p6isonous skin 
 as long as there is a shred left of it ! [But scarcely had he 
 uttered the words ere a score of glittering blades flashed in 
 the moonlight, and the dark forms of the gipsy crew sur- 
 rounded them with menacing gestures and savage scowls.] 
 
 Stay your wrath, young master, and learn a lesson from 
 your own vile tongue [croaked the crone, as she waved her 
 hand slightly to disperse the savage crowd.] Folly is the 
 father of your words, since you place thy meaning on the 
 things /say. 
 
 I meant no aspersion on thy mother's name, 
 
 For you 'tis more the shame 
 
 To curse the old and lame. 
 
 But hark : whom you revile has been your friend 
 
 When all the signs did only ill portend, 
 
 In times and times, and dark of moons — 
 
 When bloody red it hung low in the murky sky 
 
 Close to your star of destiny — 't was I — e'en I 
 
 Who broke the spell, and saved you from the jaws 
 
 of hell ! 
 And for what ? But it matters not ; 
 Yet take you this word of warning : list — 
 Wandering, wandering over the earth, 
 With curses deep, and thirsting for revenge, 
 One seeks — and seeks but to destroy. 
 
 Who seeks? Seeks what? [exclaimed Augustus, im- 
 patiently ; for he was strongly impressed, despite himself, by 
 what the old creature said.] 
 
22 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 So may ye ask ; and so find out. Yet will I say — thy 
 father! [cried the hag, stretching her long finger towards 
 Augustus with a tragic air.] 
 
 Aug. Father ! Forsooth ; I have no father, hag ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! [croaked the crone derisively.] Cans't thou say 
 it? Yes or no ! 
 
 Here ; witch or woman ; what e'er you are [exclaimed 
 our hero], take this piece of gold ; and if you know aught of 
 this, unravel now the mystery. 
 
 Keep thy gold [cried the witch] ; I need it not. But 
 ah ! [she added in an altered tone, turning to Lillian] — 
 
 Here I find a lily fair ; 
 
 How I wonder who you are ! 
 
 May I hold thy tiny hand, 
 
 And lead thee into fairy-land, 
 
 Lily fair ? Soft and sweet as summer air ; 
 
 Sunbeams in thy golden hair ; 
 
 Pure and lovely everywhere : 
 
 Shall the Fates from evil spare ? 
 
 May I take thy rose-tipped hand, 
 
 And in heaven's glittering band 
 
 Seek thy star of destiny? 
 
 Say not nay to the wrinkled, rough, and gray! 
 
 Lady fair, how I wonder who you are ! [And the old 
 creature extended her gnarly hand with such a look of en- 
 treaty, that the beautiful girl, half reluctantly, yet with a 
 smile, suffered the hag to take her hand. The old woman 
 turned the soft palm upwards, and bent over it as if to read 
 the lines. Lower and still lower she bent ; her glittering 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 23 
 
 eyes rivetted spell-bound upon the object before her, which 
 she grasped with such convulsive energy that Lillian cried 
 with pain, and tried to wrench it from her grasp.] Hey | 
 [wildly shrieked the shrunken shrew, casting the hand away 
 and recoiling as if stricken with terror] — 
 
 How can this thing be ? 
 Woe, woe, woe to thee ! 
 Woe to thee, thou lily fair, 
 Now that I know who you are ! 
 
 With the water drift [she muttered in a 
 
 strange, low, hollow tone] — 
 
 From the water swift ; 
 
 By the water ; to the water ; 
 
 And beneath it by and by, 
 
 You shall lie — darkly die, and 
 
 As an outcast swift to flee 
 
 From life's black night to death's dark mystery! 
 
 Farewell ; so short a time, farewell ! [mut- 
 tered the Gnome in unearthly tones, as her bent form moved 
 slowly backwards out of view, pointing her finger with 
 prophetic warning at the frightened girl.] 
 
 As the wierd creature vanished, preceded by the spectral 
 crew, the poor child sank with a low moan into the arms of 
 Augustus. 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus ! Oh, Mas. 'Gustus ! [shouted the well- 
 known voice of Old Tom.] Wha is you, chile? 
 
 Here ! Here, Uncle Tom ; be quick ; I need you 
 [answered Augustus quickly.] 
 
24 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Hea' I is Mas. 'Gustus ! Good lo'd, what's de matta 
 wid de Miss Lilly ? [cried Tom in a single breath as he hur- 
 ried upon the scene.] 
 
 Aug. Get some water ; be quick ; the Gnome has 
 frightened the wits out of her. 
 
 De Gnome ! Fo' de lo'd, Mas. 'Gustus ; dat ole witch 
 am de sista ob de debble ! [muttered the old negro, as he 
 tried in vain to break into a run ; but the poor, old feet 
 would lag behind, despite his desperate efforts.] 
 
 [Exit, Tom. 
 
 Lillian, darling ! do you hear me ? [said Augustus, 
 slowly sinking and resting the insensible form upon his knee.] 
 Yes, yes ; you do ! [he cried joyously.] 
 
 Bless those sweet eyes ! [he continued with passionate 
 tenderness, as Lillian slowly opened them in a bewildering 
 way. A sweet smile crept over her lips as she recognized 
 Augustus ; and she slowly raised her hand to his face, as if 
 to assure herself that it was really he ; then stole her arms 
 around his neck, and sighed.] 
 
 Augustus ; is it really you? Where are we, dear? [she 
 faintly asked.] Oh, yes; oh, dear! That horrid creature! 
 I remember now ; what was it she said ? 
 
 Never mind ; it was nothing, darling [replied Augustus 
 in a reassuring tone.] 'Twas but the croaking of a soulless 
 hag, whose only object is to affright ; thus making capital of 
 the people's fears. Come ; let us to the house, where you 
 may rest. 
 
 [But now came the sound of many voices, and footsteps 
 hurrying towards the spot. In another moment, a large 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 25 
 
 party of ladies and gentlemen, interspersed with negro serv- 
 ants, rushed upon the scene with exclamations of alarm, 
 mingled with a hundred hurried questions.] 
 
 In vain Lillian tried to laugh the matter off, and con- 
 vince them that nothing serious had occurred ; for she still 
 leaned heavily upon the arm of Augustus, and her face was 
 deathly pale. Many were the imprecations, threats, and 
 words of indignation, as Augustus, in as few words as pos- 
 sible, explained the strange affair. Forcing his way through 
 the crowd, came faithful Tom bearing a basin of water. 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus ; hea' 's de wata, sah ! [he exclaimed with 
 respectful solicitude.] 
 
 Thank you, Uncle Tom [replied Augustus kindly] ; but 
 you have had all your trouble for nothing ; we shall not need 
 it now. 
 
 Yes, sah ; Fs mouty glad [said the old servant, bowing 
 low repeatedly as he backed away.] 
 
 You, Klack ! [cried Old Dina.] Take dat wata, nigga ! 
 Da's no tell'n, Miss Lilly mout Avant dat wata yit ; an' you 
 jis stay 'roun 'bout hea' wha yo' mout be want'n — you hea' ? 
 
 Yes'm [grunted the black scamp, as he took the basin of 
 water from the hands of Tom.] 
 
 Aug. Come, ladies and gentlemen, let us to the house ; 
 and as the evening star leads forth the moon, so I, fair Lil- 
 lian. Then may all these shadows tarry with the night when 
 we are gone. 
 
 You, Klack! [sha.ply ejaculated Old Dina, as she per- 
 ceived the little black imp standing in the way, staring at Lil- 
 lian with eyes and mouth wide open.] 
 
26 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 You, Klack ! [ejaculated Tom on the other side.] Quick 
 as a flash the boy whirled and made a dive to escape Tom's 
 hand ; but horror of horrors ; he landed his wooly cranium 
 square in the ample abdomen of the plethoric Dina, who 
 doubled up with surprising agility and went spinning and 
 hopping around, holding it tenderly in her hands, and bel- 
 lowing at the top of her voice — 
 
 Oh, oh, oh ! Fo' de lub uv heab'n ! Ugh ! Fo' de lub 
 uv — ugh — ugh ! [The unlucky Klack sank upon his knees 
 before Dina, with eyes rolling in mortal terror, and his 
 clasped hands extended in supplication. But she was evi- 
 dently in no lenient mood, or was too busy with her own 
 affairs to be bothered by him, and so yelled at the top of 
 her voice, accompanying the words with a vicious kick, which 
 Klack, however, adroitly dodged] — " You git away from 
 hea', honey ; fo' I kicks de stuf n clar out'n yo' ! You hea' ! " 
 [But instead of waiting to see her commands complied with, 
 she went herself; vigorously caressing her tender feelings 
 with both hands, and grunting energetically] — 
 
 Ugh! Fo' de lo'd! Ugh! Fo' de lub uv— [At this 
 critical moment Klack again caught a glimpse of Tom's hand 
 hovering in the air, and made another formidable pass to es- 
 cape the threatened evil ; and this time he took the legs clean 
 from under another negro standing near, and sent him sprawl- 
 ing over his back. The two rolled over and over, and finally 
 brought up in a sitting position, face to face ; glaring at each 
 other in mute astonishment. Ruefully rubbing his wooly 
 pate, the rascally author of all this rumpus exclaimed with 
 an enormous grin] — 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 27 
 
 Klack. Golly! Am dat you, Joe? What's yo' do'n 
 'way oba da? 
 
 I'll show yo' nigga, what I's do'n way oba da ! [ex- 
 claimed Joe, angrily, as he scrambled to his feet ; and as Klack 
 sped away on his hands and knees, seeing a good opportunity, 
 he leveled a vigorous kick at it. But the kick missed fire, 
 and Joe came near losing his footing; but he saved him- 
 self by bracing up abruptly against Old Dina's back, giving 
 her a terrible jolt. Thoroughly angry, he now made another 
 desperate assault on Klack's fundamental principles ; but the 
 wary rascal was on his guard ; and as he saw it coming, 
 dropped suddenly ; then, as Joe's feet went flying over his 
 back, he sprang to his feet with a quick movement and 
 caught it on his shoulder, sending his assailant sprawling on 
 the flat of his back. By this time the entire company was 
 in an uproar. 
 
 Ugh — ugh ! [grunted Old Dina, wiping away her sweat 
 and tears with the corner of her apron] — Da's no use a 
 talk'n ; dat ah chile '11 be de def ub dis ole mammy yit ! 
 [And to complete the ludicrous termination of the scene, the 
 fat, jolly old negress, now fairly exhausted, and still puffing 
 and blowing like a walrus on dry land, having backed up 
 against a rustic seat, and thinking it exactly the thing she 
 then most needed, sat down to rest. But blizzards and furies ! 
 The mischievous Klack, seeing her intention, slyly slipped 
 in the seat the basin of water. The astonished victim 
 scrambled out of it as fast as her fatness would permit, whilst 
 the deal of a darky, already out of reach, and glancing back 
 with a grin, tucked his head with a snicker and darted away 
 like the imp of satan he was, with the irate Dina in hot pur- 
 
28 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 suit. The whole affair was. so ludicrous, that the entire party 
 now joined in the general hilarity, and merrily followed 
 Augustus and Lillian to the house, singing gaily] — 
 
 Chorus — all, except Augustus and Lillian : 
 
 Now, Jupiter is the ev'ning star, 
 
 And Lillian is the moon ; 
 
 But in the morning's golden car, 
 
 As Venus she shall soon 
 
 Appear before the god of day, 
 
 In beauty's pure and bright array ; 
 
 In beauty, pure and bright alway, 
 
 As Venus or the moon ! 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 Soon the open glade was as peaceful under the serene 
 moonlight as it was before the varied events through which 
 we have passed in the preceding scene had disturbed its 
 quiet. Then from the deep gloom of the surrounding trees 
 glided a tall, dark figure, muffled in a short cloak. 
 
 So, so [quoth Ralf Rathmore, for it was he], 
 
 'Tis an ill wind that blows no good ; 
 
 The Gnome knows something, or the wind is ill ; 
 
 Or the adage lies, which e'er you will. 
 
 Well, well ; what e'er it is, 'tis better to be wise, 
 
 Howe'er one's wisdom sends kiting to the skies 
 
 One's vanity. Knowledge, they say, is power ; 
 
 Perhaps this little episode unravels a knotty mystery, 
 
 And explains the reason why I have been repelled, 
 
 And yet, would Lillian Bellemont wed so poor a man ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 29 
 
 Tis not that / would wed, that I would know ; 
 
 But that her wedding would confound me so. 
 
 Howe'er that be, in candor I must confess 
 
 He is my peer, and more, in all that makes a man — 
 
 Whate'er by fickle fortune man be made. 
 
 But why this fierce antagonism and jealous hate? 
 
 He is, or was, her foster brother, 
 
 And this attachment may be nothing more. 
 
 Still, his gall has made him bitter to my taste, 
 
 And I must reckon him mine enemy. 
 
 'Tis very like he knows the nature of my game, 
 
 And fain would fail me. 
 
 Then be it so : the opposition, whate'er the motive to it, 
 
 Will whet my appetite, and give a certain value to the 
 
 prize. 
 Taken all in all, and measured by the standard 
 Of the common drift, 'tis a strange adventure. 
 There is something in it of romance ; and I am fond 
 
 of that. 
 Without a love affair, from time to time, 
 Life becomes insipid, and insufferably stale ; 
 Yet, too much sweetness palls upon the taste — 
 'Tis better when 'tis somewhat mixed. 
 He, ho, hum ! To break the dry hum-drum 
 Of social pleasures with some native fun ! 
 Love ; romance ; as in a blissful trance, 
 To wander for a time in bright Elysian fields ! 
 Ugh-hugh [he ejaculated in a peculiar tone, indicating 
 
 at once a species of contempt, and a familiarity 
 
 with such affairs] — 
 
30 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Upon my honor (if such a thing should chance 
 
 To be amongst my collaterals — hugh, hugh !) 
 
 She is as beautiful as a painter's dream. 
 
 No mere wall-flower ; or crude specimen 
 
 Of rustic loveliness ; but a type of that rare beauty 
 
 Which is the polished mirror of a polished mind. 
 
 But she is poor, and now dependent — not on bounty, 
 
 Which her spirit spurns — but on the fruits she garners 
 
 From the generous soil that nature gave her. 
 
 And better still, there is but one impediment in my way ; 
 
 And that may easily be removed — hugh-hugh — by faith ! 
 
 Young and inexperienced in the ways of the world ; 
 
 Innocent as a babe — knowing no evil, and suspecting 
 
 none ; 
 Confiding in anything and everything, because 
 She knows no difference between them ; 
 Fond of music and poetry, 
 Of which I have a liberal supply — 
 What more need a wily cuss like me desire ? 
 This fragrant tit-bit of youth and loveliness 
 Will fall an easy prey ! 
 
 Long experience has made of me an adept 
 In this profession ; and I have spread successfully 
 My net for older birds. 
 
 I will teach this little charmer a lesson of the world ; 
 Perhaps 'twill be of service to her when I have done. 
 Hist! Who comes this way ? [he muttered.] 
 Let us gently vanish in this dark retreat, 
 Where one may rest, by all the rest unseen. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 31 
 
 Something is sometimes learned whilst one is sleeping. 
 If perchance the gates be left ajar. 
 So vanish I ; so rest ; so sleep ! 
 
 So saying, Ralf Rathmore glided out of sight, just as 
 an elderly lady, walking slowly, and evidently absorbed in 
 thought, came upon the scene. 
 
 It was Mrs. Arlington, a wealthy lady of Baltimore ; the 
 supposed aunt, and the foster-mother of Rathmore. She 
 was a fine representative of that noble type of woman 
 peculiar to a past generation ; but now, unfortunately, so 
 seldom met. Tall, and finely proportioned ; her beautiful 
 teeth still intact ; her abundant hair of soft, silvery gray, 
 done up in an antique style ; and the chaste form, no less 
 than the quickly varying expression of her beautiful features, 
 indicating that fine quality of mind in which 'strength of 
 character is tempered with delicacy of feeling ; she presented 
 a picture worthy the pencil of a master. In her bearing 
 there was a certain loftiness and unconscious air of command 
 peculiar to the southern lady ; yet this trace of hauteur was 
 so softened with kindness, and that exquisite grace and per- 
 fect candor that belongs to none other than pure and guileless 
 minds, that it only made one appreciate and enjoy more 
 fully every dainty favor that she bestowed. In her face was 
 not wanting the withering witness of sorrow ; yet this was 
 half concealed beneath a serene composure that seemed to 
 say that she had gained the mastery. In her large, dark 
 eyes there was a deep, soft sadness ; an earnestness in her 
 speech ; a calm strength in her manner, belonging to those 
 old veterans only, who have fought and won the battle of 
 
32 The Tragedy yf the Lost Cause, 
 
 life. As she leisurely advanced to the open glade, she was 
 communing with herself in an earnest tone — 
 
 They say her name is Lillian ! [she exclaimed aloud, 
 
 evidently much agitated.] Ah ! [she continued in a 
 
 far-away tone] — 
 Those beautiful, beautiful eyes ! How they haunt me 
 
 still ! 
 The memories of other years ; how they now crowd 
 
 upon me ! [she cried with suppressed vehemence, 
 
 clasping her hands before her, and bowing her head 
 
 in sorrow.] 
 They are so like those other eyes whose gentle glow 
 Warmed my heart with gladness in the long ago ! 
 Then, is it strange the sight of them should fill 
 My soul with longing, and call up 
 The memory of those joys now flown forever? 
 Of which these fading images are all that now remain. 
 Alas [she added piteously], those days are gone, 
 And I am left alone to walk the night. 
 But, ah ! The dream ! That glorious dream ! 
 Was it but a fancy sprang from craving of the heart ? 
 I would know by what fatality I have sought these 
 
 scenes. 
 Was it but vain desire, or was it instinct that led me 
 
 here ? 
 Perhaps some higher power impelled me hither. 
 What e'er it was, or how, 'tis something more than 
 
 strange — 
 This dream and its coincidence. All the sweetness 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 33 
 
 Of that beautiful vision now returns with sight of her. 
 
 'Twas that angel face that was the center of my dream ! 
 
 Was it but an image drawn from memory's store, 
 
 And by the imagination's fertile power, 
 
 Woven into the fabric of that glorious dream ? 
 
 Then 'tis that the loadstone of my heart lies buried 
 
 here. 
 There is a fascination in this place, and near, 
 Far greater than its native charms ; 
 In happier days I traveled here. But now, 
 Alone and desolate I make this pilgrimage ; 
 For I may say alone, for all the comfort that I have 
 
 in him; 
 Yet must I love him still, since he is all I have to love. 
 He is my darling sister's child ; and in thus loving him, 
 I do but love her in what remains ; I can no other love. 
 Within a few hours' journey towards the setting sun, 
 There is a place where all my fondest hopes 
 And happiness in life lie buried with my child ! 
 Woe is me ; buried — but in no grave or certain place, 
 Where I might go and bathe the sacred sod 
 With sorrow's ceaseless flow ! 
 
 Torn from my arms to meet a fate I cannot know, 
 Or knowing, could not bear ; oh, precious jewel — 
 Thy father's image, and incarnation of a mother's joy — 
 What power, or potent spell 
 Of offended heaven or insatiate hell 
 Could be so cruel ? 
 
 3 
 
34 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 It seems that I could freight my dying breath 
 
 With imprecations, and a curse ! 
 
 But stay ; 'tis not the way if I would meet them there 
 
 [she added more calmly, extending her hands to. 
 
 heaven] — 
 But why have these years been lengthened out? 
 Why could I not have perished *vith my loved ones ? 
 Why were you. spared to me, child of my love, 
 To brighten my way for one vanishing day, 
 Only to make sorrow's night seem the darker ? 
 Stay thy words, thou monitor of the soul [she cried 
 
 with a gesture, as if to deprecate some imaginary 
 
 words of comfort or consolation] — 
 Nothing that thou can'st say can now restore 
 The lost jewel of my heart, or those that sleep 
 'Midst the dark mysteries of the deep. 
 There they lie like pearls of the ocean, 
 Driven with the sands a thousand fathoms below — 
 Proud Rathmore ; dark, and fierce, ajid tall, 
 Like Ralf; husband; sister; all! 
 None saved, save Ralf — poor sister's child, 
 From the wreck, and flames, and tempest wild 
 That swallowed all in death ! 
 Fifteen years have rolled away ; 
 Yet do the flames that shrouded them in death 
 Still burn, and flout their banners in my brain ! 
 How the imagination paints the scene — 
 The dark rolling of that limitless sea, 
 And black canopy of stormy cloud ; 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 35 
 
 The wild rush and roar of fire along the deck ; 
 
 The red flames with fiendish exultation 
 
 Mounting upwards, higher and hrgher, 
 
 Hurling the sails in sheets of fire 
 
 Against the blackness of the night. 
 
 See that throng of doomed unfortunates, forced to 
 
 choose 
 Betwixt the agony of consuming fire, 
 And the cold horror of the hungry deep ; 
 Clinging .wildly, surging to and fro, 
 With mingled shrieks and curses, 
 And most piteous appeals to heaven for help ; 
 And in their midst was all of earth most dear to me, 
 Save my child — my angel child ! 
 
 Oh, these memories make my heart to cease its beating. 
 This suffocating loneliness — this desolation of despair ; 
 Oh, 'tis so hard, so hard to bear ! [For one moment 
 
 pale and still she stood ; her head thrown back ; 
 
 her clasped hands raised to heaven, as her pale 
 
 lips moved in prayer. 
 
 As the summer sunshine chases the flying shadows over 
 the landscape, so a heavenly light stole softly over the wo- 
 worn face, and clouds and darkness took their flight.] 
 
 'Twas only a dream [she murmured in liquid tones] — 
 And yet it would seem like paradise. 
 And I saw her there ; an angel so supremely fair ; 
 With that same rippling, golden hair. 
 
 [Again she, paused, and stood as one entranced. In her 
 eyes there was a light deep-glowing, like the memory dear 
 
36 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 of some great happiness still burning like a holy light within 
 the darkened sanctuary of her soul. Then she raised her 
 eyes, and extending her hand towards the spangled firma- 
 ment, sang in a soft, low, tremulous tone] — 
 
 Oh, tell me, thou starry-gemmed heaven so fair, 
 
 Oh, tell me, I pray thee, is my darling there 
 
 In one of those spheres that now glitter so bright 
 
 On the deep, serene bosom of infinite night? 
 
 Oh, tell me some angel — pure spirit of love — 
 
 In which of those spheres dwells my little, lost dove? 
 
 Oh, do ye not know how this mother's heart yearns 
 
 With a longing as constant as your starlight burns? 
 
 Then tell me, ye angels ; oh, tell me my dream : 
 
 Was I sleeping or waking? Are things as they seem 
 
 Revealed in that beautiful, beautiful dream ? 
 
 [As the last notes died away, she turned, as if impelled 
 by some resistless influence, and her eyes became fixed in 
 bewilderment upon the enchanting vision that opened before 
 
 her.] 
 
 [Scene drawn, discovering Paradise. 
 
 There — there ! [she exclaimed with rapture, extending 
 her arms eagerly, and slowly sinking upon her knees] — 
 
 'Tis paradise — a scene in heaven, supremely fair ; 
 With golden lights and rosetints in the air ! 
 There in the midst, the fairest of that throng, 
 She leads the band, and mingles with their song 
 Her silvery notes: — thus sweetly sings 
 To their measured tread and beating of their wings ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 37 
 
 [A celestial march is first heard in the distance, increas- 
 ing in volume and apparently drawing nearer until the com- 
 pany of angels appears ; then fades away with the scene. 
 On so sweet a scene, albeit the fevered imagining of a dis- 
 ordered mind, let us draw the curtains and leave the weary 
 soul to rest in paradise.] 
 
 Scene 1. — Closed in. 
 
 As the full moon glided from beneath the cloud that had 
 overcast it at the close of the last scene, and the curtain of 
 darkness rolled away from the familiar spot, a tall, dark 
 figure, muffled in a short cloak, stealthily emerged from the 
 shelter of the surrounding shrubbery and stood in a listening 
 attitude in the open glade, cautiously peering around. 
 
 Well, she has gone [muttered Ralf Rathmore ; for as 
 may be supposed, it was he] — 
 
 Pity 'tis, 'tis not to paradise, 
 
 To join that band in the happy land. 
 
 Troth, / am nothing loth to grant her all that pleasure. 
 
 I might then take my ease, and enjoy her ample 
 
 treasure. 
 But in all sincerity, there is something here 
 Well calculated to excite my fear : 
 Suppose this girl — this Lillian fair — 
 Should prove her child — her only heir? 
 What right or portion would I have there ? 
 How would a luckless devil like me fare ? 
 A pensioner on her bounty ; her slave, or something 
 
 worse — 
 
38 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 An outcast; felon; fiend: my bitterest curse 
 
 Pursue the thought ! 
 
 Let me feel sure of this ; be this revealed 
 
 Beyond a doubt, and her doom is sealed ! 
 
 Tread lightly, loves ; tread softly as you like ; 
 
 Beware ! / shall not rattle ere I strike ! 
 
 If this must be, what care I for eternity? 
 
 Or life, or death, or hell, or heaven ? — 
 
 If I from affluence must be driven, 
 
 And wrapped in rags and poverty ! 
 
 Now may this dread uncertainty 
 
 And shadowy form of impending woe 
 
 Take form ; the full measure of calamity 
 
 And front of frowning danger, let me know ! 
 
 By all the powers of hell ; 
 
 Ye Furies ; and ye spirits damned : 
 
 I will invoke the spell 
 
 Of sorcery, and demand 
 
 To know if this must be ! 
 
 I will test this thing 
 
 By the potent power of the witch's ring. 
 
 [Scarcely had the words escaped his lips, ere the hideous 
 form of the Gnome of Weyer's Cave glided noiselessly forth 
 from the blackness of night, and stood motionless behind 
 him. Turning slowly, as if controlled by some mysterious 
 influence, he started back with a sort of horror, as he beheld 
 the unsightly creature.] 
 
 What ! So soon ? Behold the moon ! 
 'Tis not yet on the wane ! [he cried.] 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 39 
 
 Gnome. Tis not the moon that makes rrue come so 
 
 soon ; 
 Nor wait I for the wane before I come again. 
 Hast not invoked the ring ? 
 Beware the scorpion's sting ! 
 What cause hast thou to brine 
 Me hurrying here ? 
 •To root thy fear 
 
 In certainty ? Tis well ; have care, 
 A tempest gathers in the air ! 
 / sniff the storm and feel the jar 
 Of distant thunder in the sultry air ! 
 The rumbling discord near and far, 
 Proclaims disaster, wreck, and war ; 
 Nor rides thy star in heavens fair ! 
 Rath. Out upon you ! Why halt you there ? 
 Your tardy words impatience doth foment ; 
 And hot imagination doth present 
 Vague terrors to mine eyes ! A white-faced fear 
 Seems ever present, hovering near. 
 Be quick with it ; if there is danger here, 
 Condense your speech and let the worst appear ! 
 [Then commenced to slowly wag 
 The Gorgon's head of the hidious hag ; 
 And muttering low, 
 
 In measured accents deep and slow, she said] — 
 There is a tale that was never told ; 
 A narrative new — but a memory old. 
 Listen ; to thee I will unfold 
 A story '1 make thy blood run cold, 
 
40 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 And freeze the life-tide at thine heart. 
 
 I will tell thee who and whence thou art ! 
 
 Hugh, hugh ! What wilt thou? Why thus start? 
 
 Dost fear to know? Wouldst have the Gnome depart? 
 
 Rath. No ! By the gods, what e'er you know, 
 
 I would have you stay, and fairly show. 
 
 Long have I thought there was some mystery, 
 
 Or tale of horror concerning me, 
 
 In the deep gloom and obscurity 
 
 Of your dark mind. 
 
 Now the truth unbind, 
 
 And say your say, howe'er unkind, 
 
 Or fraught with terror. 
 
 Gnome. Then mark me well ; 
 
 Nor interrupt me if I dwell 
 
 Long on the things I have to tell, 
 
 Of love, and crime, and error, 
 
 And dark deeds that with terror 
 
 Make the shuddering flesh to creep, 
 
 And burn the eyes that no more weep 
 
 Because so old in sorrow. 
 
 There is near, a lady fair, 
 
 With waves of sunlight in her hair; 
 Whose story is a fairy tale, 
 With scenes laid in this lovely vale, 
 And mystery, like the silvery vail 
 Of morning mist around it. 
 
 Amidst the lilies, long ago — 
 
 Seventeen summers, if I know — 
 She was found where the musical flow 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 41 
 
 Of the limpid waters so merrily go ; 
 
 Where the violets blue and the lilies grow, 
 
 And forest-trees sway to and fro ; 
 
 On the banks of the meadow-brook. 
 
 In the beautiful stream, so cool and clear, 
 
 A little child, as it would appear, 
 
 Floating on a drifting plank, 
 
 Had stranded on the oozy bank 
 
 Where the lilies grow. 
 
 Dangling lazily over her head, 
 
 As the child lay in her watery bed, 
 
 The flowers her attention drew. 
 
 As she toyed with the blossoms, the morning dew 
 
 Sprinkled her face with the gems that flew 
 
 Glittering in the sun. 
 
 'Tis thus the statements run. 
 
 As the mornmg broke bright o'er the mountains of blue, 
 
 And each beautiful thing was all spangled with dew, 
 
 Along the old road where the wild flowers grew 
 
 Amidst the tangle of brush : 
 
 Came a bright little boy, with a rolicksome air, 
 
 Whose face was as free from the shadows of care, 
 
 As the heaven above him — so cloudless and fair, 
 
 Bright with the morn's early blush. 
 
 In the dust of the road, which was moist with the dew, 
 
 Were the prints of his feet, and the marks that he drew 
 
 With his bare toes spread wide to let filter through 
 
 Them the cool, soft dust. 
 
 As he capered, and pranced, and frolicked along. 
 
 Driving the cows with his whistle and song, 
 
42 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 A sound caught his ear, which he fancied was wrong, 
 
 Coming from where it did : 
 
 Then, leaving the road, to the meadow-brook sped, 
 
 And discovered the babe in its watery bed. 
 
 Quick as a thought, and as light, was his tread, 
 
 As over the oozy earth he sped, 
 
 And parted the lilies over her head. 
 
 There, drift in the water her golden curls, 
 
 As she lay like a gem with a setting of pearls. 
 
 Lifting her tenderly up in his arms, 
 
 Nor waiting to measure the little one's charms, 
 
 He joyously carried the waif to his mother, 
 
 And told of the strange adventure. 
 
 Rath. If this be new, then things are no more old ; 
 
 'Tis many years since first that tale was told. 
 
 Gnome. The tail was told ; the end was first begun r ; 
 
 The tale may newer seem ere I have done. 
 
 You know who this infant was ? 
 
 Rath. 'Tis known of all the country 'round ; 
 
 'Twas Lillian Bellemont that was found — 
 
 A child of shame, whom they sought to drown 
 
 By casting her in the stream. 
 
 Gnome. How wise they are : they know it all so well I 
 
 Nor witch, nor wizzard, nor dream, nor mystic spell, 
 
 May e'er enlighten those that 'round here dwell. 
 
 Be thou yet wiser ; list, and heed it well — 
 
 That was the child — shall I on and tell 
 
 The unclouded truth ? 
 
 Rath. The truth ? Forsooth : and what is that ? 
 
 No ! 'Tis a lie, as black as night of hell — 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 43 
 
 What you imply, no less than what you tell ! 
 
 /know full well the import of it all : — 
 
 A venomous lie : accursed draft of gall ! 
 
 And thus you, too, whom I have recked my friend, 
 
 Have turned on me, — and now my foes defend ! 
 
 Gnome. Fool — that thou art, — to wreck, not reck, a 
 
 friend ; 
 And all that floats thee, — to the bottom send ! 
 Because it suits thee not, the thing I say 
 Is false ! Hugh — hugh, hugh ! Tis a luckless day 
 When frauds and fools in folly cast away 
 Their only hope of knowing. 
 When the seeds of death are sowing, 
 And the dismal harvest growing ; 
 When the adverse tides are flowing, 
 And the storm of ruin blowing, 
 'Tis then fools with wine are stowing 
 Their empty noggins full ! 
 Rath. 'Tis true : — as the north wind blowing 
 Shakes the pale anemone, 
 This cold fear, in passing me, 
 Shakes my confidence in myself and you. 
 But pray proceed, and tell me true, 
 Speak not in riddles ; say plainly all you mean. 
 Did you, too, hear, and witness that strange scene, 
 In which my aunt was principal ? 
 Gnome. Thine aunt ! Hugh — hugh ! 
 'Tis not for thee to know when, where, and what /hear, 
 Nor less, or more, does that the thing you fear 
 Make true ; let this suffice for you — 
 
44 . The Tragedy of the Lost Cause, 
 
 Ere the red sun leads forth the day to-morrow, 
 
 The Fates will set on thee their seal of joy or sorrow. 
 
 Then get thee hence, nor rest until the hour 
 
 When Lillian Bellemont lies within thy power. 
 
 What e'er thy game, be quick with it, and save 
 
 Thy state of honor, — 'though thou art a knave. 
 
 Make her thy wife, thy prisoner, — thy slave ; 
 
 Or let her lie in chains in yonder cave 
 
 'Till 'reft of honor, health, and all save life, 
 
 She yields at last to fate, and becomes thy wife ! 
 
 Be mine the task, a pliant tool to find 
 
 To celebrate the rite, and lawfully to bind 
 
 The human sacrifice to inhuman kind ! 
 
 That done, the task is light, the senseless corse to hurl 
 
 Where the dark water's deepest currents swirl, 
 
 To drift well anchored with the sands below, 
 
 Where friend nor foe in quest may ever go ! 
 
 Or in the silent horror and torchless gloom 
 
 Of that labyrinthian cave — then seal her doom, 
 
 And make of nature's sepulcher an unwilling tomb 
 
 To hold the remnant of her youth and bloom ! 
 
 There let her beauty in unending night 
 
 Await the trump that summons it to light ! 
 
 The marriage records keep, concealing well thy game : 
 
 Frame a fair tale, and then her fortune claim. 
 
 Or if perchance some better plot you know, 
 
 To fix thy fortunes and defeat thy foe, 
 
 'Tis well ; yet loiter not, but go. 
 
 Strike, as the lightning from a cloudless sky ! 
 
 Swift as the whirlwind passing by ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 45 
 
 With sudden wreck, as of an earthquake's shock, 
 
 Let grim ruin gibe, and in derision mock 
 
 At their calamity. 
 
 When she securely lies within thy toils — 
 
 When bound and crushed within the serpent's coils — 
 
 Be thou the foremost in the anxious search, 
 
 And loudest in expressions of regret. 
 
 Rath. Now, by the demon of your heart, I swear 
 
 We two make a most likely pair ! 
 
 Your plot and passion touch me where 
 
 I live. But ere this scheme I dare 
 
 Attempt to execute, I would know 
 
 Your reasons for this belief; then show 
 
 The logic of your thoughts in thinking so. 
 
 How do you know this ? — and how shall I ? 
 
 And if you are my friend, and true, — then why? 
 
 Gnome. As to the last, I'll tell thee by and by ; 
 
 As to the first, be still, and I will try 
 
 Thy skeptic mind to satisfy, 
 
 And prove the things I say, no lie. 
 
 It was / who stole her from the keeping 
 
 Of her negro nurse whilst they were sleeping. 
 In darkness thence my stealthy way I took 
 Until I came to the meadow-brook ; 
 Then cast her headlong in the silent stream 
 To still the current of her childish dream. 
 Whether it was some angel near, 
 Offended conscience, or a foolish fear, 
 Pursuing footsteps I seemed to hear, — 
 Ever near — ever near. 
 
46 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Then, like a specter through the gloom of night, 
 Pursued by terror, I took my hurried flight ; 
 Nor paused until the break of morning light 
 Dispelled the nightmare of my guilty fears. 
 
 Then 'round and 'round went time in circling 
 
 years ; 
 Each moment moistened with her mother's tears ; 
 Each night to darkness shades still deeper lent ; 
 Each rising sun, blood-red, — a dread' portent, 
 And still revenge, insatiate and intent, 
 My burning brain to deeds of horror bent ; 
 Until proud reason, shaken from her throne, 
 Fled from her darkened chamber, and left alone 
 The charred and blackened ruin to its fate ! 
 
 When she returned, years after, 'twas too late 
 
 To undo aught, or e'er to change the state 
 Of wand'ring gipsy life, to which I had 
 Drift in those dark years when I was mad. 
 Nor would I leave the tribe that took me in, 
 And made of me their oracle when shame and sin 
 Had turned the world, and friends, and kin, 
 Like howling wolves, and demons on my trail. 
 
 As years sped on, in time I heard the tale 
 
 Of this fair girl — The Lily of the Vale 
 
 Of Shenandoah, and the meadow-brook ; 
 
 And on this fateful night the vantage took 
 
 To test my fears, and in her hand to look 
 
 For marks I made, and signs that I left there 
 
 Ere to the dark stream I gave a freight so fair, 
 
 To darken death, in darkness, darkly down to bear. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 47 
 
 The marks are there ! The signs are all too 
 
 true ! 
 She is that child ; one hour may now undo 
 The work of years ! — the fruits of all my crime 
 Be lost forever in a moment's time ! 
 
 Why tarry here ? Be gone ! With words have done — 
 And ptove thyself for once — thy mother's son ! 
 Rath. Her fame was fair ; her name's of good repute ; — 
 That I am my mother's son, there 's no dispute ! 
 Gnome. Thou sayest well — " her name was fair ! " 
 And none dispute a thing for which none care. 
 But thou knowest better yet, for thou wert there 
 When the thing occurred ; and the whole affair 
 Placed well on record ! 
 But when thou better knowest, mayhap the first thou 'It 
 
 be 
 To damn the mother who so lost for thee 
 All hope of heaven, and made her bed in hell ! 
 Rath. Now, by my faith, I have no words to tell 
 The hate and horror that I feel towards one 
 Who can thus revile a mother to her son ! 
 What e'er I am, I am not yet so base 
 That I can brook such insult to my face. 
 Bad as I am, you are so much the worse, 
 You horrid vulture, that even I can curse ! 
 Then get your loathsome carcass from my sight ! 
 Hence — to your place in black and starless night ! — 
 And come no more to torment such as I 
 With groundless fears, and words that only lie ! 
 Gnome. Fools have a license ; but it is too much 
 
48 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause, 
 
 That I shoujd bear this language ; — and from such ! 
 
 My day is done ; 'tis only left to die. 
 
 My night has come ; life ends in one long sigh. 
 
 My work is vain ; — and I my soul have sold 
 
 For dire revenge, and foul pursuit of gold ; — 
 
 Not for myself — to fill the spendthrift purse 
 
 Of this base ingrate, — who gives for all, a curse ! 
 
 But ere the morrow I will lay thee bare ; 
 
 I'll now expose the fraud of Arlington's heir! 
 
 Rath. If in your cranium, then, you do conceal 
 
 Some tragic mystery, now the truth reveal. 
 
 The sullen silence of your lips unseal. 
 
 Be it e'er so dark, now then fairly deal 
 
 For once with me, if with none other — 
 
 Know you aught of ill about my mother ? 
 
 Gnome. Hugh, hugh, hugh ! 
 
 Yes ! — I know aught, and ill, — enough to thrill 
 
 Thine heart with horror, and make stand still 
 
 With ghastly fear and deathly chill 
 
 Thy palsied power of thought ! 
 
 Aye, aye, the deeds she wrought, 
 
 To wreak revenge on him who brought 
 
 Her pure young love and life to naught, 
 
 A tale of horror is, blood-curdling, that might well 
 
 Add terrors to the terrors e'en of hell ! 
 
 Ruined ; outcast ; flouted when with child ; — 
 
 Her love uprooted ; her brain on fire, and wild ; 
 
 The hapless girl, ere she became a mother, 
 
 Saw him she loved as life, espouse another. 
 
 Time passed ; — but with it not the hate 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 49 
 
 Succeeding love that when too late 
 Awoke to realize the fate 
 Reserved for her — that fearful state 
 Of desolation and dark despair. 
 'Twas then revenge, deep-rooted there, 
 Resolved their death ; and followed where 
 Ever on earth that wedded pair 
 Pursued the dream of pleasure. 
 
 At last, disguised, she trode the crowded deck 
 
 Of that fated ship which she resolved to wreck ; 
 For they were there — pursued through many a clime, 
 For months and years of that unending time — 
 At last o'ertaken — at last within her power ! 
 At last had come the dread and vengeful hour ! 
 
 Like some mighty spirit, the soft, majestic swell 
 
 Of that dark world of waters rose and fell. 
 Above, below, the star-gemmed heavens were seen ; 
 The white-winged vessel drifting there between. 
 Dreamily she lay, becalmed upon the deep, 
 As one by one her human freight to sleep 
 Stole soft away — alas, to greet the day 
 No more. 
 
 Dark-rolling in the west, and high, 
 A storm-cloud rose, and draped the sky 
 With a portentious gloom ; 
 The distant boom of sullen thunder 
 Called the dark waves — who raised in wonder 
 Their phosphorescent crests, and hollow roar 
 For wreck and spoil — and more — and more ! 
 4 
 
50 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Then from the foretop came the startling cry — 
 " Watch, ahoy ! The phantom ship I spy ! 
 Away to wind'ard; 'gainst the boding sky, 
 Full-rigged and white, I see the spectre fly ! " 
 The watch, aghast, beneath the pall of night, 
 Stood 'numbed with fear as they beheld the sight ; 
 Nor had they long in dread to stand and wait 
 To see fulfilled the boding of their fate. 
 For soon, dark-rolling with devouring might, 
 Amidst the quivering sails of tarnished white, 
 Forth from the yawning hold — oh dreaded sight — 
 Belched smoke and flame, and cast a lurid light 
 O'er the dark drift of that unfathomed deep ; 
 To light the hosts who there forever sleep 
 On drifting sands, and cold ; and ever keep 
 Freighting the passing wind with mournful cries ! 
 Higher and higher shot up the tongues of fire ; 
 The sails one sheet of flame ; the mast, a spire 
 Of flickering light, high by the wild wind driven, 
 Flaunting against the frowning face of heaven ! 
 The great ship's-bell that erst had silent hung, 
 O'er the wild waters the wild alarm rung ; 
 From dreams of peace, the watchman's frenzied call 
 The sleepers 'woke with horror and apall ! 
 Behold the flames, amidst the rigging high, 
 Darting their red tongues against the stormy sky ! 
 The trembling forms of age ; the shrieking child, 
 There clinging to its mother, stark and wild ; 
 Proud youth and beauty ; strength of manhood's prime- 
 All these were there, to die before their time ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 51 
 
 Along the deck, the crackling rush of fire 
 
 Each moment brought death creeping nigher and 
 
 nigher ; 
 Outspreading wide the sheeted flames to shroud 
 In blackened horror, the shrinking, shivering crowd ! 
 Oh, 'twas a scene that even such as I, 
 Rather than behold again, might fly 
 To some dark place where human eye 
 Would be no more availing ! 
 Dark, and grim, and motionless she stood 
 Upon that burning deck in tragic mood ; 
 Nor deep-tongued bell, nor boom of minute gun, 
 Nor fire, nor death from that she had begun, 
 The frozen current of her thoughts could turn. 
 Ha ! That is he, she muttered 'twixt her teeth, 
 As whom she sought, with terror from beneath, 
 Rushed upon the deck in scant array — 
 'Twas thy father, man ; Ralf Rathmore, proud and gay ! 
 A female form on one arm lifeless lay — 
 'Twas not thy mother, man, whate'er they say ! 
 The other held a child, as fair as day — 
 'Twas not thyself, Ralf Rathmore, of to-day ! 
 Oh, dark and fierce despair ! 
 Oh, pale-faced horror there ! 
 Oh, fires of hell deep-burning in his eye, 
 As like a tempest, he went sweeping by ! 
 "Launch the boats ! " he hoarsely cried, 
 " Mayhap those shells will ride 
 A time the bellowing waves ! 
 Cast off — ye howling slaves ! 
 
52 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Stand by — ye steady braves ! 
 
 He who the helpless saves 
 
 From torment and wat'ry graves, 
 
 No meed but heaven's craves 
 
 For deeds of such noble daring!" 
 
 " Yes ! Launch the boats, ye braves ! " 
 
 She mocking hissed ; "who saves 
 
 That wretch and his from wat'ry graves, 
 
 Fare e'en as I ; as fairly, too, then die ; 
 
 And on the bottom drifting ever lie ! 
 
 What, ho ! This man I know ? Can this thing be ? 
 
 Look on this faded face ! Dost thou know me ? 
 
 Why thus recoil ? Dost thou behold aught here 
 
 To make thy shuddering soul with guilty fear 
 
 Stand back in the hour of death ? 
 
 Look on these withering lips ! Were they e'er near 
 
 To thine when filled with passion, and did swear 
 
 By heaven's eternal truth, and all most dear, 
 
 To desert me never? — e'en with thy parting breath 
 
 To make of me thy lawful wife ! 
 
 Thou perjured wretch, and vile ! Thy worthless life 
 
 Now pays the penalty ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! The morning dew, and nectar that you drew 
 
 With tremors sweet when thine would meet 
 
 These lips as the moments flew — 
 
 Alas, too fast — has poison proved, at last ! 
 
 The boats are gone ! Villain ; now burn and die ! 
 
 In the ocean deep thy craven carcass lie ! 
 
 Then may thy cursed spirit quivering fly 
 
 Doivn to its future home in hell — whither / 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 53 
 
 Shall follow to torment thee tJiere ! 
 
 It was / who fired the ship ! Tis / 
 
 Who burns them all — that you and yours may die ! " 
 
 Then for one moment, bode the sullen hush 
 
 That oft precedes the storm — and then the rush 
 
 Of that infuriate throng ! Too late ! 
 
 She had escaped their frenzied hate ! 
 
 Quick to the side she sped. The dazzling light 
 
 The tragic figure showed against the night ! 
 
 One moment stood and gazed upon the deep ; 
 
 Then turned and mocked ; then made the fearful leap ! 
 
 To the vessel's side the surging people rushed ; 
 
 The ship lurched o'er ; the deck fell in and crushed 
 
 Those 'prisoned below ; a cloud of cinders flushed 
 
 The vault of heaven. Repentant ocean blushed 
 
 Beneath the farewell flames that heavenward rushed, 
 
 As headlong, 'midst the swirl and hungry roar, 
 
 The ship went thund'ring down — and all was o'er ! 
 
 Then the dark waves, in their stupendous might, 
 
 Wrangled o'er their prey through that terrific night; 
 And yet one human soul, if human soul it be, 
 Still rode the storm on that tempestuous sea ! 
 
 When lulled the storm, far through the gloom 
 
 was seen 
 O'er flashing waves, a ship's lights — red and green. 
 Where rifting clouds disclosed the glimmering sky, 
 There stood revealed, a dark ship hov'ring nigh. 
 The boats were launched ; the torch's ruddy glow 
 Soon o'er that dismal place, moved to and fro. 
 No voices answered to the boatswain's call — 
 
54 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Not one survivor from amongst them all ! 
 
 Then the great ship, with tolling bell, hove nigher, 
 
 And soon illumed the sea with chemic fire ! 
 
 " A drifting boat ! Erect, a white form there 
 
 Stands with outstretched hands and streaming hair ! " 
 
 " Pull away, lads ! " Nor dreamed they that they saved 
 
 The one of all that throng on whose black soul engraved 
 
 In letters of fire and blood, was — " Murderess ! " 
 
 Rath. And this, my Mother! You lying hag ! — Confess 
 
 This tale a foul vapor is, from some vile recess 
 
 Of slimy darkness in your boggy mind — unless 
 
 Your memory prompts too well, and 'twas yourself 
 
 Performed the fiendish deed ! 
 
 Gnome. Hugh ! Thou say'st well ! Since she was not 
 
 thy mother, 
 Then am I not myself; and thou, some other. 
 Thou hast no need to learn, thine instincts are more true ! 
 Bah ! Why marvel me ? In all the world how few 
 Know of themselves or others, more than you ! 
 Thou soulless bubble ! — hugh, hugh ; thy rainbow hue 
 Like morning mist, before the good and true, 
 Shall vanish soon ! 
 
 Thou art a lie ! Thou seem'st not what thou art, 
 And art not what thou seem'st, thou base upstart ! 
 Since thou can'st curse, now curse 7, in my turn ; 
 So may thy soul with mine in torment burn ! 
 Since I for thee have sown the seed of crime, 
 Now reap with me the harvest in good time ! 
 Thou stealthy tiger ; growl, and glare on me ; 
 Dost think I fear? Dost think that I shall flee? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 55 
 
 Behold what I have made myself for thee ! 
 
 But from a hornet, can'st raise a honey-bee ? 
 
 /, too, was fair ; with wealth, and youth, and bloom ; 
 
 But one as false as thou — thy father — sealed my 
 
 doom ! 
 Shall I say more ? Ingrate ! I am thy mother ! ! ! 
 Rath. My mother ! ! You withering, loathsome hag ! 
 Dare you repeat it, and stand there and wag 
 Your serpent's head at me ? You infamous liar ! 
 Foul murderess ! ! Accursed fiend of fire ! 
 'Twas you destroyed my mother and my sire ! 
 Now may this dagger find your fiendish heart ! 
 For / now know, not who, but zvhat thou art ! 
 Haste you ! Make your peace with hell or heaven, 
 Which e'er it be, ere this cold steel be driven 
 Hence to its hilt in your demoniac breast ! 
 
 |" Then leaped the dagger from its sheath, 
 
 As Rathmore hissed between his teeth 
 
 Those vengeful words. 
 
 Like lightning, upwards flashed the blade — 
 
 Quivered ; and paused — the blow was stayed. 
 
 From palsied hand the weapon dropped ; and foiled, 
 
 The man before those glittering eyes recoiled 
 
 In abject fear ; then, trembling, turned to flee ! 
 
 Gnome. Not so, thou slave! I-want—thee ; follow— me ! 
 
 [So muttered she, and waved her magic wand : 
 
 He stood transfixed ; then raised a suppliant hand ; 
 
 Then step by step with her, at her command, 
 
 He followed as she becked him with her wand ! 
 
 And moving thus, they vanished both from sight 
 
56 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Of human ken, behind the scenes of night. 
 
 Scarcely had the Gnome and Ralf Rathmore left the 
 scene, when a dark form cautiously emerged from the shelter 
 of the dense shrubbery, and with an expression of horror 
 and amazement distorting his black visage, stealthily followed 
 the mysterious pair. 
 
 It was faithful Tom, who had .been lurking in the 
 vicinity, listening to the terrible dialogue between Rathmore 
 and his mother. Nor paused he long in his sly pursuit ; but 
 disappeared as silently as he came, just as Mrs. Arlington 
 re-entered the open glade. She advanced slowly, as if 
 exhausted; then stopped and raised her face and clasped 
 hands to heaven — 
 
 Oh, the torture of this suspense ! As well 
 
 To know this hope must perish, as endure 
 
 For long this fear and suffocating dread 
 
 Of once more burying here my buried dead ! 
 
 Oh, fair humanity, is there capacity 
 
 In thee for such dire deeds ? 
 
 Can such things be ? Oh, great eternity, 
 
 Hast thou such horrors to reveal ? 
 
 Oh, hell; canst thou, in thy dark realm conceal 
 
 Such terrors from the light ? 
 
 Or thou, high heaven, endure them in thy sight ? 
 
 Oh, child of mine ! My darling, long-lost child ! 
 
 How may I restrain myself? Am I not wild 
 
 With such excess of joy ? 
 
 Must I then wait for other proofs than this, 
 
 Ere I may greet thee with a mother's kiss ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 57 
 
 What, though the truth from lying lips first springs ? 
 
 Or guilty hands sweep first the trembling strings 
 
 Of nature's harp ? The precious metal rings 
 
 As clear and sweet, whoever brings 
 
 Its shining parts to light ! 
 
 Oh, then, fond heart — thy quivering wings for flight 
 
 Now plume, as plumes the eagle hers for heaven's great 
 height ! 
 
 But who are these, bestirred before the morn 
 
 From starry night hath more than half been born ? 
 
 \_Enter Mrs. Hampton, mother of Augustus — 
 
 An old lady of very noble appearance. Her gray hair 
 waved softly over a forehead of rare beauty ; and her large, 
 dark eyes, although softened by sorrow's ceaseless care, still 
 retained much of their pristine luster. Her features, which 
 were somewhat strongly marked for a lady, were yet cast in 
 a perfect mould. But that which lent so great a charm to 
 this lovely old lady, was the indescribable sweetness and 
 humility of her expression ; and this was all the more 
 remarkable in such a face, bearing the stamp of a proud and 
 lofty nature. No wonder that Augustus Hampton was 
 proud of such a mother ; and that his eyes ever followed her 
 with so much solicitude and tender admiration. With her 
 were Augustus and Lillian Bellemont, Vix Fairfax and Will 
 Keene, General Beaumar and Colonel Bellemont, ladies and 
 gentlemen, and a number of negro servants — including Uncle 
 Tom and Aunt Dina, Klack, and Banjo Joe. 
 
 Mrs. H. to Mrs. A. : My dear ! Since early dawn be- 
 spoke the coming day, 
 
 Our joys have all been choked with boding fear ; 
 
58 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 We long have sought thee, hurrying everywhere ! 
 
 What mood hath kept thee tarrying here ? 
 
 A. Oh, give me joy ! Give me joy without alloy ! 
 
 My child ! My child ! My angel child ! 
 
 [She cried, and wept, and laughed, and smiled, 
 
 In turn ; and wept again ; then crushed 
 
 Fair Lillian in her arms ; and hushed 
 
 Her lips with kisses, as she blushed 
 
 Beneath such fond caresses.] 
 
 Oh, happy day ! In my heart enshrined alway ! 
 
 Sacred, blissful, happy day ; 
 
 Blessed forever and alway ! 
 
 I will tell you in good time 
 
 This dark tale of death and crime, 
 
 Which I have learned to-night. 
 
 But now behold ! The morning light 
 
 And rising sun in glory bright, 
 
 Restores my child, and puts to flight 
 
 The spectral gloom of starless night, 
 
 And fills me with rejoicing. 
 
 Aug. [Singing] : Happy day ; happy day ! 
 
 We '11 remember you alway ! 
 
 Several voices [Singing] : Happy day ; happy day ! 
 
 Let us celebrate this day ! 
 
 Chorus all. Away, away ! ye shadows of the night ! 
 
 Away ; away ! The morn is breaking bright ! 
 
 These golden rays of the morning sun 
 
 Are but heralds of a life begun 
 
 With joy, with joy ; with joy without alloy ! — 
 
 A life begun with the rising sun — 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 59 
 
 A life of joy without alloy — to run, 
 To run its course with the golden sun ! 
 
 \Exeunt all, marching as they sing. 
 
 Scene 2. — The shores of the Shenandoah ; time, evening, Two negroes are 
 discovered at a boat-landing, the older of the two with a banjo 
 under his arm. 
 
 Banjo Joe. You, Klack ! You nigga ; go 'long now an' 
 bale out dat dug-out ; an' git de paddle up dah unda de log. 
 Shake, boy, 'f you's gwine wi' dis coon. 
 
 Klack. Ki-yi ! I shakes; I's boun' t' go wid Banjo Joe ; 
 
 Hoo-ya ! Hoo-ya ! 
 
 De gals am wait'n oba dah ; hyeah, hyeah ! — Hoo-da ! 
 
 But I say, Joe ! 
 
 Joe. What yo' wants, nigga ? 
 
 Klack. Gib us tchune t' bale wid. 
 
 J. Go 'long, nigga ; bale wi' de goad. 
 
 K. I say, Joe ! 
 
 J. Git out, boy ; don't boda me ! Yo' bale out dat 
 dug-out, you hea'? 
 
 K. I's bal'n ; ki ! Dah ! I's done 'n busted de goad ! 
 But I say, Joe! What's all dat rumpus 'bout Miss Lilly? 
 Fum de way dey's gwine on, reckon mebby she's done 'n 
 done suf 'n awful ; hyeah ? 
 
 J. See hea', nigga; you jis let up on dat sort o' talk; 
 de Miss Lilly 's a mouty fine lady — she am ! 
 
 K. De fine lady! Ki ! Lor'; s,he's nuf'n but poo' 
 folks no ways ; an' I 'spise poo' folks — I does. Dey's wus 'n 
 niggas ! 
 
 J. Dry dat up ! You tarnal moke, ur I'll bust yo' 
 
60 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 wus 'n you busted de goad ! 'Spose 'n den you 's betta 'n 
 wus, is yo' ? Tell you what, nigga ; de Miss Lilly am de 
 hono'd guess ub dis hyeah fam'ly, an' de 'panion ub Miss 
 Vickey ; an' she am de sista — ob de Cunel — ob de amy ! 
 
 K. Lor' ! You don't say she am de sista ub de Cunel — 
 ub de a! my ! 
 
 J. Dat's de werry trufe 'f yo' neba tole it. You's 
 mouty knowin', you is ; 'f dat a' pate wus half-way right, it 
 mout sabe de tail a mouty sight. But jis you mind, you 
 Klack, behind ; Aunt Dina '11 'tend to yo' udda end ! Why, 
 dey say de Miss Lilly kin talk wid fo' tongues ! 
 
 K. Fo' tongues? Fo' de lo'd ! Whew! I's done 
 hyeard tell how as one wus too many foh de women folks ; 
 ugh-ugh ! — But she must be a stunna wid fo' ! But I say, 
 Joe ; what am de Cunel ob de a'my ? 
 
 J. Go 'long, nigga ; 'f I tells you all I knows I won't 
 know nuf 'n myself. Ugh-h-h-ugh ! [he suddenly ejaculated 
 in a tone of astonishment.] Fo' de lo'd; what's dat ah ? 
 [And as he sat down on a rock, he took his knee in his 
 clasped hands and drew himself up into as small a knot as 
 possible, evidently in the effort to concentrate his entire 
 forces upon the knotty problem before him — a problem, by 
 the by, which more able minds had vainly endeavored to 
 solve.] 
 
 \_Enter Mr. Robin Sponger — 
 
 A person of very remarkable appearance. To a super- 
 ficial observer, he had all the appearance of a common men- 
 dicant ; but such was not the case ; he was a very zff/comraon 
 mendicant. Indeed, the old man was in good circumstances, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 6 J 
 
 as far as the mere possession of this world's goods was con- 
 cerned ; but his parsimonious nature prevented him from 
 enjoying what he had accumulated. 
 
 His apparel was old and filthy, and had evidently been 
 cobbled up for an indefinite length of time by their bungling 
 possessor ; and yet there was in his appearance some attempt, 
 or an apology for an attempt, at cleanliness ; for his white 
 hair was carefully kept — as that cost nothing — and his face 
 clean and moderately-well shaven in a domestic sort of way, 
 leaving a rim of white beard under his chin, after the manner 
 of a Chimpanzee monkey. 
 
 His features were prominent, and indicated not only a 
 strong native intellect, but an inflexible will ; and the lips 
 shrunken over the toothless gums, added no little to this 
 appearance of firmness. His small, gray eyes, with restless, 
 furtive glance, and keen, indicated a crafty nature ; and a 
 certain earnestness and directness in his manner would have 
 convinced a close observer that he was no aimless wanderer ; 
 but that he had some deep and settled purpose in his mind, 
 other than the one made apparent. As he came upon the 
 scene, he was driving an old sorrel mare, stuffed and stiff, 
 and as willful as the old man himself; but how cold and un- 
 feeling soever he might be to others, the old man was kind 
 and patient with her, and permitted the old creature to exer- 
 cise her own sweet will. She walked up hill, and trotted 
 down, and stopped when she listed to graze by the wayside ; 
 so she sponged her living largely off the highways and by- 
 ways, as her master did off the people. When they were 
 crossing a stream, she would lave her nose and splash with 
 
62 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 her feet, and bespatter the old man with mud, evidently 
 enjoying it as much as he did ; then cross when and where 
 she pleased. They seemed to understand each other's whims, 
 accept the situation, and be mutually well satisfied. When 
 she stopped, the old man would shout, " Who-o-o, Dolly ; 
 who-o ! " And when the old mare would start to go, he 
 would add his gentle approval of — " Come, Dolly ; get up, 
 Dolly ! " and then Dolly would stand still again to consider 
 the matter. 
 
 Attached to the old mare, or the old mare to it, as the 
 case might be (for it, the old harness, the old man, and the 
 old mare all seemed to be parts of the same old thing), was 
 an antedeluvian rockaway, who had long since forgotton her 
 pristine beauty, and was too much impoverished now to in- 
 dulge in such costly cosmetics as paint, powder, or any such 
 thing, much less in a coat of enamel, to conceal the wrinkles 
 of age and the ravages of time. Leaving but little room for 
 the ponderous feet of this modern Don Quixote (for, as we 
 shall hereafter discover, he, too, had espoused the cause of 
 oppressed humanity), a great number of boxes, and bundles, 
 and bags, prominent amongst which was an old-fashioned 
 carpet-bag of many bright colors, and a quaint old umbrella 
 of no color at all, unless it was a faded green, occupied most 
 of the seating capacity of the trundling machine ; indeed, it 
 might have been difficult for a stranger to determine which 
 had the greater right to the aforesaid seating capacity, the 
 old man or the old man's luggage. 
 
 Who-o-o, Dolly ; who-o-o-up ! [cried the peculiar voice 
 of Mr. Sponger, with an emphatic "up!" at the end of 
 his "who-", as the old mare came tearingf down hill at 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 63 
 
 a rattling gait, with the ancient beauty shrieking, screech- 
 ing and clattering at her heels ; landing the entire outfit 
 with a tremendous bump in a muddy gulch at the foot 
 of the hill near the spot where the negroes were ; and send- 
 ing several bundles flying over the dash-board (or where the 
 dash-board had been in the good old times), and causing the 
 old man to involuntarily catch hold of the old mare's tail to 
 keep from following his bundles into the mud.] 
 
 God ! — have — mercy on my soul ! [exclaimed the aged 
 traveler in a meditative tone of voice, and evidently laboring 
 under the hallucination that his soul was in close proximity 
 to the tattered hair-cUshion ; but in no way manifesting any 
 surprise or emotion of any kind whatever. And he began 
 to sing some quaint old hymn in a qneer, broken manner, 
 which accorded well with his trembling voice and toothless 
 accent of old age, as he slowly laid down the lines and pre- 
 pared to alight.] 
 
 My soul ! [he added, emitting a peculiar sound through 
 his nose, something between a snort and a wheeze, as he 
 deliberately crawled out and sat one foot on the ground, 
 whilst the other remained on the hub of the fore-wheel.] 
 
 Glory to God ! [he ejaculated with sudden energy, as he 
 finished getting out ; and then wiped some trickling moisture 
 from the end of his nose on his coat-sleeve, before fumbling 
 in his breast-pocket in search of a supplementary rag. 
 
 Who-o-o, Dolly ; Who-o-o ! [he continued, as if exhorting 
 the lazy old beast to have patience, and do what there was 
 no danger of her not doing, stand perfectly still whilst he 
 crawled around under the wheels and beneath her heels, to 
 recover his treasures from the mud. Having replaced them 
 
64 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 carefully in their accustomed places, the queer old man 
 was about to follow them into the rickety old rockaway, 
 when he discovered the two negroes quietly observing him, 
 with their greasy faces illuminated with enormous grins.] 
 
 Why, bless my — soul ! Did I ev — er see the like ? I 
 didn't see you at — all ! I did not [cried Mr. Sponger, cocking 
 his head forward, and a little to one side, his small gray 
 eyes squinting at Joe from beneath their shaggy brows ; and 
 gesticulating with both hands, much in the awkward manner 
 of some old-time negroes]. 
 
 How do you — do ? I am so glad — to see — you ! I am 
 — so [he added blandly, moving up to Joe's side, and stand- 
 ing with his hands clasped behind him, bending forward in 
 a listening attitude, with his best ear close to the black 
 man's mouth, whilst his eyes rested attentively upon the 
 ground, save when they shot a furtive glance in the direction 
 of Joe's face. It was very evident from his manner, that 
 Mr. Sponger was no respecter of persons, and considered a 
 negro as good as anybody else. To one that knew he was 
 a native Virginian, this would at first seem strange ; but the 
 fact was that, in his early life, Mr. Sponger was not in a 
 position or circumstances calculated to engender very lofty 
 ideas, but belonged to that class of small holders in the 
 mountains who were but little superior to those whom 
 the slaves belonging to the better families contemptuously 
 denominated "trash." His chief excellence, in his own 
 estimation, was his saintly character ; and no doubt he was 
 sincere, or had sincerely persuaded himself into this belief. 
 Although he had himself never given anything to benevolent 
 or Christian purposes, he was glad to see others do so, and 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 65 
 
 prayed continually that the work might go bravely on. He 
 was a cold, unfeeling man, eminently selfish, and incon- 
 siderate of the feelings and interests of others, but loud in 
 professions of sympathy and compassion when it cost him 
 nothing ; consequently, he was far more interested in the 
 comfort of the soul than of the body ; because it eateth not, 
 neither doth it wear costly apparel. Thus, he was ever 
 devoted to principle when he was called upon to make no 
 sacrifice for it ; and this devotion was something marvelous 
 when it presented the possibility of gain without labor. For 
 instance, he was devoted to the Home Missionary work, 
 because it furnished him a pretext to wander around the 
 country and sponge his living. He was also devoted to the 
 Foreign Missionary work, as it enabled him to travel about 
 the country in the summer time, and give exhibitions in 
 Sunday-schools and churches of a few old Chinese gods and 
 curiosities which he possessed, and take up collections for 
 Missionary Work in China ; which collections, however, never 
 yielded more than enough to pay for his prayers and the 
 trouble of getting it. But to return from this long digression 
 to the scene on the banks of the Shenandoah.] 
 
 Joe. I's mouty glad t' fin' dat out, ole Mas. [raising his 
 voice almost to a shout, to correspond with that of Mr. 
 Sponger, and bellowing in his ear] — 
 
 " I's done been hop'n foh't eba since I's bo'n ! " 
 Yes ! [shouted Sponger, evidently not understanding 
 the drift of the negro's remarks] — 
 
66 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 I should like to ask you — a few — ques-tions. That is, 
 if you have — no ob-jec-tions ? 
 
 Yes, sah ; spec' I has [said Joe, scratching his wooly 
 pate dubiously]. 
 
 You don't know any Meth-o-dist family in good 
 circum-.yto;z-ces near about here ? [inquired the old man 
 eagerly, crowding his good ear anxiously into Joe's face.] 
 Per-haps you could tell — me ? 
 
 Joe. P'raps I could, ole Mas., 'f I don't know none ; an' 
 I don't know ary one 'cept Aunt Dina; an' I on'y knows 
 she's one by de shout'n. 
 
 5. You don't know any Meth-o-dist preach-<?r? 
 Joe. Dat's a fac', sah ; 'cept Aunt Dina. 
 
 5. Nor any Meth-o-dist Sunday-school — 
 Joe. No, sah ; 'cept Aunt Dina. Mebby she's one uv 
 'em ; she's a-most all sorts. 
 
 5. Per-haps you — could tell me — who Au?it Dina might 
 — BE? 
 
 Joe. Gugh ! Lor', ole Mas ! Wall, she mout be a-mos' 
 anybody; but she an't. She's nuf'n but Aunt Dina; dat's 
 a fac' ! But dah's a mouty heap ub her ! An' 'f da's ary 
 nigga 'bout hyeah as couldn't tell yo' 'bout Aunt Dina, den 
 I don't knows de nigga, sho ! 
 
 vS. Is she — an old — lady ? 
 
 Hyeah, hyeah, hye-e-ah ! You's shout'n now, ole Mas! 
 [laughed the darkey, unable to suppress an enormous grin.] 
 Yes, sah ! 
 
 S. You say — she — is a Meth-o—dist ? Has she — much 
 money ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 67 
 
 Joe. Doant know, sah [said Joe slowly with a sus- 
 picious glance]. 
 
 Spec' she hab, sah ; seed 'er tote'n all dem ah young 
 chick'n to ma'ket a-Satu'day ; an' I knows de ole Miss gibs 
 'er all she kin make off 'n de ga'den ; so I spec' she hab, sah 
 — but she put all de money in de bank, sah — she do [he 
 added with an insinuating glance, as if to discourage the old 
 man in any designs he might have upon it]. 
 
 5. Yes ! [exclaimed the mercenary saint, emitting one 
 of his peculiar, wheezing grunts, at last realizing what sort 
 of a personage Aunt Dina was.] 
 
 You see [he continued], I am — en-gaged in the Mission— 
 a-xy work ! And I am — collect-ing money for — Chi-na ! 
 Would Aunt Dina — be like— ly to give some of her money for 
 these Chris-tian pur-po-j-^ ? 
 
 Joe. Don' know, sah, 'bout dem purpy — what yo' calls 
 'em ; but who's Chi-na ? 
 
 S. Chi-)ia is — a gre-a-t he-then — country ! The in- 
 hab-i-tants worship i-DOLS ! I have a gre-a-t vari-ety of 
 cu-n-ossities Jure ; and /give ex-hi-bitions — to raise money 
 — -for Chi-na ! 
 
 I'd like mouty well to see some ub 'em [interrupted 
 Klack, eagerly]. 
 
 5. Yer-haps if I show — some of them — to you — you will 
 tell me — what / want to — know ? 
 
 K. Yes, sah ; 'f I knows 'em. 
 
 S. A\\-right ! I have — in this — box — a — god ! 
 
 K. God ! Fo' de lo'd ! [ejaculated the darkey, rolling 
 the whites of his eyes towards Joe with superstitious dread ; 
 and even Joe began to move uneasily.] 
 
68 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 S. That is so! — A — God! [reiterated the old man, im- 
 pressively, seeing the effect he had already produced.] 
 
 And — in that bag — is — a — devil ! 
 
 K. De debble ! 
 
 Joe. Sho' 'nut debble, ole Mas. ? [said Joe, wincing.] 
 
 S. You — shall — see — him ! [exclaimed the old man, 
 moving towards the awful bag.] 
 
 You, Joe ! [whispered Klack, with superstitious awe.] 
 
 Klack ! [ejaculated Joe with chattering teeth.] 
 
 K. Ki ! [And away, went the darkies as if the devil 
 were after them.] 
 
 5. God — have — mercy on my — soul ! [cried the an- 
 cient professor of iconography, as he gazed in astonishment 
 after the fugitive forms of the frightened darkies ; and by 
 way of expressing his feelings, gave a wheezing grunt, and 
 blew his nose. When he had wiped it carefully on his coat- 
 sleeve, he produced his filthy little wad of a handkerchief, 
 and put on the finishing touches ; then slowly crawled into 
 the rickety vehicle.] 
 
 Aunt — Di-na ! [said he in a meditative tone, as if 
 weighing in his mind the chances of getting some of the 
 chicken money.] 
 
 Blessed — Je-sus ! Jesus — Christ ! [he added with power- 
 ful emphasis, as the old mare started with a sudden jerk 
 that almost knocked the breath out of his pious breast 
 against the back of the seat.] 
 
 God — have mercy — on my — soul ! [he continued, scramb- 
 ling after the lines.] Come, Dol-ly ; get up, Dol-ly ! [And 
 he reached out with his little hickory switch, and tapped 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 69 
 
 her gently on the tail. And so they vanished from the 
 scene almost as suddenly as they came.] 
 
 Scene 3. — A place in the garden or grounds ; time, morning. 
 
 Enter Lillian, 
 
 dressed in a white morning-wrapper ; she is plucking 
 to pieces a white rose, and humming in a low tone a favorite 
 air, as she leisurely advances upon the scene. Stopping 
 suddenly, she softly said — 
 Am I so dazed ? 
 
 It seems more like a dream than a reality. 
 Ah ! In the rude shaping of these events, things so 
 
 terrible 
 Have been so intermingled with things so sweet, 
 That all has now the seeming 
 More of the imagination's eccentric play, 
 Than of sober truth. But thanks to thee, 
 Kind heaven, it is no dream ! 
 List ! [she quickly said, with startled look, 
 As half in dread, and half in fond anticipation, 
 The nestling fawn starts up 
 When first it hears the footfall of its dam.] 
 Is that not he ? What other voice than his could sound 
 
 so sweet? 
 Be still, thou truant heart, and cease thy beating 
 'Till the tingling ear shall catch once more the sound 
 It love's so well. 
 
 Oh, now, fond heart, cast wide thine unbarred gates, 
 And let the music of his voice thus unobstructed run 
 
70 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 In richest harmony through all thy galleries ; 
 
 So may thy pave ever echo to the tread of thy fond 
 lord! 
 
 But he is not alone ; then shall I tarry here, 
 
 And suffer others to see me thus in blushes ? 
 
 'Tis not that I should rue to have him know — 
 
 Tis only that I shrink to have them see me so. 
 
 Then why thus blush, and shy away from that 
 
 My heart so worships ? 
 
 'Tis not of shame, or fear ? Nay, nay ! 
 
 Else, why hath nature made him 
 
 Thus fair and noble, so to command 
 
 The homage of my heart ? 
 
 Still, I will bide a time behind this bush until they pass. 
 
 They come this way ! [She glides quickly behind a 
 bush, and affects to gather roses, to conceal her 
 confusion.] 
 
 \Enter Augustus Hampton and Vix Fairfax, 
 walking slowly and in silence ; the latter twirling her 
 hat impatiently by the strings, and evidently in no pleasant 
 mood. 
 
 Vix. Then, sir, as it seems, I have misconstrued the 
 meaning of your words, and failed to understand, through 
 all these years, the bent of your intentions ? 
 
 The more's my folly, a meaning to attach at all, 
 
 To any words of meaningless, mean man ! 
 
 Aug. As mean as foolish 'tis, to care for such mean 
 things ; 
 
 Thus Folly's folly Folly justly stings. 
 
 What ails you, then ? What folly pricks you still ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 71 
 
 Unless 'tis still to folly, Folly yields her will ? 
 Vix. So if 'tis you, 'tis Folly, then, who fills 
 My heart with bitterness, and bitterness distills, 
 Instead of honey-dew from your sweet words ? 
 Aug. Then folly 'tis, if your distillery but this affords. 
 A truce to this ; in all sincerity, I regret 
 That aught that I e'er said, or did should fret 
 Your spirit so ; and such bitterness beget 
 Towards your devoted friend. Nor is it true 
 That I e'er wavered in my love for you. 
 
 [Now flies the light from Lillian's eyes. 
 
 In vain her throbbing heart she tries 
 To still with trembling hand ; fast flies 
 The color from her cheek ; now pale and cold, 
 . She turns away ; the memories old 
 Are faded now— Love's tale is told !] 
 
 Vix. What now ? Once more would you deceive ? 
 Which tale, fair sir, must I believe ? 
 
 Your burning words are yet scarcely cold, 
 
 In which your loves were so sweetly told — 
 
 That idyl of joys that you did unfold, 
 
 Of Lillian's love, and yours ! 
 
 Fie ! How, then, of yours and mine ? 
 
 Would you both hearts with yours entwine ? 
 
 Would you woo, and have us both, in fine ? 
 
 Ah ! Since one quick turn of Fortune's wheel, 
 
 Has changed a beggar to a millionaire, 
 
 Perhaps your interests make you feel 
 
 You still love best the Lillian fair ! 
 
 Say, now, fairly, 'twixt us two — 
 
72 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Is what you say, or I say, true ? 
 
 Aug. What you say, I say ; I say you 
 
 Misunderstand, or misconstrue. 
 
 I long have loved you as a brother ; 
 
 But my sweet Lillian, and none other, 
 
 Have I e'er thought to wed. 
 
 Nor think I much of her, as one to wife, 
 
 But as the sweeter, purer part of life ! 
 
 [Ah, me ; no more could Lillian bide 
 
 Behind the bush, where she went to hide. 
 
 Confused and blushing, o'er her face 
 
 Tumultuous feelings quickly chase 
 
 Each other with a nameless grace — 
 
 As if to earth, sweet heaven a trace 
 
 Of its pure joys had given.] 
 
 Lillian. Oh, pardon me ! [coming forth, she cried.] 
 
 I had no thought to hear, but tried 
 
 To 'scape the eyes of others ! 
 
 I had no wish to loiter in the way, 
 
 Or listen for the words that I have heard to-day ; 
 
 But since I heard them, I will joy to say 
 
 I heard them ! In my heart alway, 
 
 Should gloom betide, this golden ray 
 
 Of love's pure light shall cheer me. 
 
 Fie ! A lady's pastime [exclaimed Vix, bitterly] 
 
 To gather flowers — and listen ! 
 
 Aug. 'Tis well to understand it, as seems true of you 
 
 [said Augustus, sarcastically]. 
 But Lillian, darling; do not so much misjudge 
 Yourself and me, as thus to fancy you are in the way; 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 73 
 
 Or are in anything to blame. We have intruded here. 
 
 Come [he continued gaily], if I may not invest me with 
 a lilly, 
 
 Then rob yourself to so enrich a rose with your sweet 
 nature, 
 
 That it may not blush to rest upon my breast. 
 
 Lillian. Nay, speak not so of things that God has 
 made 
 
 In all their parts so perfect, as if I, 
 
 In form, or tint, or fragrance might aught add 
 
 To that which nature has in beauty made divine. 
 
 Yet, if this rose might savor of my love, 
 
 Then will I give it you. [She gives him a white rose 
 with charming grace and delicacy.] 
 
 Here is another, full as fair [she quickly added]. 
 
 If Miss Victoria will deign to have it? [and the for- 
 giving girl proffered the rose to Vix. But the irate beauty 
 hitched herself away with a flirt ; and turning her back 
 poutingly upon Lillian, and patting the ground impatiently 
 with her pretty little foot, would none of it. The poor girl 
 felt keenly the cut, but turned sweetly to Augustus and 
 handed the rose to him. Her trembling hand touched his, 
 and in her agitation the flower fell to the ground. As 
 Augustus stooped to pick it up, the passionate Vix turned 
 sharply and crushed it beneath her foot. 
 
 If I could get my foot on hct [she snapped in a sup- 
 pressed voice, aside], I would grind her, too, in the dust ! 
 
 Poor little thing [said Augustus, tenderly, taking it up 
 and placing it in his breast] ; it makes me love it all the 
 more. [Lillian turned coyly away to conceal her blushes, 
 
74 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 and the light of happiness in her eyes ; whilst piqued, petu- 
 lent, passionate Vix. pouted her cherry lips and shrouded 
 her brow in a thunder-cloud ; vainly endeavoring to turn her 
 back and her displeasure two ways at once ; for Lillian stood 
 upon one side, and Augustus on the other.] My lady [con- 
 tinued he in a more serious tone, that implied a spice of 
 indignation, tempered with affection] ; such conduct seems 
 the less becoming, since it comes from you. 
 
 Tis not your heart that troubles you ; 
 
 Tis simply that your vanity is piqued. 
 
 A heart-felt sorrow finds no vent in such a tantrum. 
 
 If you think otherwise, you are a stranger to yourself. 
 
 But be your passion what it may, 
 
 Why spit your fire at her ? 
 
 She has done you wrong in nothing ; and in nothing 
 would. 
 
 But 'tis your woman's nature thus to vent on her 
 
 The bitterness that you feel towards me. 
 
 But, lo ! — here comes your mother, Lillian ; 
 
 Doubtless in search of you. 
 
 We leave you to her love, since love has need of nothing 
 more ! 
 
 [So saying, he touched his lip and gallantly saluted her; 
 then turned to Vix and offered her his arm. But she turned 
 haughtily away, and left the scene in high dudgeon, followed 
 by Augustus at a respectful distance, with an amused ex- 
 pression curling his fine mustache.] 
 
 \_Enter Mrs. Arlington, radiant and beautiful. 
 
 Oh, my darling ; I could no more endure you from my 
 sight ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 75 
 
 The laggard hours were like a ship becalmed, 
 
 Whose sails are spread to woo the tardy wind, 
 
 But idly flap against the masts instead ; 
 
 So I have sought you hurrying here. 
 
 I see you were not alone ? 
 
 Lillian. Nay, sweet mother [said the lovely girl, nest- 
 ling close to the willing heart, and stealing her arms around 
 her mother's neck] ; I had sought the seclusion of this retreat, 
 
 To be alone with memory for a time, 
 
 That I might try to realize what seems so sweet a dream ; 
 
 Then lift my grateful heart to heaven, and thank my 
 God. 
 
 But scarcely had I entered here ere other footsteps 
 
 Hitherward turned ; and they are but now gone. 
 
 A. I see ; now may the incense of our hearts 
 
 Ascend to heaven together ! So may your soul 
 
 Mount up the old, familiar way to those fair realms 
 
 Where I have sorrowing sought you 
 
 When I thought you dead ! 
 
 Lillian. Yes, be it so. Yet let me tarry for a time, 
 
 And linger here where I may feel the beating of your 
 heart ! 
 
 Yes, yes [she continued softly, as if communing with 
 herself, at the same time gazing steadfastly upon her mother's 
 face, and creeping still closer to her heart]. 
 
 Yes ; 'tis the same sweet face. 
 
 Those the same mild eyes that ever seemed so full of 
 sadness ; 
 
 These the same sweet lips [kissing them], whose painted 
 image e'en 
 
76 The Tragedy of the Lost Catise. 
 
 Has seemed to tremble with emotion when pressed to 
 mine. 
 
 I knew it must be my mother ! 
 
 Painted image ? The locket ! [cried the old lady, start- 
 ing back and clasping her hands in a transport of joy]. 
 
 Oh, have you still the locket that you wore ? 
 
 The locket ! Yes ! Oh, would you know it now ? 
 
 Is this the one you mean ? [cried Lillian, eagerly, draw- 
 ing it from her bosom and placing it in the trembling hands 
 of her mother]. 
 
 The same ! The same dear, dear old treasure ! [wept 
 the old lady in low, tremulous tones, as she sank upon a 
 seat near by, and vainly tried to open it with her trembling 
 hands]. Lillian leaned over her shoulder and gently touched 
 the spring as her mother held it ; and as the lid flew open, 
 there was revealed a group of three, beautifully painted on 
 ivory — a lady and gentleman, and a beautiful infant. And 
 long they sat there, and looked in silence, and wept. Oh, 
 Leonidas ! Leonidas ; my noble husband ! — Thy fond father, 
 my child ! [she cried in an agony of grief, pressing the locket 
 to her lips as her head sank upon her breast]. Lost — lost ; 
 but not so found ! 
 
 Yes ; my little baby, with your sunny curls and eyes of 
 heaven's pure blue ! This other, my darling, is like your 
 mother as she appeared ere age and sorrow had wrought 
 their spell, and made of me this wreck of what I was. 
 
 Say not so, sweet mother [said Lillian, with infinite 
 tenderness, as her arm crept softly around the old lady's neck, 
 and she laid her warm cheek fondly against her mother's]. 
 
 Or if 'tis so, 'tis not the dreary wreck of a beauty passed 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 77 
 
 away ; but that beauty still, with its rich carnations and golden 
 
 glory, changed to softer, purer white. 
 
 A. Thank you, dear child ; if it do but seem so to my 
 
 child, I am content. 'Twere better still if this were true of 
 
 the more enduring past. 
 
 Lillian. Then better 'tis ; it must be so : the one is but 
 
 the bright reflex of what the other is — my sainted mother ! 
 A. Nay, nay, my child : but hark. Are there not 
 
 voices near ? Methinks they come this way. Let us leave 
 
 this place ; for I would have you all alone. There is a shady 
 
 nook ; shall we enter it ? 
 
 Lillian. As you like ; 'tis a sweet retreat. 
 
 [Exit Lillian and her mother into the retreat. 
 [Enter the Gnome and Ralf Rathmore. 
 Rath. Now am I convinced that I am basely born, 
 And may a beggar be within the hour ; thus shorn 
 So soon of wealth, and all save this base blood ! 
 A curse on you ! Misfortune's 'whelming flood 
 Had not o'ertaken me, if in that dark recess 
 Of nature you had left me ; nor conceived 
 In shame, and brought me forth ill-starred, aggrieved ; 
 And forced to win my fortune as a thief! 
 Gnome. 'Twas thus thy fathet recompensed my grief i 
 But as thy father got thee like a thief, 
 A thief thou art by nature. Let the heir 
 Of Arlington dispute me if he dare ! 
 Now get thee to thy work ; be wary ; kill 
 With one fell blow ere she can change her will ! 
 Hist ! What sound was that ? Be still ! 
 
78 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Rath. I heard nothing. What if some spy is lurking 
 here. Perhaps in this retreat [he growled, and grasped his 
 dagger by the hilt]. With the ferocity of a tiger he bounded 
 towards the covert where the ladies cowered in mortal ter- 
 ror ! 
 
 Gnome. No, no ! Not so ! 'Twas towards the right — 
 off there !• 
 
 [She cried, with knitted brow and stern command, 
 
 As towards the spot she stretched her bony hand. 
 
 Haste thee now ; there is some prowling spy ! 
 
 Be quick with it — and let the cowan die ! 
 
 [Exit the Gnome and Rathmore towards the right, 
 hastily. Exit Lillian and her mother in the opposite direc- 
 tion, clinging to each other in terror ; they turn with blanched 
 faces as they leave the scene, to see if they are pursued]. 
 
 Scene 4. — A place in a forest. 
 
 [Enter Klack, with eyes rolling wildly ; breathless, and shak- 
 ing with fear. 
 
 Whew ! Golly ! Fo' de lo'd ! 
 Whew ! De dagga ! [and his eyes kept rolling in every 
 
 direction, as if he expected momentarily to see the dreaded 
 
 weapon in close pursuit. 
 
 Good lo'd ; neba touch de groun' ! Flewd — flewd ! Dey 
 
 flewd ; an' de dagga flewd ; an' dis hyeah nigga flewd ! 
 
 Seem'd zif dat ah dagga was gwine crash 'n fru de back 
 
 ub ebry jump dis nigga makes \ Ki ! [he yelled, squatting 
 
 down ready for a spring.] 
 
 [Enter Uncle Tom, who seems much surprised at Klack's 
 agitation. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 79 
 
 You, Klack ; wha's you been, nigga? You's been 
 want'n ; an' dey 's been — see hea', boy : you's been do'n 
 sufn 'roun' 'bout hea' sho', dat you's skeered o' be 'n kotched 
 at it! 
 
 K. Skeered ! [exclaimed the darkey, with true negro 
 bravado]. Skeered! Who's skeered? Is /skeered? I's 
 'cited ; / is ! Da's nary lib'n debble kin skeer dis nigga ! 
 I's 'cited ; I's done seen de debble — an' de ole witch — an' de 
 dagga ! — de dagga ! ! [he ejaculated with rolling eyes and 
 chattering teeth, and shins that nearly knocked each other 
 from under him]. Golly! Dey flewd ! Dey flewd ! An' 
 dis nigga flewd ! 
 
 Tom. Git out, nigga ; you's skeered. 
 
 K. Fo' de lo'd, I is'nt skeered ; I's 'cited. Ki ! Da 
 dey is ! 
 
 [Exit Klack, like a rocket. 
 [Enter Augustus and Will Keene. 
 
 Aug. What was that ? 
 
 Tom. 'Spose dat's Klack, Mas. 'Gustus — what da is lef 
 ub de nigga ; Klack's 'cited. 
 
 Aug. Klack excited ? What is he excited about ? 
 
 Tom. He's done 'n seen de debble, an' de dagga, an' de 
 ole witch ; an' dey's been a chasin ub de nigga 'till dey's 
 scar'd de wits clar out. 
 
 Aug. The boy is sick ; go find him and take him to 
 the house. 
 
 Tom. Yes, sah ; but Mas. 'Gustus ? 
 
 Aug. Well, Tom. 
 
 Tom. Da's sufn wrong gwine on somewha' ; 
 
 De werry debble 's in de a' ; 
 
80 Uie Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 'Nough to raise dis nigga's ha' — 
 
 Ugh, ugh ; da an't none da' [he added ruefully, feeliug 
 his bald pate]. 
 
 But Klack 's done seed suf 'n, sho. 
 
 Aug. That might be. Find him and bring him here. 
 
 Tom. Yes, sah. [And the old negro bowed low and 
 quitted the scene.] 
 
 Will. I mistrust these wretches. I fear foul play. 
 
 Aug. And I. Are you armed? 
 
 Will. Yes, but the style of this villain is that of a 
 sneaking assassin ; we shall have to watch him as we would 
 a lynx. As to that old hag, no deed so dark but she might 
 do a darker ; I shudder at the thought of her. My word 
 for it, they will try to be avenged on us, and yet do some 
 hellish deed ere we are quit of them. Who comes this way ? 
 
 [Enter Tom, excitedly. 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus ! Quick ! Da's mischief brewin ! 
 
 De ole witch am down da in de holla ; an' sitch gwines 
 on you neba did hea' ! I didn't mind much what Klack 
 said, a-fo' ; but he said mebby dey 'd killed de Miss Lilly, 
 an' — 
 
 Aug. Great God ! Quick ! Lead off — let us see what 
 all this means ! 
 
 Tom. Yes, sah ; she's jis down da in de holla, Mas. 
 'Gustus ; down da by de big spring ! [said the old man, 
 shrinking away with superstitious dread, and managing to 
 get in the rear.] 
 
 Da ! Mas. 'Gustus ; jis down da in de holla! [cried Old 
 Tom, leaning forward and stretching his arm past Augustus, 
 and following close upon his heels.] [Exit all. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 81 
 
 Scene 5. — A place in a garden ; Lillian is discovered gracefully reclining on a 
 rustic seat, softly sleeping. She holds in her hand the open locket. 
 
 [Enter Ralf Rathmore. 
 He starts with surprise when he discovers Lillian — 
 What ? And alone ? How fortunate this is. 
 It seems the gods have not yet quite forsaken me. 
 The time and place are alike propitious. 
 There sleeps fair Lillian, now fairer still, 
 Because so fairly now within my grasp. 
 She sleeps ; she dreams — she little thinks 
 How much that seems like death ; 
 Save in her gentle breathing, that scarce leaves 
 A tremor on the summer air — 
 And the soft heaving of that bosom, full and fair : 
 Tis the Sleeping Beauty ; ah, this dagger can work a 
 
 spell 
 As potent as any other power of hell ! 
 'Tis a magic wand ; then beware the hand that wields it. 
 And yet 'twould pity be to launch into eternity a thing 
 
 so fair. 
 'Tis a dainty morsel, and I fain would taste it ere I tear. 
 Upon my soul (if soul there be), she is a thing to love. 
 Love ! Forsooth ; and what is love ? 
 A wily thief who slyly veils himself with rosy clouds, 
 And then beneath so soft a seeming, appropriates 
 To his private use such softer things as he may chance 
 
 desire. 
 There is none other love ; unless she find it in that realm 
 
 above, 
 6 
 
82 The Tragedy of the Lost Ca?ise. 
 
 Whither I shall send her soul, swift-winging as a dove. 
 But stay ; perhaps 'twere better first to try some other 
 
 means, 
 And by more devious ways attain the end. 
 As coils the serpent, fold on fold, 
 In spiral form, his scales of gold ; 
 And from the apex lifts his head 
 To dart his fiery tongue, with dread 
 To charm his fluttering victim — 
 So will I stand with glittering steel 
 And blackened front, prepared to deal 
 The blow of death with a bloody hand, - 
 Should she dare refuse my stern demand. 
 Then, when securely I have bound her, 
 I can tighten my slimy coils around her ; 
 Aye, tighten — tighten and crush ! 
 Such is love ; 'tis the style of mine. 
 Hugh, hugh ! What a tit-bit, fresh and fine, 
 She will make to roll beneath my tongue ! 
 I see she holds a locket there ; 
 The dainty image, like as not, 
 Of another tit-bit, full as fair — in her imagination, 
 Our friend Augustus — are you there ? 
 If so, I pray you now — beware ! 
 I will take a peep at the cut of our hero's jib. 
 Hero! — he, ho — you know the dog in the farmer's crib? 
 Well, well ; there's no accounting for a female's fancies. 
 A woman must have her hero, of course ; 
 And if not to be had in any other way, 
 She creates him herself — in her imagination. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 83 
 
 Well, well ; 'tis the same thing over again. 
 
 And since to be a hero is the fashion of the hour — 
 
 Now that the breath of war is trembling on the air — 
 
 / will be a hero, too-; hugh-hugh ! I will do a deed 
 
 That will make you, my hero, tremble ! 
 
 Let me see [and he glided stealthily behind Lillian to 
 examine the locket. His eyes became riveted upon the 
 picture, while devilish passions played upon his face. 
 
 Instinctively, as it seemed, he grasped the hilt of his 
 dagger, and partly drew the blade from its scabbard. Then 
 slowly recoiling, with his eyes still fastened upon her, he 
 moved to some little distance.] 
 
 So ! [he muttered.] By the gods, this thing is so ! 
 
 Our fears are facts ; the game is up ; the scheme is all 
 undone. 
 
 That accursed thing is proof enough ; and my ruin is 
 certain ! 
 
 Ha ! I have it now ; perhaps her mother has not seen 
 it yet. 
 
 The picture shall be mine ! 
 
 The proof — the secret mine — if secret still it be — 
 
 And mine, the fortune still, that of right is yours ! 
 
 All's fair in love and war — now doubly fair. 
 
 By foul or fair, no matter, so I win ! [Again he ap- 
 proaches the unsuspecting sleeper, and once more stops.] 
 
 If I awake her? — then? — [a savage scowl settles upon 
 his face ; he draws the dagger from its sheath, and takes one 
 searching look around. 
 
 Softly, my love ; 'tis safest to sleep on. Now lightly. 
 [Approaching stealthily, he attempts to remove the locket.] 
 
84 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Oh ! Oh, dear ! [cried Lillian, bounding to her feet and 
 clutching the locket in her hand.] Sir ! How dare you ? 
 
 What? How dare? [he hissed between his teeth. 
 
 What may a man not dare, to win a prize so fair ? 
 
 [Cried Rathmore, savagely, as he seized her rudely by 
 the arm.] 
 
 By fair or foul, fair lady, you are mine ; 
 
 So fare you well or ill — the choice be thine. 
 
 How, sir? And do you dare insult a lady 
 
 With such rude speech and ruffian touch ? 
 
 You are no gentleman, to be so rude. 
 
 Unhand me, sir ; and suffer me to pass ! [she cried, with 
 a scornful look.] 
 
 Rath, Then pass ; but in passing, pass this way ; not 
 that ! 
 
 Come ! nor speak one word, lest I drive this dagger to 
 your heart ! 
 
 Sir ! [cried Lillian, staggering back aghast as the fiend- 
 ish purpose of the villain flashed upon her. 
 
 What insolence is this ? 
 
 What other villainy do you now propose ? 
 
 Hugh — hugh ! Tis not misnamed ; so I am not defamed. 
 
 But since you put it so well, why can you not foretell 
 
 What I propose? No words are needful ; nor is delay. 
 
 I have a purpose that you must serve. 
 
 Come! 'Tis not that I propose; but I command! 
 
 Come : you must go with me ! [sternly growled the 
 scoundrel, with lowering brow, as he pointed out the way. 
 
 Monster ! Never ! [she shrieked. 
 
 Then die ! [he hissed, and raised the weapon high with 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 85 
 
 murderous hand. She shrieked and swooned away ; and 
 Rathmore seized her in his arms to bear her from the scene- 
 Never ! Hugh — hugh ! You shall live to lick the foot that 
 grinds you in the dust ! [dragging her off; but a heavy hand 
 was laid upon his shoulder. It was that of Augustus. 
 
 Aug. Foul wretch ! Leave off your slimy touch ! [he 
 fiercely cried, throwing his protecting arm around the in- 
 sensible form of Lillian. 
 
 Wretch, hey ? Take that, liar ! {hissed Rathmore as he 
 loosed his hold on Lillian, and sprang like a tiger upon 
 Augustus — leveling a tremendous blow with his weapon at 
 the latter's breast. But Augustus, had he been unencumb- 
 ered, was more than a match for the dark assassin ; and even 
 as it was, he warded off the assault, and quickly followed up 
 his advantage with a stunning blow of his fist, But it is hard 
 to tell what the result of such an unequal conflict would have 
 been, had not timely assistance arrived. 
 \Enter. Col. Bellemont, Gen. Beauman and Will Keene with 
 
 a rush. Bellemont, with a bound, seized Rathmore from 
 
 behind, whilst Will Keene wrenched the weapon from 
 
 his grasp. 
 
 Belle. Hold ! You base assassin ! [Lillian slowly 
 opens her eyes. 
 
 Will. The craven coward ; to use a weapon upon an 
 unarmed man ! 
 
 Lillian. Oh, God ! Is he — ah ! — then heaven has spared 
 you ! [changing her voice from a cry of agony to the soft, 
 low tones of endearment, as she became conscious that she 
 rested in the arms of her lover. 
 
86 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Aug. But heaven has been more kind to you, sweet 
 Lillian. 
 
 Belle. What fresh devilment has he attempted? 
 
 Aug. What his vile purpose was, I cannot tell ; only 
 this I saw : 
 
 With brutal violence he sought to drag her hence ; 
 [pointing. 
 
 Then raised his murderous hand and hissed — "then 
 die!" 
 
 Belle. So ! What they have failed to gain by fraud, 
 
 No doubt they now seek to gain by force — 
 
 And murder those who block their game ! 
 
 Will. Perhaps he sought to force her into marriage? 
 
 Beau. By my faith ; a dainty way of wooing ! 
 
 Most manly love, and gallant way of doing ! 
 
 The accursed scoundrel ; I think 'twould be no sin 
 
 To carve a hole in him, and let some daylight in ! 
 
 [Snarled Will, tightening his grip on Rathmore, and 
 nervously twitching at the dagger. 
 
 Rath. Strike ! You d — d whelp ! The odds are greater 
 than before. Off with you ! [he growled, shaking off their 
 hold and fiercely confronting them. 
 
 You pack of craven curs ! Liars ; cowards all ! 
 
 Take the weapons, you snarling hounds ! 
 
 I will fight you as I am, 
 
 And tear your paltry hearts out one by one ! 
 
 Come on ! [he fairly yelled in his fury ; and cast his coat 
 upon the ground, and stamped upon it. 
 
 Will. Save your strength, you screeching hinge of hell, 
 
 To tussle with the prison bars. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 87 
 
 Belle. No ! Tis bad enough, not to publish it to the 
 world. 
 
 It is not expedient to have recourse to law ; 
 
 Nor can we have sweet Lillian's name 
 
 Involved before the courts in this foul business. 
 
 Will. What then? 'Twill never do to let the villain go. 
 
 Aug. What then ? We cannot slay him in cold blood. 
 
 No gentleman could be expected to offer him equal 
 terms ; 
 
 'Tis no offence to be thus settled by the code. What 
 then? 
 
 Belle. I will waive that point, and deem it a privilege 
 
 To punish this base ruffian ; I will consider his offence 
 
 An insult, or affront ; and meet the gentleman (con- 
 temptuously) 
 
 On equal terms. What weapons, sir, do you prefer ? 
 
 Lillian. Nay ; I cannot suffer this on my account ? 
 
 Brother, forbear, I pray you ; and do not soil your hands 
 
 With such base blood ; if indeed, his murderous hand 
 spill not your own. 
 
 Belle. Child ; would you ask of me to do a wrong ? 
 
 Such demons have no right to walk the earth, 
 
 And shame with their deformity the face of nature. 
 
 Would you have me be accessory to such foul deeds 
 
 By suffering such to go? [to R.] What weapons, sir? 
 
 'Tis little odds to me [said Rathmore grimly. 
 
 When I have sent your soul to hell, 
 
 I'll bide me for the next! 
 
 Belle. 'Tis somewhat premature ; I think the next 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 With whom you have a bout, will be your master — the 
 devil ! 
 
 My friend [to Will], bring forth the foils. 
 
 {Exit Will. 
 
 Aug. Now I protest ; I have the prior right ; so let me 
 first. 
 
 Rath. Your time will come full soon ; 
 
 And next your heels shall kick the moon ! 
 
 Belle. He is a polished blade ; so have it as it is, 
 
 I'll put a finishing touch to his education. 
 [Re-enter Will Keene, with long rapiers ; accompanied by a 
 
 surgeon, with his case of instruments. 
 
 Will hands the swords to Augustus, who measures 
 lengths, tests, and presents the choice to the antagonists ; the 
 surgeon opens his case and spreads towels, lint, bandages, 
 etc., upon the ground. 
 
 Sur. They are beauties ; I can find the ball with them, 
 even if it lodges in his soul. Bah ! But they fight with 
 swords ! 
 
 Aug. Genuine Burmese steel ! By the by, Doctor, 
 
 Where in that beastly carcass would you seek the soul ? 
 [pointing at Rathmore.] 
 
 Lillian. Brother; oh, brother ! 
 
 How shall I thus stand and witness this dread strife ? 
 
 And mayhap see your flickering lamp of life 
 
 Thus quenched in blood ! 
 
 Belle. Tut, tut, my dear ; 'tis but a moment's work. 
 
 Would you have a soldier from his duty shirk ? [he em- 
 braces and kisses her ; then resigns her to Aug.] 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Ca?/se. 89 
 
 Now, sir [to Rathmore] ; toe the mark. 
 
 The remaining blade is yours | to Will] ; stand there ; 
 
 If one retreats three paces, run him through. 
 
 [The antagonists come to the scratch and cross their 
 blades ; they begin to play in a masterly manner, as if to 
 test and estimate each other's skill and strength.] 
 
 [Enter the Gnome, flying like a fury. 
 
 Rathmore recoils and drops his point. 
 
 Stay ! I command ye stop ! Away ! [she wildly cried, 
 throwing herself between them ; her upraised arms and 
 disheveled hair adding to the wierd appearance of the 
 demoniac creature.] 
 
 Palsied the arm that makes a pass ! 
 
 / am the one to blame ; alas, 
 
 I alone — I alone ! [to Bellemont, tearing open her breast.] 
 
 See ! 'Tis but a mother's heart ! Strike here ! 
 
 /bid him do the deed ! /made him what he is ! 
 
 I did it all — all — for dire revenge — and him ! 
 
 Now strike ! Nor fear to wound me more than he ! 
 
 [To Rath.] Aye, for thee ; ingrate — 'twas for thee ! 
 
 And now I bear thy curse, because I failed ! 
 
 Wo is me ; wo is me ! My flaming crimes are nailed 
 
 In sheets of fire — with curses dire — fast to the gates of 
 hell! 
 
 See ! — they ope ; dark-rolling clouds that smell 
 
 Of sulphur, vomit forth ; the lurid glare 
 
 Of smouldering fire slow-burning there 
 
 Amidst the blackened mass I see. 
 
 Hugh-hugh 1 The writhing inmates beckon me ! 
 
90 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 I go ! I go ! — I go for aye to dwell 
 
 Amidst the torments and the horrors of hell ! TShe 
 sinks heavily to the earth ; one moment of writhing agony, 
 and she lies there, still and dead — the horrid remnant of a 
 horrid life.] 
 [Enter Mrs. Arlington, Mrs. Hampton, Vix Fairfax, Tom, 
 
 Aunt Dina, Klack, and others, hurriedly. 
 
 Rathmore throws down his rapier, and kneels at the 
 side of his dead mother. 
 
 Mrs. Arlington, with an expression of horror, leans over 
 her with mingled fear and pity. The negroes huddle together 
 in terror. All are in strong positions. 
 
 Dr. She is dead ! [Examining her. Awe and fear are 
 depicted on every face. Rathmore rises slowly ; his features 
 are set and cold ; his hands are clenched ; a savage gloom 
 rests upon his dark face ; in a deep, cold, hollow voice, that 
 had in it a deadly calm, he said] — 
 
 Rath. After all, she was my only friend ; she was my 
 mother ! 
 
 Her life was mine ; her death is yours ! For one of mine, 
 t/ie devil will give me nine ! 
 
 By the friendly powers of hell, 
 
 And subtle arts I know so well, 
 
 / swear it ! This dagger [picking it up from the ground 
 where Will Keene had flung it] shall not find its scabbard, 
 or this hand forget its cunning, while one of you has life ! 
 / shall not rattle ere / strike ! 
 
 Beware ! This dagger hovers in the air ! 
 
 In every shadow a demon may be lurking there ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 91 
 
 [He moves slowly backwards, his glittering blade flash- 
 ing above his head ; his hands clenched ; his teeth set ; his 
 eyes glaring like a tiger.] . 
 
 Tableau — Curtain. 
 
 Notice.— The right to recite or represent this work in public, is reserved by the 
 Author ; no infringement will be permitted. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. — A place near the Hampton cottage ; a rude bridge spans the 
 meadow-brook near the cascade; a view of the rocky gorge as it 
 descends into the Shenandoah, with the filmy forms of the Blue 
 Ridge in the distance. Time, morning. 
 
 [Enter Augustus Hampton, crossing the bridge. 
 What ! [said he, stopping to consult his watch. 
 Is love less swift to greet than slow to part? 
 Lillian is not yet here ! But, darling : 
 'Tis not that these slow feet outrun your heart ; 
 They were so winged with love to get the start, 
 And bring me foremost to this trysting place. 
 Ah, Lillian, for once, I've won the race! 
 Now, whilst I wait the sunlight of your face, 
 I'll set me here, in this familiar place, 
 And so let memory's pencil lightly trace 
 The course of your sweet life and love, that grace 
 With joyous innocence these storied scenes. 
 Ah, me ; that heaven should choose such means, 
 And shape such ends for us, a marvel seems ; 
 Nor does reality dissipate these dreams, 
 Or make more tangible and real things 
 That are the most familiar. 
 There is that so pure and spirituelle 
 In your bright life, its charm seems still to dwell 
 'Midst these old scenes where erst the witching spell 
 Of your sweet presence lulled my soul to sleep. 
 Ah, 'twas on the verge of yon clear pool, and deep, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 93 
 
 Where the lilies still their virgin vigils keep. 
 
 O'er those mysterious waters that could bring 
 
 Freighted on their current so pure and fair a thing 
 
 As your sweet self. And 'twas I 
 
 Whose boyish heart so beat against the sky 
 
 With its exultant wings ; and hopes so high 
 
 Made my tardy feet impatient fly 
 
 Along the dusty road as I swept by, 
 
 Bearing you home to mother ! 
 
 Yes, Lillian ; there 
 
 (Sings) Where the meadow-brook glides in the sun's 
 
 golden sheen, 
 Between banks that are blooming with flowers unseen ; 
 And the soft summer sky lends its beautiful blue 
 To the stream that has given its sweet name to you ; 
 There a dream dwells, as pure as the heaven above — 
 The rose-light of morning — the sweet dream of love. 
 Where the willow sweeps low, and bends o'er the deep 
 
 pool, 
 There to lave its long leaves in the current so cool ; 
 And the dark shadows mingle their purple and green 
 With the quivering gold and bright spangles of sheen ; 
 There the loves of our childhood, in letters of gold 
 With a pencil of sunlight, in beauty is told ! 
 
 [Enter Lillian, softly slipping up behind him, and with a 
 quick movement, putting her arms around his neck, 
 blindfolding his eyes with her hand. 
 Aug. Forsooth ! 'Tis Lillian, and none other ! 
 
94 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Lillian. In truth ! Tis he who once was called — my 
 
 brother ! 
 Aug. But since you have now found another mother ; 
 And also have to-boot, another brother, 
 Who is the son of neither one or other, 
 But of a third whom you have called your mother — 
 None being kin to you or to each other, 
 Save this, the last ; 'twould anybody bother 
 To solve the riddle, and adjust the claims 
 Of these to you, or you to all these names. 
 Now, first, we gave what else we could not give, 
 Our honest name to you whilst you did live 
 The object of our love in our poor home. 
 Then the rich Bellemonts saw and loved you so, 
 Dear mother thought it best to let you go 
 From our fond hearts and home ; from their full store. 
 She knew that you would benefit far more 
 Than if she kept you 'neath our humble roof, 
 With all that she could do in earnest proof 
 Of her maternal love. 
 
 But they are gone — all save their noble son, 
 Who has such honor and distinction won. 
 Their wealth had vanished ere the silvered head 
 Of noble Bellemont 'midst the treasured dead 
 Was laid ; so your scant earnings, and poor pay 
 Of that good son was all that smoothed the way 
 Of those old people, broken, worn, and gray, 
 Through that dark valley where the lamp of day 
 Goes out — and time is lost in eternity ! 
 Lillian. But now, at last, kind heaven has restored me 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 95 
 
 To mine own mother ! 
 Aug. Yet have you promised 
 That whilst the last must ever more be first, 
 The first should be the last only, dear, in this — 
 To give at last, a mother's first, fond kiss ! 
 Lillian. And make your mother first and last in this ? 
 Ha-ha ! If being kissed, and kissing, be such bliss, 
 Then think not ill of me, or take it, dear, amiss — 
 When I kiss you, Augustus. You may kiss 
 Any one you like, you know — so you do not miss 
 The one who has most right to it ! 
 ['Twas a tempting sight, to see her on his breast, 
 In the full confidence of a love confessed ; 
 With sweet abandon lying thus caressed, 
 Close to the heart of brave Augustus pressed 
 With such exultant joy ! 
 
 Glory to God ! [exclaimed a peculiar voice in a medita- 
 tive tone, ending with a wheezing sort of grunt. 
 
 Blessed Je-sus ! God — bless — my soul! Who-o-o, 
 Dolly— Who-o-o ! 
 
 \_Enter Old Robin Sponger, hurriedly, with a faded and very 
 dilapidated umbrella in one hand, and an old carpet-bag 
 of many bright colors in the other. 
 
 How do you — do ? [he said smilingly, setting down his 
 antiquated carpet-bag, the more successfully to make his 
 obeisance, accidentally hitting himself a crack on the nose 
 with the handle of his umbrella in doing so. Picking up 
 his bag, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, he hastily 
 advanced with the other extended to shake hands with the 
 
96 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 lovers ; but they merely smiled, and said kindly, " good 
 morning, sir ; " instinctively avoiding the old man's hand ; 
 for, although he seemed cleanly enough in other respects, 
 his apparel was disgustingly filthy. Nothing daunted by 
 this reception, he crowded his good ear almost into the 
 mouth of Augustus, and continued in a loud voice] — 
 
 Can you — tell me — where a la-dy of the name of- — 
 Hamp-tarc xe-sid.es ? 
 
 Aug. I am the son, sir, of that lady ; is there anything 
 I can do for you ? 
 
 Sponge. God bless my soul ! Did I ever see the — like ! 
 I am told — she is — de-vo-ted to — God ! 
 
 Aug. Well, sir ; she is a devoted Christian — yes. 
 Sponge. I have — been «/-formed — that she is — grea- 
 a-te-ly in-ter-est-ed — in — tJie — mission-a-ry work ! 
 Aug. Well ? 
 
 Sponge. I am en-gaged in — the — mission-tf-ry work ! 
 I have a grea-a-t va-/7-ety — of — Chi-na — cu-ri-ossi-TiES ; 
 and give a few — ex-hi-bitions to — the — Sun-afcy-schools ; 
 and tt-quest a — con-tri-bu-tion — -for — mission-tf-ry purpo- 
 ses — in Chi— na ! 
 
 Aug. We have heard of you, sir ; and I think my 
 mother would have nothing whatever to do with that 
 business. That is her residence [pointing in the direction 
 of the cottage], you will find her there. 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [exclaimed the pious fraud, in his pecu- 
 liar, elevated tone as he grabbed his carpet-bag, and pre- 
 pared to go.] Could I get a sup — of — some-thing to — 
 moisten my — throat ; and a little something to — eat ! Per— 
 haps — [but his speech was cut short by voices without.] 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 97 
 
 Halt, there, old man ! we want you ! [shouted a stern 
 voice at some distance, as the excited tones of men and clat- 
 ter of horses' hoofs were heard approaching along the road.] 
 [Enter a party of patrolmen, armed and violent. 
 
 Good morning, Augustus ! [said a tall, dark, fierce-look- 
 ing man, evidently the leader of the band ; at the same time 
 raising his slouch hat to the lady. 
 
 Aug. Good morning, Captain ; what is the trouble ? 
 
 Capt. Oh, we have been watching the movements of this 
 old fraud for some time. He has been collecting money off 
 the people for missionary purposes and applying it to his 
 own use ; but that is a small matter, and we should never 
 have disturbed him on that account. We have discovered, 
 however, that this business is merely a cloak for darker 
 designs. He has been caught amongst the niggers, using 
 incendiary language ; and we have determined to hang him ! 
 He is a d — d renegade and Yankee emissary ! 
 
 Aug. There is a lady present, sir. 
 
 Capt. I beg pardon ; I forgot myself [touching his hat 
 to Lillian]. Come, old man ! We want you. 
 
 Aug. Are you quite sure, sir, that you are not at fault ? 
 
 It is a grave thing to take the life of a human being. 
 
 Are you certain that he has done anything worthy of 
 death ? 
 
 And, besides, sir, consider his white hairs ! This shall 
 not be. 
 
 Curse his white hairs! A born Virginian, to affiliate 
 with niggers, and incite them to burn our homes and murder 
 
98 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 our families ! The infernal reprobate and d — d traitor ! 
 Away with him ! Hang him ! [yelled the infuriate crowd]. 
 
 Aug. These are grave charges ; but are the proofs suf- 
 ficiently clear? Be temperate, gentlemen; and just. For 
 the sake of your own honor, and that of the Commonwealth, 
 be deliberate, and indulge in no lawless violence. [Some of 
 the rougher men growl dissent, and utter fierce exclamations 
 and threats of violence]. 
 
 Capt. You are right in that, Augustus ; but see here. 
 This book was found under his pillow ! [producing a copy of 
 the "Helper's Book," and turning to some soiled pages, 
 evidently much used]. What do you think of this ? [reads — 
 
 " If the South retains slavery, which God forbid ! she 
 will be to the North what Poland is to Russia, Cuba to 
 
 Spain, and Ireland to England ! Our own banner is 
 
 inscribed — No co-operation with slaveholders in politics ; no 
 fellowship with them in religion ; no affiliation with them in 
 society; no recognition of pro-slavery men, except as ruf- 
 fians, outlaws, and criminals ! In any event, come 
 
 what will, transpire what may, the institution of slavery must 
 
 be abolished ! We are determined to abolish slavery 
 
 at all hazards — in defiance of all the opposition, of whatever 
 nature, it is possible for the slaveocrats to bring against us. 
 Of this they may take due notice, and govern themselves 
 
 accordingly ! Frown, sirs ; fret, foam, prepare your 
 
 weapons, threaten, strike, shoot, stab, bring on civil war, dis- 
 solve the Union ; our purpose is as fixed as the eternal pil- 
 lars of heaven ; we are determined to abolish slavery, and — 
 
 so help us God — abolish it we will ! It is our honest 
 
 conviction that all the pro-slavery slaveholders deserve to 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 99 
 
 be at once reduced to a parrallel with the basest criminals 
 
 that lie fettered within the cells of our public prisons ! 
 
 Compensation to slave owners for negroes ! Preposterous 
 idea — the suggestion is criminal, the demand unjust, wicked, 
 monstrous, damnable ! Shall we pat the bloodhounds for 
 the sake of doing them a favor ? Shall we feed the curs of 
 slavery to make them rich at our expense ? Pay these 
 whelps for the privilege of converting them into decent, up- 
 right, honest men ?" 
 
 No ! [roared the fierce captain]. 
 
 No ! ! [reiterated the dark and savage-looking band]. 
 
 Capt. No ! You howling fanatics ! You cowardly, 
 skulking thieves ! You d — d brood of vipers and sneaking 
 assassins ! Hang the old devil ! [And they moved savagely 
 towards the shrinking old man]. 
 
 Lillian stepped before them. 
 
 Lillian. Nay, gentlemen ; not in a moment of passion ! 
 You must not so stain your hands with blood, or sully the fair 
 fame of your native State ; and besides, it is not clear that 
 the book belongs to this poor old man. Some other person 
 may have left it there. [Turning to the old man, who was 
 eagerly watching her, and who detected the sympathy in 
 her face, although he could not fully make out what she 
 said, she inquired] — 
 
 Is it true, sir, that this book is yours ? 
 
 Yes ! [he exclaimed, evidently not knowing what she 
 had said, and putting his hand to his ear as he crowded it 
 into her face]. What did you say ? I don't understand it ; 
 I do not. 
 
100 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Is that book yours, sir? [she screamed in his ear]. 
 
 Sponge. Book ? 
 
 These gentlemen want to know whether that book 
 [pointing] belongs to you or not ! [cried Aug. in a loud 
 voice, coming to her relief.] 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! No — it is not my — book ; I never saw 
 it before — that I know of. What might .the name of it — be ? 
 
 Aug. You are quite sure that you have never seen it, 
 and that it does not belong to you ? 
 
 Sponge. I — have got — two books ; that is — all ; rt-test- 
 2L-mcnt — aud-a.-M eih-o-dist hymn-book. 
 
 Lillian. There, gentlemen ; you can surely see that he 
 is innocent. 
 
 Aug. Yes ; no man could well counterfeit such sim- 
 plicity. I do not believe the book was left there by him. 
 
 Capt. That may be, but we want to be rid of him, any- 
 way. 
 
 Then let him leave the State in peace ; I will see to it 
 that he goes. Gentlemen, please let us pass — he is now my 
 prisoner ! [she said, with such a witching smile that those 
 black-browed men relaxed their savage scowl, and courteously 
 made way for her as she gently took the hand of the tremb- 
 ling old man and led him away to the cottage. The patrol- 
 men gazed silently after her until she was out of sight, then 
 turned, without uttering a word, and rode away. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 101 
 
 Scene 2. — A place on an unfrequented road, not far from Harper's Ferry ; a 
 view of the rocky cliffs and wooded heights skirting the Shenan- 
 doah, in the background ; near the foreground, an old mill on the 
 shore of the river; the moonlight glances brightly from the tur- 
 bulent waters of the broad, but shallow stream. 
 
 [Enter a tall, dark figure, muffled in a short cloak ; it is Ralf 
 Rathmore. He paces up and down, with his hands 
 clasped behind him, evidently in a dejected and desper- 
 ate mood. 
 
 How vain is vanity ! Alas, humanity ; 
 How insecure are all your bolts and bars ! 
 How fleeting, things that seem most sure to stay ; 
 As sudden in descent as shooting stars ; 
 Fading as the moon before the light of day ! 
 Still, in the wild delirium of her joy, 
 Perhaps she has not thought to change her will, 
 Or scented yet my purpose set to kill ! 
 'Tis well ; I would not have your fears foretell 
 The danger of the toils, as some things smell 
 The purpose of the trapper, how e'er well 
 The trap be set and bated. 
 Tread lightly ; in the dust the serpent lies ! 
 He strikes ! — Hugh-hugh ; and his victim dies ! 
 .... Ha! What sound is that? It comes this way, 
 I'll take the bush and watch, be what it may. \_Exit. 
 
 Who-o-o, Dolly ; who-o-o ! [exclaimed a well-known 
 
 voice, accompanied by a peculiar, wheezing grunt. 
 
 Enter Old Robin Sponger, who peers furtively around in 
 every direction ; he finally deposits his party-colored 
 carpet-bag on the ground, and carefully lays his antede- 
 
102 Tlic Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 luvian umbrella upon it. He then blows his bugle of a 
 nose with fine effect in the silent woods, and wipes it 
 carefully on his well-glazed coat sleeve, as usual. Fum- 
 bling about in his pockets, he produces that filthy old 
 rag, and gives a finishing wipe to his trickling proboscis. 
 This road — is — dread-ful — rough ! Ver-haps it is safe ; 
 
 for surely — no one — ever comes this — way ! Blessed Je-sus. 
 
 This place — must be — it ; there is — the old — mill ! That is so ! 
 
 Hugh! God — have mercy — on — my Why, how do you 
 
 do ! [he suddenly exclaimed. 
 
 Enter an aged negro man, who takes off his hat and tucks it 
 under his arm, and then stands looking at Old Sponger 
 in mute astonishment ; Sponger, in turn, looks at the old 
 darkey in much the same manner. At length the 
 silence is broken. 
 Ole Mas. ! [ejaculated the negro, trying to move around 
 
 Sponger) but keeping his eyes on him all the time]. 
 
 How do you — do? [exclaimed Sponger, offering his 
 
 hand, which the black man seemed half afraid to take]. 
 I am — so glad — to — see you ! 
 Old Negro. Gugh — faugh ! Golly ; I's mouty glad ub 
 
 dat Ole Mas. ! 
 
 Sponge. Per-haps — you — can tell me where — I — am ? 
 
 Negro. Don' know, Ole Mas. ; 'cept you's hyeah. 
 
 Sponge. I am on my way — to — Pitts — burg ! 
 
 Negro. An' wha 's pinchbug, Massa ? 
 
 Sponge. Away over there — beyond the — moun-taius. 
 
 [Points West]. 
 
 Dem mount'ns ? [ejaculated the old black man with 
 
 evident dread]. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 103 
 
 Yes ! [cried Sponger in his peculiar treble]. 
 
 Negro. Is you gwine to pinchbug, Massa ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! I want to get there — as soon as — I can ! 
 
 Negro Does you want to git da werry bad, sah ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! I do — so ! I am a-fraid to — stay here — 
 any longer! 
 
 Negro. Lo'd ! Ole Mas. ; is you mo' feard ub stay'n 
 hyeah 'n you is ub gwine down da ? 
 
 Sponge. Down where ? 
 
 Negro. Down da to pinchbug 's you calls it ! Da's 
 nuf ' n down da, Massa, but de black clouds ! It's night fo' 
 eba down da ! Dem mount'ns am de eend ub de wo'ld, 
 sah — dem mount'ns ! Da's wha de sun goes to hide in de 
 night ; an' stays down da 'till de mo'n'n. Den he comes up 
 oba de Ridge da, a' ta gwine cla' unda de wo'ld ! Dey say 
 de good folks 's gwine to come up da oba de Ridge jis like 
 de sun ! Is dat so, Ole Mas. ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes! Glory — to — God! And the — black 
 man — will be — as bright and — fair — as the — sun ! 
 
 Ole Mas. ! [fairly shouted the old negro]. 
 
 What 's dat you say ? 
 
 [Enter Ralf Rathmore. 
 
 What now ? Tis Robin Sponger, I believe. 
 
 Have you, too, found some cause for hurried leave, 
 
 That by these devious ways you take your flight 
 
 Like a frightened owl through the gloom of night ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [cried the old man in that peculiar 
 treble, whose hollow and meaningless tone indicated that he 
 had failed to hear or comprehend what Rathmore had said]. 
 
104 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 I am — en-gaged — in — the ser-vice of — God ! 
 
 Rath. All that have I heard before ; what else ? 
 
 Sponge. Fer-haps — -yon are in-ter-est-r^/ in this — work ? 
 
 Rath. Well ; I am. 
 
 Sponge. Ter-haps — you have not seen — my Ch\-na — 
 cu-ri-ossi-Z/rj- ? I have — a gre-a-at vari—e- ty ! 
 
 Rath. Damn your curiosities ! Kite them to the sky ! 
 
 Have done with this. Think you that I 
 
 Can be so duped as others by a spy ? 
 
 I know you, Sponger. Knowing, I know why 
 
 You take the wings of night to darkly fly 
 
 The dangers that beset you. They are nigh 
 
 Whom you now seek. The deserted mill 
 
 Is the rendezvous for conspirators still. 
 
 You have no cause to fear. 
 
 Sponge. And who — ate — you ? 
 
 Rath. I am Ralf Rathmore — now in command 
 
 Of all the forces of the John Brown band 
 
 In this vicinity. [He puts a small whistle to his lips, 
 and blows a shrill call]. 
 [Enter a. motley gang of armed negroes and white desperadoes. 
 
 Sponge. Well, I de— clar' ! I never — saw any-th'mg — 
 to — e-qual — that ! I never — did ; that is — so. 
 
 Rath. You see I lie not. Have you found any friends 
 up the valley ? 
 
 Sponge. A gr-ea-a-t mul-/z'-TUDE ! 
 
 Rath. Will they rise ? 
 
 Sponge. When-ever — needed. 
 
 Rath. Then we'll knead them, if that will make them 
 rise. Are they mixed ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 105 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! Most-ly — black ! There are — a — fczv — 
 white ! 
 
 Rath. Enough for yeast, perhaps, to make them rise. 
 Well, Sponger ; 'tis none too soon your carcass flies 
 These scenes. This night the arsenal will be attacked 
 At Harper's Ferry ; and the arms so long there stacked 
 To serve no purpose, ere the morrow's dawn the brave 
 Army of Liberators, and downtrodden slave, 
 Shall trim with glittering steel ! 
 
 Hugh, hugh ; and there are those doomed soon to feel 
 Ralf Rathmore's vengeance ! Craven wretches, kneel 
 And kiss the foot that spurns you. Caress the heel 
 That tramps you in the mire your own blood made ! 
 Bless, curse, supplicate ; all your hopes shall fade 
 Together, hugh, hugh, from the glazed eye of death ! 
 [Aside.'] Aye, fairest Lillian ; soon your snowy breast 
 Shall softly swell on Rathmore's blackened chest ! 
 \A shot heard without.'] Ha ! A shot ! Our men have 
 
 fired on some patrol ! 
 Fall in, men ! Sponger ; get you hence, or they'll take 
 
 toll 
 Of your heart's blood ! Attention, company ; for- 
 ward — march ! 
 
 [Exeunt all ; Rathmore and his gang to the front ; old 
 Sponger to the rear. After the scene was deserted, the 
 peculiar voice of the queer old man could still be heard, 
 crying in the most appealing tones — " Git up, Dol-ly ; 
 git up ! " 
 
106 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 3. — A place in front of the Fairfaix mansion ; a porch ; interior illumi- 
 nated, and sound of music and dancing within. The grating of car- 
 riage wheels on the gravel way, and sound of coachmen without. 
 Negro servants in waiting to render any service required. Guests 
 arriving and merrily entering the main portal, where they are cour- 
 teously received by the host and hostess. The guests all arrived, 
 and a company of negroes appear, availing themselves of the music 
 within, to engage in a grotesque dance. 
 
 \_Enter Klack, with a silver tray loaded with partially emptied 
 
 wine glasses, fragments of cake, candies, etc., from the 
 
 house, singing — 
 
 I's comin, comin ! Niggas clar de way . 
 
 Fo' de cake an' de wine, an' de candies fine, 
 
 Dat de white folks fro'd away ! 
 
 Hab a glass, sah ? [he said with an important flourish, 
 offering a glass to a gentleman's gentleman ; but in the nick 
 o' time, just as the said gentleman extended his hand to re- 
 ceive the tempting beverage, his face all radiant with pleasur- 
 able expectation, the rascally Klack, suddenly changing his 
 mind, cooly emptied it himself, much to the amusement of 
 the other negroes ; blandly adding — 
 
 In dis hea' wo'ld ob sudden change, 
 
 Dis change ob mine 'bout dis hea' wine, 
 
 On de whole 's nuf'n werry strange. [And he im- 
 pudently put his thumb to his nose, and wagged his fingers 
 at the victim of his joke ; the other negroes laugh and jeer]. 
 
 Gent's gent. On dat ah hole dis change ub mine, 
 
 Suits you as well as dat ah wine ! [Slaps Klack in the 
 mouth ; who suddenly finds himself sprawling on the 
 ground, with the cherished remnants of the feast scattered 
 all around!. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. ,107 
 
 Negroes — all. We's gwine fo' de wine, an' de candies 
 fine ! 
 
 Hyeah, hyeah»! Hoo-dah ! [all make a dive for the good 
 things ; a general scramble, tumble, and frolic. A confused 
 sound of voices without]. 
 
 Old Tom. You, niggas ; hea' dat ah noise out dah ? 
 
 Dah's white folks com'n, sho ! Git 'way from hea' ; 
 make yo' se'fs scarse, you howl'n mokes ; you hea' ? 
 [Exit negroes ; Tom kicking high at the flying coat-tails of 
 
 the hindmost. 
 
 Lady's voice {without). Help, help ! 
 
 [Enter Vix Fairfax, running. 
 
 Oh, Uncle Tom ; do save me ! Don't let him catch 
 me ! [She takes refuge in the rear of Old Tom, and tugs at 
 his coat-tail]. 
 
 Tom. You, chile ! You git behin' dah ; you hea' ; [and 
 the faithful old creature excitedly brandished his heavy cane 
 so vigorously that he kept the mischievous Vix dodging this 
 way and that to kept out of its way]. 
 
 [Enter Will Keene, followed by others. 
 
 Will. Oh, ho ! So you are treed at last ! 
 
 Catch her, Uncle Tom, and hold her fast ; 
 
 Don't let her get away ! 
 
 Vix. Please don't, Uncle Tom ; don't let him catch me. 
 
 Will. Now, Vix ; 'twas fairly won ; 
 
 So please don't spoil the fun. 
 
 A game so well begun 
 
 Should not be all undone. 
 
 Come, kiss me just this once ; [entreatingly] 
 
 Then kick me for a dunce 
 
108 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 For getting in this fix 
 
 With pretty, pouting Vix ! 
 
 Tom. Gugh-faugh ! [burst out Old Tom, shuffling away]. 
 
 Am dat what all dis 'bout ? 
 
 Dey scar de wits clar out ! \_Exit Tom, laughing. 
 
 I don't care ; 'tis all a snare [she cried, poutingly] ; 
 
 'Tis downright mean, I say, Will Keene, 
 
 To make me kiss you when I don't want to — 
 
 Right here — [aside, coquettishly] before them all ! 
 
 Will. Well, well, my little belle ; 
 
 'Tis naught to grieve about. 
 
 But when you play another day, 
 
 Pray don't begin to pout ! 
 
 Vix. Now don't get angry, Willie ; will you ? [entreat- 
 ingly] 
 
 There ! [pouting her lips for the forfeit kiss ; but she 
 turns her cheek suddenly and catches it there. All laugh at 
 the ruse]. 
 
 Will. A fraud ; that was not fair ! 
 
 Vix. A fraud ? There is a pair ! 
 
 Will. Please, Vix ; now if you dare, 
 
 On those sweet lips, right square. 
 
 Vix. Well, if I must, take it, tease ; [coquettishly pre- 
 tending not to want to] 
 
 Take it quick, and be at ease ! [turns her face up and 
 pouts her lips. Will takes her face between his hands this 
 time, and draws a long kiss, holding on as long as he can ; 
 she struggles and finally gets away, dealing Will a not very 
 serious box on the ear as she slips from his embrace ; the 
 party laugh heartily and enjoy the fun]. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 109 
 
 Will. Oh, ye gods ! That liquid kiss so sweet, 
 Has run clean through, and tingles in my feet ! [he be- 
 gins to skip and dance ; the rest join in and make a merry 
 time, dancing a reel to the music in the house]. 
 [Enter Klack, with wine and refreshments as the music and 
 dancing cease. 
 Will. Hold, hold ! — for the spirits are here ; [singing ; 
 
 takes a glass] 
 The spirits that come not to haunt, but to cheer ! 
 The spirits that dwell in the golden grain ; 
 That bask in the sunshine, and bathe in the rain ! 
 They are laden with memories sweet of the hours 
 When they dwelt in the fields with the beautiful flowers ; 
 . Of the bright summer skies, of cerulean blue ; 
 Of the fragrance of morn, and the glistening dew ; 
 Of the carol of birds, and the drone of the bees 
 As they mingled with breezes that played in the trees. 
 Let us drink ; let us drink to this rich ruby wine 
 From the sun-gilded " land of the cypress and vine, 
 Where the flow'rs ever blossom ; the heavens ever shine ! 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 In colors though varied, in beauty may vie — 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ! 
 Where the maidens are soft as the roses they twine ; 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ! " 
 Chorus — all. We drink to the land of the cypress and 
 
 vine; 
 And the maidens as soft as the roses they twine ! 
 We drink to the spirits so joyous and free ! 
 
110 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Right welcome, brave Bachus, thy presence shall be ; 
 
 A health to the lips that now gladly greet thee ! 
 
 To the hearts and the feet that may trip to thy glee ! 
 [all drink the toast gaily]. 
 \Entev Gen. Beaumar, Col. Bellemont, Augustus, and others. 
 
 Beau. A truce to your giddy mood. Ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, we regret to mar the pleasure of the evening, but 
 there is cause for serious alarm. There are grave indications 
 of servile insurrection ! We have authentic information that 
 the arsenal at Harper's Ferry has been attacked and cap- 
 tured by a desperate band of Northern fanatics and negroes ; 
 and that a detachment of them, under the villain Rathmore, 
 is now on the march up the valley, perpetrating the grossest 
 outrages, and inciting the slaves to murder and rapine, and 
 the most savage excesses of demoniac rage ! Report has it 
 that they are now but a short distance from this place ! 
 Gentlemen, the ladies and children must at once be gathered 
 together in a place of safety, and a guard be detailed for 
 their protection ; the remainder of us, with such arms as we 
 can hurriedly collect, will reinforce those who have already 
 moved forward to meet the enemy. 
 \_Eutcr the old negro who was seen in conversation with Old 
 
 Sponger during the last scene ; his eyes rolling and 
 
 teeth chattering, and his knees shaking with terror. 
 
 Ole Mas. ! Young Mas. ! Misses ! All ub yous run 
 foh de lifes ! Dey's com'n ! An' dey's gwine to kill de las' 
 chick an' chile ! 
 
 [Great excitement ; consternation amongst the ladies ; 
 children cling screaming to their parents ; and the old and 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. Ill 
 
 infirm instinctively seek the protection of the young and 
 strong.] 
 
 Bean. Col. Bellemont, select such men as you may 
 need to protect the ladies and children ; gather them to- 
 gether and barricade the house. Gentlemen ; now to the 
 front. \_Excunt all, amidst great excitement. 
 
 Scene 4. — A kitchen ; Aunt Dina discovered busily engaged making prepara- 
 tions, evidently of an unusual nature. 
 
 Dina. You,Klack ! Bress me ; wha's dat ah boy done gone 
 to ? Hea' 's Mas. 'Gustus an' my Ole Tom gwine to de wa'> 
 'n nuf'n done got ready fo' 'em ! You, Klack ! 
 
 \_Enter Klack, yawning and rubbing his sleepy eyes. 
 
 Dina. Ugh — yoit s .play'n possum, is you ? [reaching for 
 a long gad that sat in the corner]. 
 
 See hea', coon' ; you climb — now you climb an' fotch 
 dat umbarel, an' dem slippas up da unda de bed ; an' fotch 
 dat ah habasack out dah on de po'ch ; shake, nigga ! 
 
 Klack. Yes 'm ; I shakes, I does. 
 [Exit lazily ; presently sticks his head through the door-way 
 
 and flings a flour-bag into the middle of the floor. 
 
 Da's de habasack ! 
 [Exit Klack ; Dina picks it up ; shakes it, and in doing so 
 
 dabs herself in the face with a profusion of flour ; then 
 
 begins to fill it with a quantity of provisions. 
 
 Klack reappears at the door, and flings a guady pair of 
 old slippers, of no small dimensions, upon the floor, with a 
 faded umbrella in close pursuit. 
 
 Da 's dem udda property ! Nuf'n mo' ? 
 
112 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 \_Exit without waiting for a reply ; the fat old negress turns 
 
 to speak ; but he is gone. 
 
 Dina. Da 's no use a talk'n ; da 's no mak'n nuf 'n out 
 ub dat ah boy no-way ! Ugh, ugh ; but dis hea' wa' 's 'n 
 awful boda, sho. Dis wa' 's gwine to be wusa ''n de Ha'pa's 
 Ferry wa'. Da 's awful lots ub folks gwine to it, sho 'n 
 sart'n. Ugh, ugh ; dem was bad ole times fo' de niggas — 
 dem Ha'pa's Ferry wa' times. De niggas couldn't git to go 
 no-wha' — no-wha' 'tall ! An' dis '11 be wusa 'n wusa ; you 
 see. Wonda who dey's gwine a' ta kotch'n dis time ; wonda 
 if dey's gwine to fotch 'im to Cha'lston an' hang 'im to def 
 likes dey fotch Ole John Brown ! Ugh, ugh ; don't want 
 none ub dat in mine. 
 
 [Enter Uncle Tom, with great dignity and importance, rigged 
 out in part of the showy uniform of some quandam militia 
 officer — blue coat with buff trimmings, brass buttons, 
 and enormous epaulets ; and an old-fashioned chapeau 
 with a dilapidated, but very large plume ; his legs en- 
 cased in dove-colored pants, formerly belonging to his 
 master, tightly strapped down over patent leather boots, 
 well ventilated at the toes, evidently obtained from the 
 same source. Swung to the wrong side, was an im- 
 mense revolutionary saber, with a brass scabbard em- 
 bossed and elaborately ornamented with battle scenes, 
 and a flint-lock horse-pistol, nearly two feet long, was 
 stuck conspicuously in a red silk sash that encircled his 
 waist. As Dina's wrong side was turned that way, she 
 failed to see the magnificent spectacle. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 113 
 
 Tom. 'Tention, da ! — you, Dina ! [she turns with a start, 
 and throws up her hands in mute astonishment]. 
 
 Don't you know yo' s'peria offasa's hea' ? 
 
 Fo' de lo'd ! [exclaimed the good old creature, standing 
 with arms a-kimbo, and gazing at Tom with unqalified 
 admiration]. 
 
 Am dat you, honey, sho 'nuf? Gugh— faugh ! Lo'dy ; 
 you looks like de Cunel ob de A'my — dat's so ! 
 
 [Enter Klack, with a brace of carpet-bags ; he perceives the 
 august presence of the military chief, and beats a retreat 
 towards the door. But happening to catch a side-view 
 of the officer's face, he is at once thrown into violent 
 convulsions, drops his carpet-bags, and doubling himself 
 up with a quizzical expression on his features, he brings 
 his hands down on his knees very slowly, whilst his 
 capacious mouth is flung wide open and stretched in. 
 vitingly towards the milky-way. Ki — yi ! Hyeah, 
 hye-e-ah ! Whew ! Did you eba see de likes ub dat ! 
 Hyeah, hyeah, hye-e-ah ! [and he cocked up his leg 
 and gave it a ringing cuff]. 
 Wha d' you come fum, Cunel ? 
 Tom. Fum de camp, sah ! [with dignity]. 
 Dina. Klack ! You tarnel pes' ! Dah you stan' da 'n 
 make fun ub yo' s'peria offasa? Git out! [she cried indig- 
 nantly, suiting the toe of her brogan to the tune of her voice 
 and delivering a well-executed kick at the seat of his sen- 
 sibilities ; but Klack was too quick for her, and changed the 
 base of his operations with such facility, that her foot merely 
 8 
 
114 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 agitated the air in the vicinity of his coat-tails ; but Klack 
 vanished all the same. 
 
 Tom. We's spect'n ub o'das ebry minute, Dina, to take 
 up de line ub ma'ch fo' de front ! 
 
 Dina. Wha am de front, honey? 
 
 loin. De front am somewha down da 'bout de Molas- 
 ses Jugsum. Dah's wha we's spect'n to ma'ch to. Am dem 
 pepa-ations done made fo' dis hea' shampain? 
 
 Dina. Lo'd, honey; I's done been mak'n dem pepa-a- 
 tions dis bressed lib-long day ! Hea 's de habasack ub wit- 
 tals. Da 's a biled ham, 'n fo' roas' chick'ns, 'n a biled 
 tongue, 'n six loafs ub wheat bread, 'n a pone ub co'n bread, 
 'n five a'ple pies, 'n a big tata pie, 'n some cake 'n cookies ; 
 da 's salt, 'n peppa, 'n pickles, 'n tea, 'n coffee, 'n cheese, 'n 
 sitch-like ; reckon mebby dat's 'bout 's much es you kin 
 tote. [So she hauls out a large flour-bag of about three 
 bushels, stuffed to repletion, and sets it before Old Tom, who 
 looks at it with evident satisfaction]. 
 
 Hea 's de needles 'n fred, 'n buttons, 'n sitch-like. [She 
 stuffs a small bag of them into his pocket]. 
 
 An hea 's a roll ub flanel rags 'f you cotches cold — you 
 an' Mas. 'Gustus ; dey '11 do to put 'roun' de froat an' sitch- 
 like. [Stuffs them into his pockets]. 
 
 Hea 's dat bunch ub de wax-eends, 'n de peg'n awl, 'n 
 de hama, 'n de pinchas, 'n sitch-like, to men' de shoes wid. 
 [Stuffs them into his pockets, which now begin to assume 
 plethoric proportions]. 
 
 Betta take dis bottle ub pain-killa, 'n de bottle ub cam- 
 pha fo' de head-aches, 'n dis bottle ub dem bittas ; don't 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 115 
 
 fo'git to take de bittas a-fo' gwine out 'n de mo'n'n. [She 
 stuffs them also into his pockets]. 
 
 An' hea 's yo' shirts, 'n cuffs, 'n collas, 'n unda wa', 'n 
 sitch-like ; 'n six pa' ub wool sox. Be mouty keerful to 
 keep de feet wa'm ; 'n 'f you's gwine to wa' dem fine boots, 
 you mus fix de holes in 'm, sho. An' hea 's yo' slippas, 'n 
 de umbarel. [Stuffs the slippers in his pockets as far as she 
 can]. 
 
 Da 's de bed'n ; da 's on'y fo' blankets, 'n two pa' ub 
 sheets, 'n two slips, 'n a comfo't, 'n a quilt, 'n two pillas, 'n 
 a spread, 'n dat empty tick dat you kin fill when you gits da, 
 kase it 'd be sort ub onhandy to tote — wonda now 'f I's done 
 gone 'n fo'got nuf'n? [she exclaimed, standing in a thoughtful 
 attitude, with her hands a-kimbo on her hips]. Well ; 'f da 's 
 ary-fing I's done fo'got, you kin jis git Mas. 'Gustus t' send 
 in de letta. 
 
 By this time poor old Tom was loaded down like a 
 pack-mule, so that his distinguished appearance was quite 
 concealed beneath this burden of the comforts of life ; his 
 plumed chapeau was squelched beneath his bag of provi- 
 sions ; his slippers were squeezed out of his pockets; his an- 
 cient umbrella stuck impertinently up in front of his face • 
 his sword hung dejectedly like the caudal appendage of some 
 miserable cur; and yet his cup was not full. 
 
 Fo' de lo'd honey [continued the provident Dina], da 's 
 de pots, an' de pans, 'n de knives, 'n fo'ks, 'n spoons, 'n sitch- 
 like — bress me ! [she exclaimed, in great perplexity ; then 
 with the inspiration of a new idea, she turned the umbrella 
 over his shoulder and hung the pots on the rear end of it ; 
 
116 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 filling them in turn with various kitchen utensils, etc. The 
 last straw broke the cam — the umbrella's back, and down 
 came pots, pans, provisions, bedding, and all with a terrible 
 racket. The sudden derangement in the equilibrium cap- 
 sized the entire cargo, and carried with it the fallen chief, 
 who had considerable difficulty in extricating himself from 
 the general wreck. 
 
 Tom. Da 's no use a-talk'n, Dina ; da 's nary lib'n 
 nigga kin take up de line ub ma'ch 'n tote all dat ah ! 
 
 Dina. Wall, honey ; what's you gwine to do 'bout 't ? 
 
 Tom. Da 's nary way ub do'n dat I knows on, but to 
 lebe some o' dat truck hea'. 
 
 Dina. What is da', honey, dat you kin do widout ? 
 
 Tom. Mout do widout dem pots ! 
 
 Dina. Mont do widout de pots, sho 'nuf. 
 
 Tom. Mout do widout dat tick, 'n de comf 'ot, 'n de 
 quilt, 'n de slips, 'n dem sheets, 'n dat pilla. 
 
 Dina. An' de cuffs, 'n de collas, 'n de — 
 
 Tom. Ugh-ugh ! can't do widout dem cuffs an' dem 
 collas ! [Walking up to a small looking-glass that hung 
 against the wall, and carefully readjusting some of his dis- 
 ordered apparel]. Mout do widout de unda-wa', 'n de slip- 
 pas, 'n de umbarel — ugh-ugh ; can't do widout de umbarel. 
 Mout do widout some ub dem pepa-ations in de habasack. 
 
 Dina. Mout do widout de ham ? 
 
 Tom. Ugh-ugh ! — can't do widout de ham. 
 
 Dina. Mout do widout de tongue ? 
 
 Tom. Ugh-ugh ! — can't do widout the tongue. 
 
 Dina. Mout do widout dem roas' chicken ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 117 
 
 Tom. Ugh-ugh ! ! — can't do widout dem chicken ! 
 
 Dina. Mout do widout de tata pie ? 
 
 Tom. No, sah ! — what 'd Ole Tom do widout de tata 
 pie? Ugh-ugh! Da 's no use a talk'n ; can't do widout 
 nuf'n ub dem pepa-ations — 'cept de peppa ; mout do wid- 
 out de peppa. 
 
 \_Enter Augustus and Will Keene, hastily. They stop sud" 
 denly and look with astonishment on the scene of dis- 
 aster ; then in turn at Tom and Dina, as if for some ex- 
 planation. As they seemed simultaneously to realize 
 the truth, they burst into a hearty laugh. 
 Aug.- Why, Uncle Tom ; what does all this mean ? 
 Tom. Dem 's de papa-ations, Mas. 'Gustus ; but da 's 
 no use a-talk'n ; I can't tote all dem pepa-ations no way, 
 Massa. 
 
 Will. Je-whiz ! Did Aunt Dina have you loaded down 
 with all that truck ? She must have taken you for a mule — 
 or its daddy ! 
 
 Aug. Come, Tom, make short work of this ; take your 
 blankets and a few necessary articles of clothing — and bring 
 to camp a pot, a couple of tin pans, a tin-cup, a knife and 
 fork, a spoon or two, and an ax. Good-by, Aunty ! 
 
 Good-by, honey ! Bress de life ! Take car' ub yo'sef, 
 chile ; good-by ! [said the motherly old soul, wiping the tears 
 away with her apron]. 
 
 Aug. When you pray, Aunty, don't forget me ; good- 
 by ! [and the voice of Augustus Hampton was not as clear 
 as it might have been, as he strode away towards the door]. 
 
118 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Dina. Da 's no danga ub me fo'git'n dat, honey ; an' 
 don't you fo'git de ole black Mammy ! 
 
 Aug. No, no ! I shall not forget you, Aunty. 
 
 \Exit Augustus. 
 
 Will. Good-by, Aunt Dina; have a " tata pie" ready 
 for us when we get back ! [shakes her heartily by the hand]. 
 
 Dina. Lo'd, chile ; you kin hab all de tata pie you 
 wants when you gits back hea' ; dats a fac' ! 
 
 [Exit Will. 
 
 Tom. I's gwine to say good-by to Ole Miss ; [said Tom, 
 hanging fire, and acting as if he could not toe the mark to 
 say good-by]. Come long,, Dina; I kin sort ub bar it betta 
 when you's da. \Exeunt all. 
 
 Scene 5. — A place on the garden front of the Fairfax mansion ; a balcony 
 with a low window opening to the floor; beneath it, a door with 
 low flight of steps. Time, night; bright moonlight. 
 
 \_Enter Augustus with guitar ; he throws his short cloak care- 
 lessly back from his right shoulder, displaying the uni- 
 form of a Confederate officer. 
 How beautiful the night ; how calm, how sweet, how 
 
 bright ; 
 No cloud obscures the star-gemmed heaven ; 
 No breath disturbs the repose of earth ; 
 And this orb of night, like an angel of light, 
 Keeps her ward and watch o'er the sleeping world. 
 She, too, is sleeping ; maybe some angel pure and fair 
 Now hovers in the misty moonlight where 
 She dreams. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 119 
 
 Ah, Lillian ; in the soft fabric of thy dream, 
 Where fancy's bright, fantastic patterns seem 
 So interlaced and woven with the woof 
 Of life's reality ; is there one shimmering thread to trace 
 The memory of our loves and joys in this old place? 
 [He softly tunes his guitar, and pitches his voice in a 
 low tone]. 
 
 \Sings\ My love lies softly, sweetly dreaming 
 
 These misty, moonlight hours away ; 
 
 Oh, tell me, in that world of seeming, 
 
 Is there one thought of me?^-oh, say, 
 
 Is there one echo of this love, 
 
 As pure as yon sweet heaven above, 
 
 That binds my trembling heart to thee ? — 
 
 Is there one tender thought of me ? 
 
 That binds my trembling heart to thee ? — 
 
 Is there one tender thought ol me ? 
 
 [He picks an interlude ; sings] — 
 
 In that enchanted realm of thine, 
 
 Where all things seem divinely fair ; 
 
 May this impassioned heart of mine 
 
 Presume to find an entrance there ? 
 
 Is there one thought that sweetly wreathes 
 
 Those lips? — one breath that fondly breathes 
 
 The name of him who lives for thee ? — 
 
 Is there one tender thought of me ? 
 
 The name of him who lives for thee ? — 
 
 Is there one tender thought of me ? 
 
120 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 [Enter Lillian, stepping lightly from the window — upon the 
 balcony ; she is dressed in white, with a lace shawl 
 thrown carelessly over her head and shoulders ; she 
 sings to same air — 
 
 Is there one thought not linked to thee — 
 One dream of joys I would not share? 
 Is there a voice as sweet to me 
 As this that trembles in the air ? 
 There is no other heart than thine, 
 Where this sweet love may safely twine, 
 And bloom its life away for thee — 
 There is no other home for me ! 
 And bloom its life away for thee — 
 There is no other home for me ! 
 [They both repeat the last verse as a duet]. 
 Lillian. So softly through these shimmering moon- 
 beams 
 Steals your presence, and mingles with my dreams 
 The soft tremor of your voice — it still seems 
 So tempered with this witching hour of night, 
 That joy is yet half sadness, lest it might 
 Prove evanescent as a dream. 
 
 Aug. Ah, me ; if space were less, or you more near, 
 'Twould seem more like reality, my dear ! 
 Lillian. Then, for one brief moment hide your light, 
 That I may bear you, dearest, from my sight, 
 Whilst with quick wing I take my joyful flight 
 To your fond heart, Augustus. Stay ; be this [she plucks 
 a white rose from her breast, presses it to her lips, 
 and casts it to him] 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 121 
 
 The sweet forerunner of your coming kiss ! 
 
 \_Exit into house. 
 
 Aug. Oh, this sweet herald of such coming bliss ! [he 
 picks it up and passionately presses it to his lips ; then places 
 it in his breast]. 
 {Enter Lillian, from the door beneath ; casts herself upon his 
 
 breast. 
 
 Oh, dear heart ! 
 
 Aug. My life ! — my love ! I could no more endure 
 
 The excitement of the camp and hurry of coming war ! 
 
 'Tis crowded with a giddy throng, 
 
 Who little reck the awful wrong 
 
 Of such a conflict. 
 
 These festive scenes, with all their thoughtless train, 
 
 111 suit my gloomy mood ; and I would fain 
 
 Pass the fleeting moments that remain, 
 
 Beneath your eyes, and those of heaven alone. 
 
 Lillian. 'Tis said so well, it needs no words to tell 
 
 The echo of my heart ; but why affright 
 
 With these pale phantoms of the- night ? 
 
 Surely, there will be no war ! 
 
 Oh, tell me that this cloud will pass ; 
 
 That 'tis portentious only with the wind ! 
 
 Aug. Alas ! I fear 'twill be the dread cyclone, 
 
 That leaves but ruin in its path, alone ! 
 
 Lillian. Oh, say not so ! — this calm heaven above, 
 
 In such sweet harmony with this deep love, 
 
 Speaks better things. 
 
 Aug. Would that it might speak — and it alone ! 
 
122 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 But, ah ! — how deep the silence of the hour ! 
 
 How deceptive this seeming peace. 
 
 The shock of war already trembles on the startled air, 
 
 And rudely breaks the harmony of these scenes so fair. 
 
 See ! There the pale mist begins to gather — 
 
 How wierd it looks to my imagining ; 
 
 How, like a troop of spectres in their silent flight, 
 
 Shrouding those forms of beauty — making hideous the 
 
 night ! 
 This dreamy stillness — this heavenly peace ; 
 See ; 'tis but the calm before the storm 
 That is gathering dark and terrible — 
 The storm of war — of desolation, and of death ! 
 Lillian. Oh, then why remain ? 
 Are there no smoother seas where we may sail ? 
 Aug. How ? Fly my country in her hour of need ? 
 Leave others to battle for my rights? 
 Nay, dear Lillian; 'tis not yourself; your fears have 
 
 spoken. 
 Since war is inevitable, we must bare our breasts to its 
 
 shafts, 
 And endure with patience its sorrows. 
 Come what may, I shall stand by my country. 
 Your mother has painted a beautiful picture — 
 A picture of happiness beyond the seas, 
 Far from the dangers and turmoil of war ; 
 Heaven knows what it costs me to decline her offer; 
 But my duty is plain, and my resolve is taken. 
 Neither the allurements of pleasure, nor terrors of death, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 123 
 
 Shall separate me from my people in their hour of peril. 
 
 I shall stand where they stand, or fall where they fall \ 
 
 Lillian. Tis like your noble self; 'tis spoken like a 
 man. 
 
 I would not see you placed beneath the ban 
 
 Of public virtue. You know best what 'comes a man ; 
 
 What e'er your honor, and your courage claim 
 
 To be your duty — what e'er be due your name, 
 
 Or to your country's honor and fair fame — 
 
 Of these be you the judge ; I cannot blame, 
 
 Because I know you are sincere. 
 
 Your honor is far more dear to me than life ; 
 
 Nor with your honor gone, could I e'er be your wife. 
 
 No ; go ! — do your duty ; be what you now profess ; 
 
 Nor ever let me feel that / have made you less ! 
 
 Prove to the world what I have learned so well — 
 
 That you are brave, and true, and noble. 
 
 More than words can tell ! 
 
 Worthy the confidence and esteem of man ; 
 
 Worthy the love and devotion of woman ! 
 
 But my brain is on fire, and my heart is bursting. 
 
 [She buries her face in her hands, and sobs on his breast]. 
 
 Aug. My darling ; give not the reins to dire fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 Let us turn our thoughts and cares to present things. 
 [He caresses her tenderly]. 
 
 Let me see ; 'tis now well-nigh two years, 
 
 Since in this place we parted 'midst those fears 
 
 Whose prophetic shadow forecast the tears 
 
124 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 And partings of to-day. It appears 
 
 That our cup of joy is now filled again, 
 
 Only to be more rudely spilled than then. 
 
 But rest assured, through what scenes so e'er 
 
 I may be called to pass in this dread war, 
 
 Your sweet spirit shall be ever near 
 
 To shape my course, as my guiding star. 
 
 And when these dark clouds have all rolled away, 
 
 And peace and sunshine cover our land — 
 
 What e'er the result — be fortune what it may — 
 
 If life be spared until that happy day ; 
 
 We shall be reunited, heart and hand, 
 
 To be no more parted in this life — 
 
 I your husband ; you my treasured wife ! 
 
 But who comes here ? 
 
 Who walks the night in these small hours ? 
 
 Lillian. 'Tis the voice of Horatio ; it will not matter 
 
 tho' he see you here. 
 Aug. The hour is late ; let us seek repose. 
 I must not keep you in the chill night air. 
 Then fare you well, my love ; more fair 
 Than well, I fear ; but at the least, a sweet good-night ! 
 [He embraces and kisses her ; she detains him]. 
 Lillian. Stay yet a little ; these bright hours so soon 
 Are fled into eternity ! This sweet moon 
 Flies so fast from the coming day ! 
 No more, brave heart ! — no more, mayhap, for aye, 
 So sweetly 'neath her gentle beams, may I thus fondly 
 
 lay 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 125 
 
 My cheek upon your heart ! [After a little, she raises 
 her head and looks proudly and fondly in his face]. 
 Aye ; it has the ring and temper of a thing 
 That I may trust ! Now go — brave heart, farewell ! 
 [She steals her arms around his neck ; one last convul 
 sive tremor of the heart — one wild embrace — one burning 
 kiss ; and so they say farewell]. [Exit all. 
 
 [Enter Gen. Beaumar and Col. Bellemont, in U. S. A. uni- 
 forms. 
 
 Beau. The Federal authorities have failed to properly 
 estimate the extent of the trouble ; and this has betrayed 
 them into a position from which they cannot recede. On 
 the other hand, the South is determined, and she could not 
 now retrace her steps, even were it consistent with right and 
 honor. There is, therefore, no alternative ; the issue must 
 be determined by the force of arms. 
 
 Belle. Secession was a terrible mistake, and the reduc- 
 tion of Fort Sumpter an unfortunate event ; still, it is useless 
 to deplore that now. But I do hope, my dear old friend, 
 that you will not follow the example of so many of our ablest 
 men, and embark in so hopeless an enterprise. 
 
 Beau. My dear friend ; it is not enterprise, but a sense 
 of duty that prompts men in this trying hour ; it is not 
 optional with us to do or not to do, unless we willfully do 
 wrong. 
 
 We cannot ignore the claims of our native land to the 
 blood and service of her sons ; we cannot become traitors 
 without ceasing to be men and gentlemen. It is not wrong 
 for you to take the stand you do, because your State has re- 
 
126 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 mained in the Union ; it would be unworthy of you to do 
 otherwise. What is true of you, is true of me ; and come 
 what may — be it good or ill — I shall remain loyal to my 
 State. She has called upon her sons, and they respond ; 
 she commands, and we obey. I have taken no part in the 
 political movements that have precipitated this war upon us, 
 and I shall take none ; but what my people require of me, I 
 will do. Yet would I have gladly perished ere this hour — 
 ere I had been called upon to draw my sword against that 
 flag, beneath whose shining stars I have proudly lived, and 
 in whose service I have grown old and gray ! I had hoped 
 that one day her soft, bright folds would encircle this form, 
 then cold and dead ; but this was not to be. 
 
 Then fare thee well, old flag ; fare thee well ; the bless- 
 ing of 
 
 God go with thee ! 
 
 When the storm of life's passion is past, 
 
 And the reign of this wrong is over at last ; 
 
 When war and its wages are fled, 
 
 And the causes that fed it are dead ; 
 
 May the bright morning sun still salute thee, Old Flag, 
 
 As was its wont in the days that are gone ! [sits down 
 and bows his head upon his hands, as they rest heavily on 
 the hilt of his sword. 
 
 [Enter Will Keene, in Confederate uniform ; salutes. 
 
 General Beaumar, the Governor has arrived in camp, 
 and would be pleased to see you ; he remains but a short 
 time. 
 
 Bean. I will be at head-quarters presently [salutes]. 
 
 [Exit Will. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 127 
 
 Bellemont, you will accompany me? Do not refuse 
 me this last kindness. It is the last night we may pass to- 
 gether for many a day — possibly the last on earth. The 
 gloom lies heavily enough around my old heart, without 
 drawing the curtains closer. 
 
 Bell. Certainly, I will go, my friend. It will be hard 
 for us to part, after so many years of service together. But 
 I can delay no longer than the morrow ; the rapid develop- 
 ment of events makes it my duty to report at Washington 
 at once. 
 
 Beau. Then to-night we may still be friends — enemies 
 on the morrow ! [Exeunt all. 
 
 [Enter Ralf Rathmore, stealthily. 
 Well, the thing that brought me here, has failed ; 
 There were too many, thus to be assailed ! 
 Well, well ; 
 
 In times like these, when love and all things fair, 
 Take their hurried flight from this thick'ning air — 
 I, too, should spread the wing ; tho' black as night, 
 I, too, will flee the clouds, and seek the light ! 
 There I can well prepare those deeds that might 
 At other times well seek the gloom of night, 
 Whose darkness pales with flitting phantoms white 
 Of troubled spirits ; from whom my startled sight 
 Turns back with horror ! 
 Tut — tut ; such thoughts begone ! 
 That done, the work is well begun ; 
 And then, the better to fulfill 
 The purpose of my hate that still, 
 And even will, burn like hell within me — 
 
128 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause, 
 
 I will join the army of the Union ! 
 
 Perchance the fortunes of accursed war 
 
 May opportunity to the oath I swore, 
 
 Give — to destroy them all ! 
 
 Hurrah for the Union ! — the Army ! — all ! 
 
 Hurrah for the Flag! — that funeral pall 
 
 That changes black to white ; 
 
 That turns the day to night ; 
 
 That gilds with a tinge of glory 
 
 The hand that is dark and gory ! 
 
 By the subtle powers of hell, 
 
 This fierce pursuit suits me so well, 
 
 I'll do anything — be anything ; aye, 
 
 I will be a surgeon — chaplain — spy — 
 
 What e'er I may or can ; what e'er they will — 
 
 So it do but further my design to kill ! 
 
 Hugh, hugh ; anything — so it promise well 
 
 To give me rein to send them all to — hell ! 
 
 [Exit Rath., desperately; Enter Old Tom, cautiously. 
 
 Tom. De deb'l ! I's gwine fo' to tell Mas. 'Gustus ! I's 
 gwine to tell de sojas ! — dey '11 tight'n de coil ; dey '11 swing 
 dat a' deb'l clar ub de groun' ! Hugh! He's de Union! — 
 he's gwine to be de stugeon ub de a'my ! — he's gwine to be 
 de spy, and de pall dat cubas all ! But you's gwine to be 
 food fo' de buzzads, you is ; food fo' de buzzads, you slimy 
 sarpent ! 
 
 \_Entcr Augustus and Will ; Tom starts affrighted- 
 
 Aug. Food for the buzzards, Tom ? What does all 
 this mean ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 129 
 
 Tom. Lor', Mas. 'Gustus ! I jis feels de har ris' clean 
 off dis nigga's head ! [takes off his hat and feels his bald 
 pate]. De deb'l, Mas. 'Gustus; de slimy sarpent ! He's 
 done come back hea' ! He's gwine to de Union ; he's gwine 
 to be de stugeon ub de a'my ! De nasty, sneak'n, slimy 
 sarpent! I's gwine to tell de sojas ; dey'l make 'im de 
 stugeon ub de a'my — dey'l make 'im food fo' de buzzards — 
 dey will. Food fo' de buzzads ; hyeah, hyeah, hyeah ! 
 
 Will. Whom ? What buzzards ? What are you talk, 
 ing about ? 
 
 Aug. Don't you understand ? That villain Rathmore 
 is prowling around here again ! 
 
 Tom. Dat's him ! Dat's it ; dat's de varmint ! 
 
 Will. Oh, ho ! I see ! That bodes no good, Augustus. 
 
 Aug. So he but goes, and we be rid of him, it will not 
 matter how, or what he serves to fill ! 
 
 Do you think his mission is to kill? 
 
 Will. I take it so ; we'll be on our guard. 
 
 Aug. I thought he had forever vanished ; 
 
 But still I see the spectre of the bloody hand. 
 
 We must beware. 
 
 Tom. He's fit'n fo' nuf'n but de buzzads; de pisen 
 sarpent ! 
 
 Aug. Well, Tom, get our horses ; we must ride to 
 camp. 
 
 Tom. Yes, sah. [Exit Tom, bowing low. 
 
 [Euter a Confederate soldier ; salutes. 
 
130 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Captain Hampton, our regiment is ordered to the front ; 
 it is the Colonel's orders that you report with your company 
 ready for service without delay [salutes]. [Exit soldier. 
 
 Aug. Orderly! [Enter a soldier. 
 
 Tell Lieutenant Clayton to break camp and be ready to 
 take up the line of march at 5 o'clock in the morning, sharp. 
 [Salutes]. \_Exit soldier. 
 
 [Enter a group of Confederate officers. Salutes; greetings, 
 
 and great excitement ; they sing the Southern Marseilles. 
 
 All. To the front ! — to the front ! [Cheers]. 
 [Enter Gen. Beaumar, in Confederate uniform ; cheers ; offr 
 
 cers crowd around him ; shouts of — 
 
 Beaumar is with us ! Beaumar forever ! [cheers ; mar- 
 tial music approaching — air of Dixie ; rumble of artillery ■ 
 noise of masses of troops in motion ; cheers run along the 
 lines, and lost in the distance. 
 
 Beau. Soldiers, I thank you for your cordial greeting. 
 Yes, I am with you, and shall ever be while I have life ! 
 [Cheers]. Let us do our duty; but do it nobly ! No matter 
 what the provocation, let us not forget what we owe to our- 
 selves, to our country, and the cause of humanity ; or that 
 we are a. civilized and Christian people. And remember, 
 gentlemen, our enemies are also our countrymen ; how much 
 soever a blind fanaticism and unreasoning passion may cause 
 them to ignore it — let us not forget it. They and their 
 fathers have fought with us and our fathers, side by side, be- 
 neath the same old. flag! [raises his hat]. Whatever that 
 may cover in the future — treat it with respect, because of 
 the past ; the flag is not to blame ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 131 
 
 Officer. A noble sentiment from a noble man. 
 [Enter Mrs. Hampton, Mrs. Arlington, Lillian, Vix, Will, 
 
 Col. Bellemont, ladies and gentlemen ; negroes in the 
 
 background. 
 
 Aug. Dear mother, the hour has come to part ! [em- 
 braces her] 
 
 Then good-by, dear mother — sacred heart ! 
 
 Hence, at our country's call, we go to war, 
 
 Soon the deep thunder of the cannon's roar 
 
 Will startle our peaceful valleys, and rudely shake 
 
 These mountains with the conflict of the cause at stake ! 
 
 Pray, my dear mother, what e'er betide me, 
 
 That those who survive, may live proud and free, 
 
 Dwelling peacefully 'neath their own vine and fig-tree. 
 
 Now farewell ; if no more in life — then in heaven ! 
 
 [He embraces and kisses her tenderly ; she raises her 
 hands ; he kneels at her feet. 
 
 H. Go ! In childhood I gave thee to God, 
 
 I give thee now to thy native sod, 
 
 For liberty, and thy country's good ! 
 
 Fear not, my son ; thy fathers stood 
 
 Where thou must stand — nor fled 
 
 The field of battle ; but instead, 
 
 Like grim warriors — cold and dead, 
 
 Slept upon their arms where they had bled, 
 
 Fronting the tyrant's minions; led 
 
 By black-browed, ruffians at their head, 
 
 In their abhorrent work. 
 
 Go ; do thy duty ; nor let me live to see 
 
132 Tlie Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 My son dishonored e'er return to me ! [lays her hands 
 upon his head] 
 
 May God in mercy spare my boy ! [sinks back ex- 
 hausted, in the arms of the ladies]. 
 
 Augustus rises, and bids one after another good-by ; 
 general leave-taking ; Augustus approaches Lillian, and takes 
 both her hands in his. 
 
 Aug. Last, but not least, my soul's sweet sunshine. 
 
 The clouds of war now roll between us ; 
 
 But we shall know, beyond this gloom and lurid glare, 
 
 There are hearts that towards each other 
 
 Feel no throb of war ! And so — fare— well ! [he presses 
 her fondly to his heart, and kisses her passionately]. 
 
 He finds her sinking — fainting ; martial music in the 
 distance — cheers ; strong positions. 
 
 Tableau — Curtain. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. — -A quiet little room in a Baltimore coffee-house. 
 
 [Enter two Irishmen, in the uniform of Federal soldiers, with 
 
 a jaunty air. Time, morning. 
 
 Faith, Mike ; 'nd the ould r-roosht 's dizolate now es 
 iver it wuz afther we cum to it t [said Pat, twisting off his cap 
 with a reckless flourish, kicking one chair over, and sitting 
 down astride of another ; at the same time giving a tremen- 
 dous rap on the table with his knuckles, which set the glasses 
 to jingling in the adjoining bar-room, and speedily brought the 
 host to the inner door to ascertain the cause of the racket. 
 
 Host. Och ! Pat ; is it yersilf, thin ? Faix, 'nd ye 's 
 woorse 'n a bull in a cr-rockerthy shtore ! But it 's the top 'o 
 the marn'n to yez fer a' that, Pat ! Shure, 'nd it's Mike O'Flani- 
 gan 's wid yez ! [shaking hands heartily with both at once.] 
 Divil a bit uv woondther is it that ye're r-rant'n aroond i' 
 the loiks o' that ! Sit down, lads ; it's mesilf that '11 do the 
 thr-reat'n this time. What is it ye'll hev, now ? 
 
 Pat. Soome o' that same, Barney. 
 
 Bar. An' fer yersilf, Mike ? 
 
 Mike. Shure, Barney ; 'nd it's yersilf thet's doin the 
 thrayt'n ; whativer yez loiks the best — I'll take a sup o' that. 
 
 Bar. Och ! b'ys ; 'nd I've a dthrop o' the best ould 
 r-r-roy that iver yez tickled yez dthr-roy ould goozles wid ! 
 'nd boot me to Limerick ef I've not soome o' the ginuine 
 ould Irish pr-ratie fwisky ! Bedad ; 'nd yez shell hev soome 
 o' the both o' thim. Jist hould on a bit. [Exit Barney. 
 
134 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Pat. There's na better b'y thin Barney. 
 
 Mike. Faith ; 'nd he's a heart es big es the bafe he 
 said yez resimbled. 
 
 Pat. Bejabers, 'nd I would he were woon uv us ! 
 
 Mike. 'Nd whoy 're yez woosh'n the loiks o' that, Pat? 
 
 Pat. I say, Mike ; d' yez moind the toim whin we lay 
 be the soid uv ache ither in the bludey ould housepital ? 
 
 Mike. Shure, Pat ; 'nd d' yez think me deminted, that 
 I could fergit the loiks o' that ? 
 
 Pat. Thaire's soomthin I'm want'n to tell yez, Mike ; 
 'ud I'm dom shure it '11 fill yez so full ye '11 hev dom leetle 
 r-r-room fer Barney's fwhisky ! 
 
 Mike. Faix, Pat ; hould on a bit ; it '11 niver do to miss 
 the loiks o' that, at all, at all. 
 
 Pdt. I say, Mike ; d' yez moind the shwate leddy yez 
 so mistooke fer the Howly Mither whin ye wuz ravin wid 
 the faver? 
 
 Mike. Howly Mither, bliss the shwate loif uv 'er ! 
 Shure, Pat ; 'nd she wuz an angel sint by the Blissed Virgin 
 et the laste uv it ; she wuz nothin short o' that, Pat ! 
 
 Pat. She's that same, Mike ; but she's one 'o thim 
 thet's on the airth yit. D' yez moind the shwate craither 
 fetch'n thim dainty things ivery day fer us to ate ; 'nd how 
 gintle 'nd koind she wuz ; 'nd how she'd sit be the soid uv 
 us be the hour 'nd rade out o' thim goode books ? 'nd how 
 shwately she tahked to us uv the Howly Fayther, 'nd the 
 Blissed Jaysus, 'nd the Mither of God, 'nd a' that ! 'nd 
 moind ye, lad, how she knaled down be the bed uv us 'nd 
 laid the dainty white hand uv 'er on thim dom r-rough ones 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 135 
 
 uv ours, 'nd prayed thet we moight git weel, if it so plased 
 the Fayther, 'nd live to be goode 'nd useful men ; but if we 
 had to dee, thet our immartel sparits moight feriver rest in the 
 buzzum uv the Howly Mither! Och ! me b'y; is ther a 
 mither's son uv us thet would shtand loik dom basties 'nd 
 say 'er hoorted ? 
 
 * Alike. Hoorted the divil ! Faix, mon ; shew me the 
 bludey shpalpeen thet 'ud hoort a haire uv 'er, 'nd I'd mak 
 a dthrume uv his noggin in a jiffy ; that would I, lad ! 
 
 Pat. Now listen to what I'm tell'n yez, Mike ; it's her 
 shwate heart, the gintleman in the doongeon, thet's to be 
 shooted in the mahrn'n for a shpoy ! 
 
 Mike. Howly Mither ! 
 
 Pat. Ye may be shure I'm not mishtak'n, Mike. It 
 wuz mesilf that was shtand'n gyard et head-quahrters whin 
 the leddy wint in fer a pass to say the gintleman in the 
 prayson. Och ! me b'y ; me heart wuz in me mouth ahl the 
 time uv it, 'nd me thr-roat wuz es dthry es powther to say 
 'er shwate face ahl coovered wid tares, 'nd hear 'er plaid'n 
 so hard ! Faith, how me blude biled to hear thim thet hed 
 niver been fit fer a doormat fer the dainty feet uv 'er, quis- 
 tioning uv 'er about 'er lyalty, 'nd the loiks o' that ; 'nd 
 tahlk'n to 'er es if the barn leddy waire soome common 
 kitchen shlop ; 'nd tell'n uv 'er she wuz oncommon good- 
 look'n, 'nd moight come i' the noight toime whin soome one 
 would be maire et leasure, 'nd could tak the toime to attind 
 to it. But noone o' thim hed the toime to attind to it thin ; 
 whilst ahl the toime uv it the dairty divils waire a-sit'n thaire 
 a-shmok'n, wid ther heels cocked oop on the manthel ! Thin 
 
136 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 an arderly coome out o' the Capt'n's room 'nd handed 'er a 
 bit o' paper ; 'nd the shwate angel wint away a-cry'n es if 
 'er heart 'd break ! It wuz thin the dairty poops wint on : 
 och ! how they tahked about the shwate craither ! 'nd one 
 o' the bastely whelps cahled 'er his game ! Begorry ! — if it 
 'd been the death o' me the next moment afther, I could'nt a 
 helped it ; fer I liveled a divil uv a blow wid the but o' me 
 mooshkit, 'nd dom nigh shpattered the soone uv a gune ahl 
 over the wahl ! 'nd I towld the howl pack o' shnak'n curs 
 thet I'd blowe the' howl top o' thim ahf ef they hed ony 
 more uv it to say ! 
 
 Faix ! Thaire's the bludey shpalpeen now ; 'nd the 
 Capt'n, too ! Quick, Mike ; come, lad, before they see me 
 face ; we '11 jist shtape in this ither r-room, 'nd tip an aire 
 to what they say; it moight be soom£thin concarn'n the 
 leddy. {Exit Pat and Mike. 
 
 [Enter Ralf Rathmore, wearing the uniform of a Federal 
 officer ; accompanied by an orderly — a villainous-look- 
 ing fellow. 
 
 Rath. Sit down, Buffer ; we must have a cussion 
 To soften the shock and sharp concussion 
 Of duty with our tender conscience! 
 By name and nature you are Buffer. 
 What say you ? — so your belly do not suffer, 
 Your pockets be well lined, and yourself veneered 
 To suit your taste — so to conceal your seared 
 Soul, and rude structure of your inner part — 
 What need have you to care for what thou art ? 
 So you but seem to others of more state 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 137 
 
 And consequence than the common herd, 
 The full measure of the royal state 
 
 Is yours ! Now, mark my word 
 
 [Enter a comely bar-maid ; she makes a pretty little courtesy 
 as she percieves Rathmore, and approaches in a shy and 
 hesitating manner, to take his order. One might sus- 
 pect from her blushing hesitation and evasive look, 
 mingled with a half fearful yet pleased expression, that 
 she had already been the recipient of questionable atten- 
 tions from that source. 
 
 Rath. How now, Maleen ? Can you not welcome each, 
 Friend Buffer and myself with some sweet speech ? 
 You are not wont in such coy style to greet 
 Your trusty customers when chance they meet 
 Beneath your roof, to woo your graces sweet ! 
 \_Aside\ And set their snares to trip your dainty feet 
 In some unguarded moment ! 
 Buffer, what will you ? Line your stomach well, 
 And fill your wine-sack ; that done, I will tell 
 My purpose, and instruct you in your part. 
 But, stay ; now, lest your belly get the start, 
 And be first served, and foremost in your heart — 
 While they prepare your order, I'll impart 
 The scheme I'd have you execute. 
 Maleen, give ear ; nor let him e'er impute 
 To me a griping purse, toward Buffer, man or brute. 
 Buf. Maleen, what e'er yez hev that's pass'n goode, 
 I' the way o' dthrink, ur the loin o' food, 
 Br-rung on the shtoof'n, 'nd the shtoof to dthrink, 
 
138 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Es mooch, Maleen, es yersilf may think 
 
 I kin ate 'nd dthrink to my heart's contint ! 
 
 Rath. Aye, Maleen ; but be sure the ebbing tide 
 
 Be not so strong that this old tub may ride 
 
 Too far a-sea ! [Aside]. If it pickle his hide 
 
 For immortality, 'twill no matter be, 
 
 So he serves my purpose with servility ! [Exit Maleen. 
 
 Now, Buffer ; we may proceed. You have been, 
 
 To my certain knowledge, a servant within 
 
 The walls of Arlington. How did you leave? — 
 
 In such good grace that they would now believe 
 
 You honest, and still trust your honest heart ? — 
 
 Or do they know you, man, for what thou art ? 
 
 Buf. It's not tell'n, I am, what ither folk know, 
 
 Ur what the loiks o' thim moight belave ; 
 
 But give me the missage, 'nd thither I'll go, 
 
 An' be the best o' me so to behave 
 
 In sitch loik es to gain ther confidance. 
 
 Rath. Well, you know Lillian ; do you know why 
 
 She pleaded so hard to see that spy 
 
 Who lies in the dungeon condemned to die 
 
 On the fatal morrow? Hugh — hugh ! 
 
 Ere the red sun shall flash the eastern sky, 
 
 His sun shall set in sorrow ! 
 
 Buf. Thaire's dom'd gude raison ; et ony rate, 
 
 So the sarvints say. 
 
 He's 'er own ould loover thet saved her loif ; 
 
 An' it wuz intinded she 'd be his woif. 
 
 Rath. Hugh-hugh ! But now her wedding chimes 
 
 Shall ring the expiation of his crimes ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 139 
 
 For in the very hour when he is shot, 
 
 She shall become my wife — unless my plot 
 
 By some mischance miscarries. 
 
 Buf. Fie, mon ! Wid yer blarney be aisy. 
 
 Faix, I've none o' thim soft spots, thet ye 
 
 Should thr-r-ry to decave 'n ould timer loik me. 
 
 It's yez own cr-rimes he ixpiates ; 
 
 An' that I knows r-roit well ! 
 
 Yez but pay me the money 'nd tell 
 
 Me the jowb yez want doone, 'nd spaire 
 
 Yersilf the thr-rooble o' thr-ry'n 
 
 To mak it look r-roit to me ! 
 
 Rath. Good enough ! 
 
 Then at the earliest possible hour, 
 
 I must get this girl within my power. 
 
 Perhaps, however, the better way 
 
 Will be to brook some little delay, 
 
 And wait for night ; for the insolent day 
 
 Will hardly promote the game we play. 
 
 So go to Arlington place to-day, 
 
 To see your friends ; great sorrow display 
 
 For your former mistress, and the way 
 
 In which she was treated on yesterday. 
 
 Say you're the Sergeant of the guard 
 
 That '11 on duty be in the ward, 
 
 To-night, where Augustus Hampton is. 
 
 Use your wit as may seem most fit, 
 
 To decoy the love-stricken beauty ; 
 
 And tell her you might, were she there to-night, 
 
140 TJic Tragedy of tJie Lost Cause. 
 
 By the sacrifice of your duty, 
 
 Arrange for her a farewell meeting, 
 
 And leave her there to pass the fleeting 
 
 Hours 'till well-nigh dawn. 
 
 If you are caught, tell her like as not, 
 
 For this grave breach of duty, 
 
 'Twould be your lot also to be shot, 
 
 A sacrifice to her beauty ; 
 
 But you cannot bear to see one so fair 
 
 Thus broken and bowed with sorrow, 
 
 And feel not a care, much less seek to share 
 
 The loss she must bear on the morrow. 
 
 Now, for the rest, you know it is best 
 
 To be secret and sly as the devil ; 
 
 So, now bring the best of your wits to the test, 
 
 And see if you cannot conceal 
 
 This business from all who chance might feel 
 
 An interest in it, and too soon reveal 
 
 The affair where 'twould give us trouble. 
 
 Conduct the fair Lillian to the fort ; 
 
 Conceal her ; then come to me and report. 
 
 I will myself to the dungeon first ; 
 
 Then usher her in ; the truth will burst 
 
 With fine effect upon her ! 
 
 There is some money ; I'll owe you more 
 
 The moment she enters that dungeon's door! 
 
 'Till then, farewell. 
 
 [Exit Rathmore. 
 Buf. Now, be the powers, it moosht be seen, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 141 
 
 What the divil's becoom o' the shwate Maleen. 
 
 \_Exit Buffer. 
 [Enter Pat and Mike from the inner room. 
 
 Pat. Weel, Mike, me b'y; 'nd what d'yez think o' the 
 twain o' thim now ? 
 
 Mike. Faix, Pat ; 'nd will yez ax me that ? 
 
 But divil-a-bit '11 the bludey shpalpeens git the best o' 
 me leddy in onny sitch ways es the loiks o' that ; naither o' 
 the shwate Maleen ! [Then the two Irish pals quietly 
 lighted their stumps of pipes, and sat down astride of their 
 chairs, with their arms on the backs, and looking each other 
 in the face for some time without uttering a word ; but they 
 were evidently not idle with their thoughts. Pat was the 
 first to speak.] 
 
 Pat. Mike, me b'y, d' yez know whaire the leddy 
 moight live ? 
 
 Mike. She moight live i' the moon, Pat, fer the mather 
 o' that ; but I ween she 's noune o' thim fairies. 
 
 Pat. Well ; d' ye moind the Gineral Billmunt thet wuz 
 wid 'er in that dom'd ould housepital ? 
 
 Mike. Aye — aye, lad ; that do I. 
 
 Pat. Ef ye '11 bethink yersilf, Mike, she tould us the 
 Gineral wuz the brither uv 'er. I ween he 's the silf-same 
 thet soome o' the b'ys 's think'n '11 put a shtop to the shoot'n 
 temorry. 
 
 Mike. Thin, bedad, it '11 be the prowper thing to kape 
 the eyes uv us paled, Pat, 'nd gave 'im the thr-r-rue shtate 
 o' the case es soon es we git the awpertyunety. 
 
 Pat. That 's ahl weel enoof, me b'y ; but " ther's mony 
 a shlip twixt the coop 'nd the lip ! " Ther may be nooth'n 
 
142 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 o' the sort i' the wind. Now, it 's in me moind, Mike, to do 
 soomethin be the silves uv us, widout take'n the chances o' 
 that. Mebby we kin hit on some schame to git the gintle- 
 man out uv it ; what d' yez say to that ? 
 
 Mike. Faix, Pat ; 'nd yez tahlk'n to the loik'n o' me 
 now. Shure' 'nd thaire 's divil a thing fer the loif o' me 
 thet 's more to me loik'n then that ; but it 's fer the sake 
 o' the shwate angel I 'd do it, Pat ; moind that. 
 
 Pat. It 's the same heare, Mike. Weel, Pm think'n 
 thet Boofer '11 hev the kays the noight, mon ; 'nd ef Boofer 
 hes not, thin the black divil Raithmoor will. Now, we kin 
 concale oursilves in woon o' thim impty cells, 'nd woutch 
 fer the pesky shpalpeens ; 'nd in the nick o' toime, jist tip 
 thim woon oonder the eaire 'nd dthrag thim into "the impty 
 cell ; thin we kin tak the kays 'nd lit the gintleman out uv it ! 
 
 We kin waire soome aixthray clooth'n to r-rig 'im out 
 in soome o' the same ; 'nd es we '11 hev the coontersoin, we 
 '11 hev no defookelty in the mather of git'n 'm out. But it 
 '11 niver do, me b'y, fer the dainty, barn leddy to inter it et 
 ahl, et ahl ; we moosht put a shtop to that, lad ! 
 
 Mike. Faix, Pat ; 'nd ef we succade in git'n the gintle- 
 man out uv it ; ; nd ef it waire not fer the lave'n o' yersilf, 
 I 'd be afther tak'n Frinch lave o' thim, 'nd go'n alahng wid 
 the gintleman ; fer, shure, 'nd he 's the ginuine sort ! I 've 
 no loik'n fer the sarvice et ahl, et ahl ; shure, 'nd it 'd be the 
 delight uv me 'f the bluddy ould wahr waire oover. Och ! 
 Pat, me b'y ; 'f yez could bay the coochman, 'nd I the 
 garthener, ur some-'at o' that sort, to the shwate leddy — 
 what the divil 'd becoom o' the twain uv us, fer the very j'y 
 uv it ? 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 143 
 
 Pat. It 's mesilf thet 's wid yez, Mike ; faith, 'nd it's 
 that same ; but it 's nay faith et ahl, et ahl, wid thim dom 
 Yankees, Faix ; 'nd it wuz thim thet decaved us wid ther 
 blarney in the ould coonthry, 'nd br-r-rought us oover to 
 mak bourd'n-house-hash uv us fer thim dom nagers ! It 's 
 mesilf, lad, thet 's not moind'n a bit o' shtif foit'n ; but it 's 
 the kill'n o' whoit gintleman fer the sake o' fray'n thim dom 
 naisty nagers, thet I 'm objict'n to it ; 'nd the sarv'n o' sitch 
 ither es whin they do say a doonroight gintleman, sitch es 
 the loiks o' him they 've got in the doongeon — they wants 
 to shoot 'im doun loik a dahg ! Yez be aisy, Mike ; we '11 
 jist do that same thrick*; but sock doun in yez hayyersock — 
 fer thaire cooms the shwate Maleen ; 'nd the Boofer 's not 
 far away, yez may be shur-re ! 
 
 [Enter Maleen, with Buffer's order ; she drops a pretty 
 courtesy to the chums, quickly and dexterously spread- 
 ing the refreshments upon the table, as she merrily 
 hums an Irish ditty,] 
 
 Mai. Gintlemen, ef it plase yez, whaire kin the Boofer 
 bay? 
 
 Pat. He 's jist shteped out, me shwate Maleen ; but 'f 
 ye '11 git us a shtake 'nd a coup o' cahfee, we y ll kape the 
 fiois ahf 'till the Boofer comes. 
 
 Mai. Thet weel I, gintlemen ; 'nd it 's mesilf thet '11 
 bay mooch behowld'n to yez, Maisther McCarthy. 
 
 \_Exit Maleen, with a charming tittle courtesy. 
 
 Now, Mike, ould b'y; that shtoof 's too goode fer the 
 loiks o' that pesky shpalpeen. Coome alahng, now, 'nd let 
 's coover the howl uv it wid our broadsides in a jiffy, 'nd 
 
144 TJie Tragedy of t/ie Lost Cause. 
 
 lave the shtake 'nd the cahfee fer Boofer, the dairty divil — 
 it '11 be goode enoof fer him. 
 
 Mike. Och ! Pat ; 'nd yez a mon afther me own heart ; 
 who ilse but yez own ry'al silf 'd iver a-thought uv a thrick 
 loik that ? It's a rale schame — et is, et is ! [Having knocked 
 the ashes out of their pipes on their boot-heels, and stowed 
 the stumps in their vest-pockets, the two friends fall to with 
 a vengeance, rapidly demolishing the Buffer's dinner. 
 [Enter Buffer, impatiently ; he eyes the two pals a few 
 
 moments wistfully, as they quietly enjoy their royal 
 
 repast, and then draws near, taking a seat. 
 
 Niver let on, Mike [said Pat in a low tone]. 
 
 Buf. That's a dom staunch male yez got, lads, fer the 
 loiks o' yez ; thaire's a half moonth's pay in 't. 
 
 Pat. Faix, mon ; I'm think'n the divil's to pay in 't. 
 
 Mike. We 'd best give the divil his due. 
 
 Pat. Divil-a-bit ! Let the divil look out fer his own. 
 [Enter Maleen, with the stake and coffee ordered by Pat 
 
 Mai. Howly Mither ! [In her astonishment she drops 
 the waiter, and raises her hands in holy horror. 
 
 Gintlemen ! — gintlemen ! — yez ated the gintleman's 
 male ! 
 
 Pat. Faix, 'nd it's that same, Maleen ; shure, 'nd it's 
 fer gintlemen yez intinded the gintleman's male ? 
 
 Mai. Och ! 'nd it wuz yersilf, Maisther McCarthey, thet 
 tould me ye 'd kape ahf the flois 'till the gintleman coomed ! 
 
 Pat. Divil-a-floy kin yez foind on the gr-r-ube now, 
 Maleen ; leastways — I kin hear no booz'n ar-r-round es yit ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 145 
 
 Buf. Dom the loiks o' yez, onny ways ! I've the 
 moind to poond the shtuf'n out o' the bouth o' yez ! 
 
 Mike. Begorry, mon ; ye 'd best tak a hitch in yez 
 breeches. 
 
 We consaydered the cook'n tu goode fer yez. 
 [Enter Barney, who tries his best to conceal his enjoyment 
 
 of the joke, and look severe. 
 
 Och ! gintlemen, hev doone wid yez r-r-rant'n aroond ! 
 
 It's ahl a mishtake ; I kin say that weel enoof ! 
 
 Buf. Mishtake — the divil ! [roared Buffer, throwing off 
 his coat. Barney rushes up ; Pat and Mike strip for the 
 fray. 
 
 Pat. Mike, me b'y [aside to Mike] ; it's the thing I 
 wuz want'n, lad, to ounfit 'im to woory the leddy. 
 
 Bar. Be the sowl uv me, now ; thaire's no foight'n to 
 be doone a-r-roond heaire oonliss Barney O'Niel kin hev a 
 hand in it ! Faix, 'n the foorsht mon thet br-racks the pace 
 '11 git a pace uv his shkule knocked out o' place ! I wz/lhev 
 pace in me own house — 'nd dom little o' that! Coome on, 
 now — ahl o' yez — 'nd tak a dthrink wid Barney O'Niel ! 
 
 \_Exeunt all, merrily, into the bar-room. 
 
 10 
 
146 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 2. — A dungeon in Fort McHenry. Augustus Hampton is discovered 
 sitting, heavily ironed and chained to the floor, by the side of a 
 coarse deal table, upon which stand a stone water-pitcher, and a 
 tallow candle flickering in the socket. An open Bible lies spread 
 before him, upon which rest his folded arms and bowed head. 
 Wearily he raises his pale face, and steadfastly gazes at the unsteady 
 light. He passes one hand heavily over his brow; the other 
 slowly closes the sacred volume. 
 
 Aug. Friend — farewell ! No more thy sacred pages 
 
 I may turn through those unending ages 
 
 That thy story tells ; 
 
 No more that story — sweet, familiar, old — 
 
 By trembling lips of age, may I hear told 
 
 Where my mother dwells. 
 
 Her withered hand may now no more unfold 
 
 To me thy treasures of untarnished gold ; 
 
 Or on thy promise rest it as she prays, 
 
 Whilst she the other on me fondly lays. 
 
 Ah ! 'Twas those hands that placed thee in my breast ; 
 
 Then raised them up to heaven, and me blessed. 
 
 My Mother ! Ah, yes ! 
 
 There is a name, 
 
 Than which there is none known to fame, 
 
 So pure and sweet to me ; 
 
 Whose charm still seems 
 
 To run through all my fairest dreams, 
 
 And all I long to be. 
 
 There is a name, 
 
 Than which there is none less to blame, 
 
 Nor one more sweet to praise ; 
 
 Around which clings 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 147 
 
 The memory sweet of all those things 
 
 I loved in childhood's days. 
 
 There is a name, 
 
 Whose gentle power is all the same, 
 
 Tho' years have rolled away ; 
 
 And manhood's cares, 
 
 And all the world's unholy snares, 
 
 Have darkened life's pure day. 
 
 There is a name, 
 
 Whose music with life's morning came, 
 
 Like ripples bright of joy; 
 
 And lingers still 
 
 Amidst those memories that still thrill 
 
 My heart as when a boy. 
 
 There is a name, 
 
 So pure and sweet — 'tis e'er the same — 
 
 The sacred name of Mother; 
 
 So near and dear — 
 
 To mine eyes the unbidden tear 
 
 Comes, as for none other 
 
 Yet must I leave thee with no parting kiss ; 
 
 And all those scenes of love and childhood's bliss, 
 
 With no farewell ! Alas ; and none to tell 
 
 My freight of love ; or that I bore me well, 
 
 As 'comes a man, before the face of death ! 
 
 Well do I know that with my fleeting breath, 
 
 As flickers in its socket that poor light — 
 
 Thy darkened life will end in endless night. 
 
 But nay ; why speak I thus ? Does this [Bible] not say 
 
148 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 This endless night shall end in endless day ? 
 Then bray your trumpet, death ; rattle your chain ; 
 Forth from your shadow, night, I shall again, 
 In light and life eternal, and in glory, 
 Behold my mother — no more old and hoary 
 With sorrow and care ; but then young and fair — 
 With no more death and parting there, 
 
 In that celestial home ! 
 
 But it is strange that I can no reply 
 Receive to all my letters ere I die. 
 Hark ! Who comes this way ? 
 [Enter a tall, dark figure, muffled in a short cloak ; he wears 
 the uniform of a Federal officer ; it is Ralf Rathmore. 
 Augustus springs to his feet, and recoils as far as his 
 chain will permit ; then stands still and folds his arms, 
 whilst the two glare at each other in silence. 
 Rath. What ails you, man ? Do you not know a 
 
 friend ? 
 What, though to hell he comes your soul to send ! 
 Or if your vaulting spirit chance to wend 
 Its way to heaven, then — hugh-hugh ! — you can fore- 
 fend 
 A needy cuss like me when at the gate 
 To Peter I present my shriven pate. 
 Your belying soul, puffed up with vain ambition, 
 In that foul slough of dark and damned perdition, 
 Will hardly sink unleaded ; so then fly 
 To some bright, starry gallery on high — 
 Far in the depths of yon unfathomed sky ; 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 149 
 
 And from your lofty eminence, on such as I, 
 Pitying cast a bruised and bandaged eye ; 
 Hugh-hugh-hugh ! 
 
 I come to tell you, if you know it not, 
 Your sentence is, ere sunrise to be shot ! 
 Aug. You impious wretch ; I had no need of thee 
 To bear the sentence of the court to me. 
 Tho' drum-head courts may muj'der as a spy. 
 You know my cause, you reprobate, and why 
 I dared the ignominious death I die ! 
 Fold murderer ! ! 'Twas your base treachery 
 And cunning, lured me to this hitchery ! 
 Your hand forged that letter — bid me fly, 
 If I would see my Lillian ere she die ! 
 Oh, horrid monster ! ! A thousand deaths for me, 
 Rather than such a bloody demon be ! 
 Rath. Hugh-hugh-hugh ! 
 If I could give you all of your desire, 
 And to a thousand, raise a thousand higher, 
 // should be yours ! Yet I can save your life ; 
 And if fair Lillian will become my wife, 
 You may go free. How now? May this thing be ? 
 
 [How scornfully curled 
 Our hero's lips, as he fiercely hurled 
 These scathing words from between his teeth : 
 Aug. You slimy serpent ! You bubbling pot of hell! 
 Is there a thought, or deed that words can tell, 
 Too horrible for your black soul to hold ? 
 Think you that / would sell, as you have sold, 
 
150 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 My soul to hell, vile leper, and to thee ? 
 
 Is there in life or death an infamy 
 
 To which your blackened soul can not descend ? 
 
 Am / such sappy stuff that you can bend 
 
 And twist me into shape to suit your end ? 
 
 Great God ! My spotless Lillian thou defend ! 
 
 Rath. Hugh-hugh! You fool! 'Twill not the matter 
 mend. 
 
 Now may your soul its way to hades wend ! 
 
 . Still, I will see you ere it be too late, 
 
 As chance your wits may prompt to change your fate. 
 
 'Till then farewell — if well seem fair to thee; 
 
 How e'er you will, fair Lillian's fare for me f [Rathmore 
 turns on his heel, as if to go ; the heavy bolt grates in the 
 lock, and the door swings groaning back.] 
 \Enter Lillian, draped in black, escorted by a guard. 'Tis 
 
 Buffer. As she beholds Rathmore standing before her, 
 
 with a grim smile of satisfaction, twisting his black 
 
 mustache, she staggers back in speechless horror. 
 
 Quickly recovering, she extends her hand and averts 
 
 her face, as if to put away the dreadful apparition, 
 
 crying in tones of despair — 
 
 Oh, horror! And are you here? 
 
 Oh, brave Augustus ! [reeling into his outstretched 
 arms.] 
 
 What frown of fate has shadowed us, 
 
 And draped our hearts in mourning ? 
 
 Yet, that this demon has a hand in it, 
 
 My woman's instincts tell ! 
 
 No more terrible to me would be 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 151 
 
 Black-plumed Vesuvius, than sight of him ! 
 
 Has nature framed him also for a scourge, 
 
 To bury in the common ruin such fair works, 
 
 So that his hellish fury but afflict and curse 
 
 Those meet for heaven's vengeance ? 
 
 But thus to see one noble as yourself, 
 
 So bound, and banished from the light, 
 
 And made a captive to so foul a thing — 
 
 Has sorrow's flood a deeper spring ? 
 
 Aug. Fair Lillian, death would have no sting, 
 
 If dying could but safety bring 
 
 To my sweet love ; then could I sing 
 
 Mine own requiem, and soon wing 
 
 My joyous spirit to its rest ; 
 
 But, alas ; 'tis this dread test 
 
 That with dark boding fills my breast. 
 
 Were we both dead — sweet Lillian, blest 
 
 With immortality — 'twould be best. 
 
 This ruffian would enfold your grace 
 
 And beauty in his foul embrace ; 
 
 And make of you, pure child of light, 
 
 The sport and plaything of a night ! 
 
 Rath. Have done with this ; 'twas but to see your 
 
 plight, 
 And break her starchy spirit with the sight, 
 That I arranged this meeting. 
 
 These compliments to me, and your fond greeting, 
 Are incidents — not objects — in this grim game. 
 So, fairly, then, fair lady, change your name 
 
152 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 To mine ere sunrise — now become my wife, 
 
 And your quandam lover shall be spared his life. 
 
 Silence ! — I have not done ! These terms decline, 
 
 And he shall die ; yet you shall still be mine ! 
 
 No marriage mummery, or rite divine, 
 
 With mystic meaning shall our lives entwine ; 
 
 But ere this night be o'er, tho' marriage come too late, 
 
 You shall know the mysteries of the marriage state ! — 
 
 The captive mistress — hugh-hugh ! — The Grecian Slave 
 
 Of him whom you, in other days, have ealled a knave! 
 
 Then choose your fate ! — and choosing, choose to save 
 
 Your virgin honor, and him that you call brave ! 
 
 Come ; now say farewell — for you shall ne'er again 
 
 Bid him adieu, who wears that traitor's chain ! 
 
 Come ! [he growled, and grasped her by the arm.] 
 
 Oh, God ! [she shrieked, and clung in wild alarm 
 
 To him she loved.] 
 
 Villain ! — unhand ! Away ! — you obscene wretch ! 
 
 Lay your touch on me again, and I will stretch 
 
 Your lifeless carcass at my feet ! [she cried, 
 
 And stood with lofty mien, and thus defied 
 
 Him as a heroine Death, before she died. 
 
 One hand a (Jagger clutched — the other drew 
 
 A pistol from her sash ; like lightning flew 
 
 Portentious fire from her flashing eye.] 
 
 Augustus ! — take the dagger, and if I 
 
 Now fail, drive it to my heart ! — So may I die 
 
 In your fond arms. Then follow me ! 
 
 Aug. 'Tis bravely said ; so let it be ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 153 
 
 [Quick flashed the steel — one burning kiss ! 
 
 She fired ! — but, ah, 'twas doomed to miss ; 
 
 For heavily fell the minion's blow, 
 
 And brave Augustus, to and fro, 
 
 Reeled like a drunken man. 
 
 Stunned, and seized by ruffian hands, 
 
 Our hero felt fair Lillian wrenched 
 
 By Rathmore rudely from the bands 
 
 Of love he threw around her. Quenched 
 
 Was now all hope ! Bewildered — weak — 
 
 He still could hear her stifled shriek 
 
 As she was borne away ! 
 
 The demoniac laugh and pitiless jeers 
 
 Of those two ruffians jarred his ears ; 
 
 The rusty door on its hinges creaked ; 
 
 The grating bolt in its socket shrieked — 
 
 And he was left alone ! • 
 
 As the wounded lion springs, 
 
 Fiercely springs he at the door ; 
 
 But his agony only rings 
 
 His heavy chains upon the floor ! 
 
 He ground his teeth, and wrenched his chain, 
 
 As if to loose with desperate strain, 
 
 Its rocky hold ! 
 
 Aug. Oh ! — Cursed chain ! May he who forged thee, 
 
 Be so served as it serves me ! 
 
 Oh ! — Slavish limb ! — Could I but tear thee 
 
 From thy groaning socket and be free — 
 
 I'd grind these fingers to their roots 
 
154 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 On these damned rocks, to reach those brutes 
 And once more fold my darling to my heart ! 
 Oh — God ! And is it thus that we must part ? 
 Lost ! — Lost ! — My Lillian lost — and I 
 Am powerless to save ! — Thus doomed to die 
 The ignominious death of a base spy ! 
 [There he stood in the dungeon's gloom, 
 Confronting his still darker doom ; 
 How terrible, in that flickering light, 
 Appeared those features — set and white ! 
 In his agony bending back, 
 As if bound to torturing rack. 
 To heaven he raised his arms — again 
 He crushed his burning, bursting brain 
 Between his hands — then heavy as lead 
 He sank to his seat as if dead ! 
 
 Hark ! 
 
 Along the arched passage rang 
 The sound of voices, and the clang 
 Of arms ! Quick to his feet he sprang, 
 And pressed his hand where one sharp pang 
 Went quivering through his heart ! 
 
 Aug. Great God ! Has my time come ? 
 
 Oh, grim-visaged death ! — Art thou here ? 
 Now to the throb of muffled drum, 
 Must I march forth to front thy fear? 
 Oh — My Mother ! — Sacred heart ! 
 Must we thus forever part? 
 Must I leave thee all alone, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 155 
 
 By fell-fortune torn and prone 
 
 On the welcome earth ? 
 
 Oh ! — murderous fiend most foul — 
 
 May your soul through hades howl 
 
 Ever like a wintry wind ! — 
 
 Wailing your fate — and that you sinned 
 
 So hard 'gainst heaven and me ! 
 
 From your own spectre flee, 
 
 As from such bloody horror, 
 
 And ghastly form of terror, 
 
 As has no counterpart in hell ! 
 
 Oh ! — damned and haunted spirit, dwell 
 
 Forever there in that dark realm, 
 
 The fright and horror of yourself! 
 
 Yet have you triumphed — and I die ! 
 
 'Tis not the fear of death that I 
 So dread — nay — but must I bear 
 To die, and leave my Lillian there 
 In his vile grasp ? — to grace his bed ! 
 His slave ! — His creature ! — Were she dead 
 With me — wound in my arms — so wed — 
 So bound — so welded to my heart 
 In death, that naught could e'er more part 
 Her from me — death could have no chill ! — 
 For in his cold embrace we still 
 Might warm our hearts, and feel the thrill 
 Of rapture, as of old ! 
 
 [As he again sank heavily upon his seat, and buried his 
 face in his hands, the jingle of spurs and sound of heavy 
 
156 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 feet were heard upon the stone floor of the passage leading 
 to his cell. They halted before the door, and a stern voice 
 gave the impatient command to open it. The great key 
 again rattled in the hole, the heavy bolt shot groaning back ; 
 the bar fell with a clang, and the ponderous door swung back 
 on its grating hinges. 
 \_Enter General Bellemont ; our hero heard a firm tread enter 
 
 the cell, but he heeded it not, nor moved one muscle as 
 
 he sat. The officer stood a moment, with folded arms, 
 
 and silently contemplated the sad spectacle before him ; 
 
 then advanced and touched the prisoner lightly on the 
 
 arm. 
 
 Belie. Augustus ! [At the sound of that voice our 
 hero sprang to his feet with tremendous energy. 
 
 Aug. Horatio! — Oh! — thank God!! [he shouted, 
 clutching the arm of his friend like a drowning man. 
 
 Quick ! — quick ! Mind not me ! 
 
 Go ! — while Lillian may be found ! 
 
 From the battlements to the ground, 
 
 Search everywhere 'till that blood-hound, 
 
 Ralf Rathmore 's brought to bay — 
 
 And our sweet Lillian once more lay 
 
 Securely in your arms ! 
 
 Belle. What ?— Lillian here ! 
 
 Aug. Aye, Horotio ! — in the power 
 
 Of that fiend, Rathmore ! Ere this hour 
 
 Be spent, Horotio, that spotless flower 
 
 May be the victim of this lecherous wretch ! 
 
 Belle. What — ho ! Officer of the guard ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 157 
 
 Double the sentinels at the gates, 
 
 And see that no one pass ! 
 
 Beat the long-roll, and call to arms 
 
 The garrison ! With lines of steel 
 
 String the battlements, and give command 
 
 That neither officer nor man 
 
 Attempt to pass on pain of death ! 
 
 Let ev'ry cell, quarter, gun-gallery — 
 
 And ev'ry nook and cranny 
 
 Of this fortress then be searched ! 
 
 Where e'er found, arrest Ralf Rathmore ! 
 
 Dead or alive, bring his body here ! 
 
 If perchance a lady be found with him, 
 
 [He added sadly, and in a lower tone] 
 
 Offer her no insult, but with courtesy 
 
 Conduct her hither ; she is not with him 
 
 Of her own accord. \_Exit captain of the guard, saluting. 
 
 Strike these fetters [he quickly added, addressing 
 
 another officer who carried the keys, and pointing 
 
 at Augustus] 
 From this gentleman ! 
 
 Come, Augustus, haste ; let us forth to join this search ! 
 [Exeunt all, amidst the sound of much confusion. 
 
 Scene 3. — Another cell in the fortress. 
 
 [Enter Ralf Rathmore, dragging Lillian, who lies exhausted 
 and half unconscious upon his arm ; his hand covers her 
 mouth to stifle her voice. 
 
158 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Now, then, sweet marble [said he with a triumphant 
 
 chuckle, placing her on a bench] ; 
 Give vent to your soprano to your heart's content ! 
 These rocky walls from their set purpose will relent 
 As soon as I ! Your pent-up fury you can vent 
 On these dumb stones and mute ; mayhap your fond 
 
 intent, 
 And all those soft, endearing terms, so sweetly meant, 
 Will be as pertinent to them as me. 
 
 Nay, sit not there 
 
 With dejected mien and disheveled hair ! 
 
 Hugh — hugh ! A rare picture of desolate woe — 
 
 A tiling of beauty rocking to and fro, 
 
 With trickling rain-drops falling there 
 
 From that clouded face, through those fingers fair ! 
 
 Come ! — Ungird yourself! — Now let your beauty 
 
 Unadorned perform your pleasant duty ! 
 
 Come ! — Disrobe yourself ere patience be at fault, 
 
 And I shall take your honor by assault ! 
 
 [Motionless she sat, and wept, and moaned — then knelt 
 
 To God ! No pangs of conscience Rathmore felt ; 
 
 But stood and mocked ; thus to his infamy 
 
 Adding the sin and curse of blasphemy ! 
 
 Nor dreamed he compassionate heaven would hear, 
 
 Or that the vengeful answer was so near. 
 
 Then the wretch, with ruffian air, 
 
 Approaching her as she knelt there, * 
 
 Stretched forth his hand, as if to tear 
 
 Her virgin purity and her prayer 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 159 
 
 At once from the grace of heaven. 
 
 Hark ! — What sound is that ? The drum-corps 
 
 Beats the long-roll; hurrying o'er 
 
 Their heads, the noise and measured tread 
 
 Of troops are heard, as they are led 
 
 To their posts upon the ramparts. 
 
 Rathmore turns pale ; both wildly start — 
 
 He, with quick alarm ; on her part, 
 
 With some vague hope in her poor heart, 
 
 Of rescue or escape. 
 
 And now along the passage rings 
 
 The clang of arms ; poor Lillian flings 
 
 Herself against the door, and clings, 
 
 Shrieking for help, to those rusty things — 
 
 The rings, and chains, and bolts set there — 
 
 With her delicate fingers trying to tear 
 
 The ponderous portal open ! 
 
 Fierce as a jaguar, Rathmore springs 
 
 Upon his prey ; and his weapon wings 
 
 Its murderous flight !].... One word ! [he hissed.] 
 
 'Twill be the last shall e'er be heard 
 
 From you ! Now shriek ! — but ere your breath 
 
 Be spent, your soul shall sink in death ! 
 
 [Now turns she calmly to confront 
 
 The villain, and withstand the brunt 
 
 Ol his attack ! One moment stands, 
 
 Pale and still ; then extends her hands 
 
 To put away the loathsome sight ! 
 
 Lillian. Foul monster ! — would you thus affright ? 
 
160 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Dost seek to make me thus comply 
 
 With your demands? No! — Coward- — I, 
 
 Rather than that, would gladly die 
 
 A death more terrible than thy 
 
 Brute force can now inflict ! I defy 
 
 You ! Strike ! — you villain ! I shall lie 
 
 More sweetly in the arms of death, 
 
 Than in your foul embrace ! 
 
 Ha ! — No need that she should cry ! 
 
 There is no fear that they pass by ! 
 
 They try the door, and find it fast ! 
 
 Faix ! [growled a voice] he's thr-r-reed et last ! 
 
 [The heavy blows fall thick and fast, 
 
 Whilst Rathmore stands and looks aghast 
 
 At the yielding door ! 
 
 Little by little — more and more, 
 
 The bolts gave way as the troopers swore, 
 
 And thundered away at the obstinate door. 
 
 'Tis done — no bolts could long withstand 
 
 The assault of that stern, determined band.] 
 
 [Enter Augustus, Bellemont, and the rest. 
 One shriek of joy ! — and on Bellemont's breast, 
 Lay Lillian, swooned away! 
 Belle. So ! — you beastly son of hell ! 
 So we are up with you ! — 'tis well. 
 Men, seize that ruffian — disarm ! 
 Tear those straps from the uniform 
 That his conduct doth disgrace ! 
 Off with him to that same place 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 161 
 
 Where brave Augustus was immured 
 When this base miscreant allured 
 Him to his ruin ! Now, again, 
 Let him so serve to ring that chain 
 On the dungeon's floor! 
 
 [Exit Rathmore under guard. 
 Come, Augustus ; I can no more 
 At present, than parole thee ; 
 But ere the sunset I will see 
 To it, my friend, that you are free. 
 Aug. At such a moment, thought can little use 
 Vain words ; these may express the soul's refuse, 
 That lightly trickles from the o'ercharged heart ; 
 But more weighty feelings, and the better part, 
 Cannot so soon run over. 
 
 Belle. Tut-tut ! Augustus, has then our duty 
 No other claims than the hope of booty ? 
 Be still ; nor break the spell of my full joy 
 At seeing Lillian safe — and you, dear boy, 
 Thus well-nigh out of danger. 
 Now, let's to Lillian's home ; your care, 
 And her mother's nursing, will soon restore 
 Her wonted spirits and gleesome air, 
 When she has no dread of dread Rathmore ! 
 Officer of the guard, of the care 
 Of this, your prisoner, you are relieved. 
 
 \Exeunt all. 
 
 11 
 
162 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 4. — A place near Chancellorsville ; moonlight ; a camp-fire ; arms stacked ; 
 Federal soldiers bivouaced. 
 
 \Enter General Bellemont and staff, on foot. 
 
 Belle. Nothing remains to be done, gentlemen ; so I 
 shall not detain you any longer. It is now past one o'clock, 
 and you will do well to seek repose ; for, depend upon it, 
 you will need all your energies on the morrow. 
 
 \E71tcr a cavalry officer [salutes]. 
 
 Belle. Well, Captain ? 
 
 Capt. General, we have reconnoitred as far front as 
 the cross-roads ; but we discovered no signs of the enemy, 
 except a small detachment of cavalry, evidently on the same 
 business as ourselves. As no purpose could be served by 
 bringing on an engagement, we contented ourselves with 
 quietly watching their movements until they retired. 
 
 Belle. In which direction were they moving ? 
 
 Capt. When first discovered, they were evidently work- 
 ing around our right flank ; but they retired on Fredericks- 
 burg. 
 
 Belle. Keep a sharp look-out in the direction of the 
 cross-roads, Captain; and scour the country on our right. 
 [Turning to his Chief of Staff, he continued nervously] — 
 Let the picket-lines be reinforced, sir ; and see that no vulner- 
 able point be unprotected. We cannot be too much on the 
 alert; the nature of the country is such that the wily 
 adversary can effectually mask his movements ; and the first 
 intimation we have of his presence, may be a terrific blow 
 where we least expect it. His situation is desperate, and no 
 enterprise that promises relief will be too hazardous for 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 163 
 
 him to attempt. His only hope is in bold, fearless, decisive 
 action ; and it is not to be expected that so able a com- 
 mander as General Lee will wait for us to deliver him battle. 
 I do not share the overweening confidence of General 
 Hooker ; still, I think the present disposition of our forces 
 is such that we may feel confidence in the security of our 
 position. I will not keep you from your rest any longer, 
 gentlemen ; so good-night. [Salutes.] 
 
 \Exit all but Bellemont. 
 
 \_Eiitcr Northrop, a scout [salutes]. 
 
 Belle. Ah, Northrop, my trusty fellow ; I have been 
 waiting for you. What now? 
 
 General, I have discovered the enemy moving large 
 masses of men by his left flank, rear ; he seems to be form- 
 ing in columns of attack directly in our front. A cloud of 
 skirmishers covers his advance ; and this, with the dense 
 underbrush that covers the country, renders it impossible to 
 fully make out his intentions. I could distinctly hear the 
 words of command on the still night air — and the bumping 
 of artillery on the road, together with the noise of great 
 masses of -men in motion ; but I was unable to determine 
 exactly in which direction they were moving. 
 
 However, as the noise seemed gradually to approach, 
 and then to suddenly cease directly in our front, I came to 
 the conclusion that he was getting into position to assault 
 our works. Nevertheless, I may be mistaken ; but I thought 
 it best to report this much before attempting to reach his 
 left flank. If I can succeed in that, I may be able to fully 
 make him out. At one time I fancied I heard some ominous 
 
164 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 sounds far around to our right, in the direction of the 
 Wilderness Church and Germania Ford ; but it may have 
 been our own troops in motion. I find it very easy, in this 
 tangled Wilderness, to get the direction of things confused. 
 Still, it will do no harm to look into it. That is all, sir. 
 
 Belle. You are right, my brave fellow ; and, should 
 you have anything further to report, come directly to me ; 
 do not hesitate to awaken me. The noise you heard on our 
 right, was probably some of General Howard's corps moving 
 up from Germania Ford. That is all ; good-night. 
 
 Nor. Good-night, sir. [Salutes]. [Exit Northrop. 
 
 Belle. Orderly ! [Writing a few lines in his note-book. 
 He tears out the leaf and folds it. [Enters, soldier; salutes. 
 
 Tell Lieutenant Sumner that I desire him to report to 
 me immediately. [Salutes]. [Exit orderly. 
 
 Aye, Northrop, how well you have stated what my fears 
 foretold. [Enter Lieutenant Sumner ; salutes. 
 
 Lieutenant, you will take this dispatch with all speed to 
 General Hooker's head-quarters. [Salutes]. 
 
 [Exit Lieutenant Sumner, hastily. 
 
 A flute is heard in the stillness of the night, playing 
 " Home, Sweet Home. " 
 
 Aye — " Home, Sweet Home ! " [said he, stopping sud- 
 denly in his nervous walk, to listen]. 
 
 How like a flood your memories sweep over me — 
 
 A soft, sweet dream of the past, 
 
 To return no more forever ! 
 
 How radiant those scenes of my childhood, 
 
 Amidst the deep gloom that now covers my life ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 165 
 
 'Twas there that our father grew gray year by year, 
 
 As the frosts of each winter touched the reverend head ; 
 
 'Twas there that our mother moved, like a bright spirit, 
 
 Scattering sunbeams wherever she went. 
 
 But those forms and those spirits that made it our home , 
 
 Move no more amidst those familiar scenes ; 
 
 They are gone to that home whither we are all 
 
 hastening. 
 They rest where the rocks are the richest with mosses, 
 And the wild-flowers blossom the sweetest ; 
 Where the trees whisper softly of those that are sleeping 
 And the pure, bright waters go flashing by. 
 Like their story of life, 
 From their source, to their rest in the sea. 
 But it is late ; the night is now far spent ; 
 
 And I must sleep aye — Sleep ! 
 
 It may be my last, save the sleep of — Death ! 
 
 What shadowy form is this that flits before me, 
 
 As if to warn me of approaching doom ? 
 
 Pale Death will usher in the dawn, 
 
 Driving before him the red flames of battle — 
 
 Who knows but that their fiery tongues 
 
 Will lap my heart's red tide ! 
 
 See this yawning chasm, 
 
 In whose gloomy depths the ghastly light discloses 
 
 Heaps of whitening bones ! 
 
 No sound comes hence, save human groans ! 
 
 How the heart shudders, and the spirit flees 
 
 With horror and disgust from scenes like this ! 
 
166 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Still — 'tis but the sportive play of the imagination, 
 
 Trying to affright with shadows on the wall. 
 
 And yet, if this should be, 
 
 I would in great eternity 
 
 Remember this midnight scene ; 
 
 It is so wierdly fair, 
 
 With mingled moonlight, mist, and air 
 
 And star-light's glimmering sheen — 
 
 And yon sleeping host, so silent there, 
 
 Now resting on their arms. 
 
 In their dreams they reck not where 
 
 They are ; nor heed war's wild alarms. 
 
 Nor do they think of that dark flood 
 
 Of death, that soon will quench in blood 
 
 The light of life for many ! 
 
 Ah — ere the morrow's sun be down, 
 
 How the shades of oblivion 
 
 Will be peopled with those now here ! 
 
 Some are dreaming of home — no fear 
 
 Mingles with the scenes that now appear 
 
 Before their eyes ; those forms most dear 
 
 By love or kindred, are now near. 
 
 Alas — through death's dark mystery, 
 
 On the shores of eternity, 
 
 Forth from that dread obscurity, 
 
 How many of these in felicity 
 
 Will meet to part no more ! 
 
 But the boding night will soon be o'er, 
 
 And the dreaded morn be knocking at the door, 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 167 
 
 Ere I have closed my eyes. 
 
 Then, lest I fail of the morrow's birth, 
 
 Now fare thee well, my mother, earth, 
 
 With all thy changeful beauty — 
 
 Thy sheltering arms hold many a form 
 
 That is dear to me ! 
 
 Farewell, thou silvery moon, 
 
 By whose misty light love's footsteps fondly glide — 
 
 And ye twinkling stars — 
 
 At once farewell — and greeting ! \_Exit Bellemont. 
 
 Scene 5. — A place in front of General Bellemont's head-quarters at Chancellors- 
 ville ; time, night ; moonlight. A sentinel is discovered pacing his 
 beat with slow and measured tread ; he suddenly halts, and comes 
 to a charge, 
 
 Sent. Halt ! — Who comes there ? 
 
 Officer of the Guard [responded a voice without]. 
 
 Sent. Advance, Officer of the Guard, with the counter- 
 sign. 
 
 \Entcr Officer of the Guard. 
 
 "Sharp!" [said he in a low voice, delivered over the 
 bayonet.] 
 
 Sent. Right ; pass ! — What of the night, sir ? 
 
 Officer. It is 5 o'clock — and all 's well. 
 
 Sent. Post No. 1, 5 o'clock — and a-l-l-'s well ! [calling 
 the hour ; voices of sentinels repeat from post to post, dying 
 away in the distance. Suddenly a distant shot is heard.] 
 
 Officer. Ha ! What is that ? [shots— 1—2— 3 ; 4—5 ; a 
 
16b The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 light volley of musketry, and continued scattering shots in 
 the distance.] 
 
 To arms ! — To arms ! Fall in, men ! Beat the long- 
 roll ! [long-roll, hurry, and excitement.] 
 
 [The sentinel pacing his beat exits as scene 5 is drawn. 
 
 Scene 6. — An interior at head-quarters; moon-beams stream through the case- 
 ment, and discover the form of General Bellemont reclining on a 
 bed of blankets, asleep — his arms and accoutrements placed on a 
 chair at his head. The long-roll, hurry, and confused noise heard 
 without. Bellemont starts ; he bounds to his feet and buckles on 
 his sword. 
 
 'Tis as I thought [he muttered], the enemy is upon us. 
 
 Orderly ! 
 
 \Eiiter a soldier, hurriedly ; salutes. 
 
 Belle. Bring my horse ! 
 
 Or. The horses are picketed at the door, sir. 
 \Enter Lillian, in great terror, dressed in her night-robes, 
 
 with her hair loose and streaming — 
 
 Brother ! Oh, Horatio ! This dreadful noise ! 
 
 What does all this mean ? 
 
 Belle. Lillian ! — Why, child, how you tremble ! Come 
 — come, my dear — if you are determined to remain near me, 
 you must not let your fears run away with you. [Caresses 
 her.] 
 
 But, my darling sister, I protest, 
 
 This is no fitting place, at best, 
 
 For one like you. 
 
 'Tis an unwonted sight — so fair a flower 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 169 
 
 Blooming on these dark fields at such an hour ! — 
 
 When death and hell with infernal power 
 
 Roll their flames and thunder o'er this seat of war ! 
 
 If you would be persuaded, Lillian dear — 
 
 If not by me, then by your natural fear — 
 
 And, under escort, seek the rear 
 
 To find a place of safety — 'twould appear 
 
 To me by far the better way. 
 
 Lillian. Nay, Horatio ; here 
 
 I shall remain — then shall I be near, 
 
 If you be slain or wounded. 
 
 You would then need a loving sister's care. 
 
 Belle. Then have it as you will. Lillian — where 
 
 Ever you are, be the guardian care 
 
 Of angel hands as pure and fair 
 
 As yours, sweet sister, present there 
 
 To shield you from all evil. 
 
 I must now leave you for a time. 
 
 Remember, my dear, that sin and crime, 
 
 And beastly excesses hang around 
 
 The skirts of armies ; are e'en found 
 
 Where you would not suspect it. 
 
 Then come what may, be firm and brave. 
 
 Should ill betide, your honor save, 
 
 E'en though your own hand for the grave 
 
 Prepare your beauty ! 
 
 Ln death they will respect it ! 
 
 If the battle should go against us, 
 
 Wait not for me, but seek the rear 
 
170 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 In company with other ladies here. 
 
 And now, adieu ! — Aye, sweet sister — 
 
 To God ! Dear sister, adieu ! [presses her to his heart 
 and kisses her fondly. Great commotion without ; troops 
 hurrying to the front ; distant volleys of musketry, and the 
 boom of heavy guns ; music, and cheers of troops as they 
 pass at a double-quick. The roar of the battle now becomes 
 tremendous.] 
 [Enter Col. Allen, Chief of Staff, excitedly ; hurried salutes ; 
 
 touches his cap gallantly to Lillian — 
 
 General ! We are flanked ! Stonewall Jackson is ad- 
 vancing in heavy force from the direction of Germania Ford 
 and the Church of the Wilderness, carrying everything 
 before him ! Howard has given way in utter rout and con- 
 fusion, and our entire right wing is being rapidly doubled 
 up on our centre ! We have made a stand at the stone- 
 fence, and checked his advance for the time ; but the situa- 
 tion is most critical ! [awful roar of conflict steadily ap- 
 proaching, nearer and nearer.] 
 
 [Enter a staff officer, in great haste — 
 General ! The enemy is pushing forward an immense 
 
 column to assault our position in front ! They are already 
 
 within short rifle-range of our first line of entrenchments, 
 
 advancing with fixed bayonets ! 
 
 Belle. He evidently means no play to-day. I will be 
 
 with you in a moment [waving them out ; salutes]. 
 
 [Exeunt all, except Lillian and Bellemont — 
 Sweet sister, should it be our sad portion to meet no 
 
 more in life, rest assured, my darling, we shall find each 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 171 
 
 other in heaven. Be it as God deems best, and 'till then, 
 dear Lillian — -farewell! [he again presses her to his heart 
 and kisses her.] 
 
 \Exit Bellemont, 
 Lillian gazes after him in an agony dread. 
 Lillian. Oh, Horatio ! — Then must I see you go 
 From my fond heart to such dread scenes of woe ! [she 
 slowly sinks upon her knees, her hands clasped in prayer, 
 her face raised to heaven. Through the open door the red 
 flashes of the battle, like sheet-lightning, fitfully illuminate 
 that pale, agonized face. 
 
 [Enter a tall, dark figure, muffled in a short cloak, stealthily 
 from the rear ; it is Ralf Rathmore. He draws a dag- 
 ger, and looks around ; then advances with the stealth 
 of a tiger upon Lillian, with a savage scowl distorting 
 his already repulsive features. At this moment a heavy 
 shock of battle shakes the house ; Lillian starts to her 
 feet with a scream of terror, pressing her hands to her 
 temples, as if to still their throbbing. Turning suddenly, 
 she discovers the dark assassin. 
 
 Fiend ! — Murderer ! [she cried, recoiling]. 
 
 Oh, my God! 'Tis the bloody hand! 
 
 Rath. Hugh-hugh-hugh ! 
 
 And to your God your spirit flies ! 
 
 Ha ! — In the dust the serpent lies ! 
 
 He strikes ! — Strikes ! ! — And his victim — dies ! ! [he 
 hissed between his clenched teeth, advancing upon her with 
 his black eyes blazing with a strange, serpent-like scintillation, 
 which paralyzed her with fear. But at this moment, loud 
 
172 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 voices are heard approaching the door, and the blood-thirsty 
 demon, gnashing his teeth with disappointment and rage, 
 quickly draws a pistol and fires ; then turns and flees. Lil- 
 lian staggers back against the wall, in which the ball had 
 taken effect just above her head ; then moves slowly from 
 the room, in almost helpless terror. 
 
 \Entet Old Sambo, a negro, hobbling along on his heavy 
 cane. 
 
 Ugh ! — Hyeah I is, lef a-mose all alone ! Dey's all 
 done gone 'nd clared out, 'nd lef Ole Sam to git away fum 
 hyeah de wus ways I kin ! Dat's what I gits foh de lebe'n 
 ub Ole Mas. 'nd come'n hyeah to cook foh de Yankee offi- 
 sahs ! Cracky ! — whats gwine to come ub dis ole nigga, no- 
 ways — hyeah ? An' de young Miss, dat's de sista ub Gineral 
 Bellmawnt ; what's mo' fit'n to be wid de bright angels in 
 heb'n, 'n to be hyeah whah 't seems zif all de debbles fum 
 hell 's lef loose to bodda her ; 'nd dah's nary lib'n debble lef 
 hyeah fer the tuck'n car ub her, sabe dis ole nigga Sam. 
 Ugh-ugh ; cracky ! Jis hyeah dem awful noise ! D' yo' 
 hyeah 'em growl'n 'nd gwine on down dah like mad ? 
 Seems like dem 's de werry debble sho 'nuf ! Golly! I 
 feels dis hyeah groun' shak'n, 'nd a-shak'n so it seems zif 
 dis ole nigga cahn't stan' still no ways — no ways 'tall ! [And 
 the poor old darkey's knees knock together, his teeth chat- 
 ter, and his eyes roll with fright, while he wipes the cold 
 sweat from his wrinkled brow]. Seems zif dey's com'n dis 
 way! — Seems zif dey's tar'n up de werry groun' ! Woosh 
 my parens 'd neba been bo'n ; den ole Sam 'd neba been 
 hyeah ! See dah ! Heb'n 'nd yarth ! — Jis see dah ! Dey's 
 
The Tragedy of tJie Lost Cause. 173 
 
 toten de Gineral back hyeah dead — sart'n — sho ! Oh, Lo'dy ; 
 oh, Lo'dy — lo'dy, lo'dy, lo'dy ! Oh, cracky ! What's gwine 
 to come ub us dis time ? 
 
 [Enter a group of men, bearing Bellemont on their locked 
 arms, accompanied by Rathmore, in a surgeon's uniform, 
 disguised as well as possible with his hat slouched over 
 his eyes, and a handkerchief tied over his face as if 
 wounded ; he takes a searching look around. 
 Get out of the way ! Don't stand there shaking like a 
 fool ! [he gruffly growled, addressing the old negro.] 
 Lay him there [addressing the men]. 
 That will do. Now get to your command [he added, 
 waving the men aside, and directing them with an imperious 
 gesture to be gone. [Exit soldiers, without saluting. 
 
 So we have met again [he muttered with grim satis- 
 faction]. Hugh-hugh ! "The next you meet, will be your 
 master, the devil ! " Hugh-hugh-hugh ! 
 Your words to me now suit so well, 
 As / proceed to send your soul to hell ! [kneels by the 
 side of Bellemont]. 
 [Enter Lillian, in an agony of grief, with many others ; she 
 throws herself wildly upon the form of Bellemont ; Rath- 
 more recoils. 
 
 Lillian. Oh ! — my brother ! — dear, dear brother ! Oh ! 
 you are not dead ! Look at me — speak to me — if 'tis but 
 one word ! Horatio ! — Oh ! — Horatio — Horatio ! [he moves ; 
 with desperate energy he struggles to his elbow and points 
 at Rathmore — then sinks heavily back upon the floor. Lil- 
 
174 The Tragedy of tlie Lost Cause. 
 
 Han recognizes the dark-browed demon, and shuddering, 
 starts back a step ; then, with flashing eyes and heroic atti 
 tude, she points her hand at the cowering wretch and rushes 
 towards him, fiercely crying — 
 
 Murderer! Reptile! Accursed assassin! Seize him, 
 men ! lhat is the Bloody Hand ! [The terrific roar of 
 the battle surges around the house ; wild confusion of 
 troops, routed and panic-stricken, hurrying pell-mell to the 
 rear ; the triumphant yells of the victorious Confederates — 
 make a very pandemonium. Now the door is burst furiously 
 open and Confederate soldiers, with powder-begrimmed 
 faces and flushed with the heat of battle, pour in — driving 
 before them the defeated Federals. A savage Southerner 
 raises his rifle, and is about to plunge the bayonet into the 
 breast of the prostrate officer. Lillian throws herself upon 
 the form of her brother ; her white hand seizes the bloody 
 weapon, and she lifts her terrified but beautiful face in 
 speechless entreaty. The Federal soldiers rally and charge 
 back over the remains of their beloved commander. Rath- 
 more slinks away into a corner, near a window. A Con- 
 federate officer dashes the musket aside, and lays his sword 
 across the breast of the savage. His eyes meet those of 
 Lillian ; both seem riveted to the spot, and speechless. It 
 is Augustus Hampton ! 
 
 The red flames of a conflagration glare upon the scene ; 
 Chancellorsville is on fire ! 
 
 Tableau — Curtain. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. — A place within the Confederate lines; General Bellemont, in full 
 military dress, is discovered lying dead upon a bier ; his arms at 
 his side, with wreaths of oak-leaves and laurel, and offerings of 
 flowers laid upon the recumbent figure. Lillian, in deep mourn- 
 ing, kneels at his side, her face buried upon his breast, her hands 
 clasped in agony, and extended across his remains. Confederate 
 soldiers stand guard over the corpse, resting on their arms ; and a 
 group of Confederate officers near by, looking upon the scene with 
 silent pity. 
 
 \Enter General Beaumar ; a low murmur runs through the 
 crowd of officers ; they salute, and the guard present 
 arms. The General politely raises his hat as he passes. 
 He advances to the side of Lillian, and is about to touch 
 her upon the arm, but hesitates, as if reluctant to dis- 
 turb her. Gazing compassionately upon the beautiful 
 but prostrate figure for a moment, he slowly retires to 
 some little distance, and stands in a meditative attitude. 
 [Aside]. Poor child ! Ah, how my heart melts with 
 
 sadness 
 At this sad scene ! I would bear with gladness 
 All her sorrows, if I could. Were I her father — 
 Aye, if I could take the place e'en of her brother, 
 As he lies there cold and dead ; and instead 
 Front that grim monster death — so dark and dread 
 In silent majesty ; and so wed 
 To this twin mystery, life — at whose beck 
 And nod, or stern command, this mortal wreck 
 
176 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Yields up the spirit ; so that it no more 
 
 May spread the sails along the sunlight shore 
 
 Of time ; but on its flashing wings and white, 
 
 Wailing, takes its lone and hurried flight 
 
 Outward o'er the sea in black and starless night 
 
 Of vast eternity ! Yet is there one star 
 
 Faint-glimmering o'er the waste of waters, far 
 
 Through that awful gloom. Faith nerves the wings ; 
 
 Swifter and swifter flash those flashing things ; 
 
 Each joyous beat the joyous spirit brings 
 
 Nearer to those realms of light ! Now the welkin rings 
 
 With shouts of welcome from the host that sings 
 
 Hallelujahs on the blissful shores of heaven ! 
 
 Ah, yes ; it would not be so hard for me 
 
 To take my flight into eternity. 
 
 The day of life's morning is past ; 
 
 The time of my usefulness vanished at last. 
 
 My sun now hangs low and blood-red in the west ; 
 
 And 'tis well-nigh time that I were gone to rest. 
 
 Small things their lengthened shadows o'er me cast ; 
 
 And from my path the light of day fades fast. 
 
 There is now no one to miss me, I trust, 
 
 Save from this rude tread-mill that grinds to dust 
 
 Poor, human hearts beneath the wheels of woe. 
 
 No one to love me ; no one to mourn ; no heart, 
 
 Thank God, to be so wrung when the hour to part 
 
 Rings the knell for me ; not now — no, not now — 
 
 And yet, time was when one as young and fair 
 
 As that sweet flower — broken, bending there 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 177 
 
 Beneath the storm — would have mourned for me ! 
 
 How desolate she seems; how all alone. 
 
 The sun of her young life has now gone down 
 
 Amidst the purple haze and golden glow 
 
 Of all this horror, with its tawdry show 
 
 Of gilding — in this crimson flood 
 
 Of accursed war and fraternal blood ! 
 
 There, on that field so dark and gory — 
 
 I found my friend — in bloody glory 
 
 Decked for immortality ! Thus death's night, 
 
 On its dark and stormy wings of sorrow, 
 
 Has swept o'er him ; leaving no star to light 
 
 The mournful cortege homeward on the morrow. 
 
 He is now gone ; the winter of death has o'ertaken him ; 
 
 And this fragile flower — this pale anemone — 
 
 Is left alone to shiver in the cold north wind. [Starts 
 from his reverie]. 
 
 But this scene must end ; such things can not endure. 
 
 [He again advances and touches Lillian ; she starts 
 wildly to her feet, but becomes reassured when she^beholds 
 her old friend. 
 
 Oh, sir ! it is you ? [she cried in a piteous tone]. 
 
 Then you have not left me quite alone. 
 
 It is kind of you to remember me now. 
 
 May the Father of the fatherless reward you ; 
 
 Friend of the friendless — and of those — 
 
 Who have — lost — lost their — their all ! 
 
 Who have — no one — no — one ! — oh ! [Extending her 
 
 clasped hands to heaven with a plaintive, wailing 
 
 appeal — 
 12 
 
178 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Have — have pity — have pity — on me ! [Sinks, fainting, 
 extending her hands towards the form of her dead. 
 Beaumar supports her ; officers crowd around, eager to 
 render assistance ; there are but few dry eyes in that assem- 
 blage. 
 
 \Enter Will Keene, dashing headlong through the crowd, 
 
 pale and haggard ; his head bandaged and bloody. 
 
 General ! [he cried, in an eager suppressed voice, that 
 
 might have been heard a rifle-shot away. 
 
 I have hastened here to tell you that Augustus is not 
 dead! 
 
 [Lillian slowly opens her eyes]. 
 
 Lillian. Did I not hear the name of Augustus ? [she 
 faintly said]. 
 
 Beau. Yes, dear child ; Lieutenant Keene has just ar- 
 rived, and reports him not dead. 
 
 Lillian. Oh, thank God ! 
 
 Will. Lillian, I have just escaped ! [he eagerly ex- 
 claimed]. He is wounded, and a prisoner; but his wound 
 is not mortal. 
 
 \Enter Mrs. Hampton, Vix, and others, hurriedly, in travel- 
 ing dress. 
 
 The gentlemen salute and make way for them. 
 
 H. Lillian ! Oh, my poor child ! Lillian — oh, my 
 darling ! 
 
 Lillian. Mother ! Tis the voice of her I first learned 
 to love as mother ! Oh, God hast indeed pitied me ! 
 
 [Throws herself into the old lady's arms and weeps]. 
 
 H. Poor little broken heart ! [softly smoothing the 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 179 
 
 golden hair from Lillian's brow, and kissing her tenderly. 
 A sad smile lights the poor girl's face as she raises her head 
 and confidingly lays her cheek against that of her old foster- 
 mother. 
 
 Lillian. So doth God temper the wind. [But sud- 
 denly reverting to her loss]. But oh ! Horatio ! Oh, my 
 poor, lost brother ! [And again she sinks upon the sym- 
 pathizing breast of the dear old lady. 
 
 H. Sweet child, do not give way to this excess of 
 grief; nerve your young heart. Be firm, and brave, and 
 strong — worthy to be called the sister of that noble man. 
 Remember that he is not dead, but sleepeth. His memory 
 shall ever live while glorious deeds are honorable ; and his 
 brave spirit is now where manly virtue and Christian faith 
 find their sure reward. ■ 
 
 After all, 'tis but a little while until we meet again in 
 that happy land where there is no more war, no more death, 
 no more parting. Ah, this sweet hope is ever as an anchor 
 to the soul ! 
 
 Lillian. I had not thought to see you here [cried she, 
 gently stealing her arms around the old lady's neck]. 
 
 They are noble words ; I shall not forget them — nay, 
 nor the lips that have uttered them [kissing them]. 
 
 I thank you all for your gentle care and words of com- 
 fort ; I shall not cease to ask the favor of heaven upon 
 you — no, not while memory lasts, or reason holds her seat. 
 
 I feel stronger now ; I am able — to — to go ! [sobbing, 
 she leans heavily upon the arm of Mrs. Hampton. 
 
 [Enter a group of Federal officers ; salutes. 
 
180 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Beau. Gentlemen, your parole of honor has been ac- 
 cepted, in order that you may accompany the remains of 
 your chief to his last resting-place. I commend his sister to 
 your gentle and chivalrous care. 
 
 Ed. Offi. We accept the sacred trust, sir [advancing to 
 Beaumar]. And we desire to express our grateful acknowl- 
 edgments to you and your men for the chivalrous and truly 
 noble treatment we have received at your hands. Hence- 
 forth, we can be enemies on the field of battle only. 
 
 Beau. Sir, for my part, it is there alone that I have 
 ever been your enemy. We are now ready [giving a signal 
 to an officer]. Bring hither the captured colors of the dead's 
 command, and drape them about his bier ; he has won them 
 well, although won in death ! Bring also a Confederate flag 
 in mourning, and spread it over the dead ; for he was brave 
 and human ; at once an enemy and a friend. It need not 
 blush to cover such a man ! 
 [Enter an officer, bearing the standards ; they drape them 
 
 about the bier. The throb of muffled drums is heard 
 
 without. Confederate officers, wearing crape, take their 
 
 stations as pall-bearers ; the bier resting on muskets. 
 [Enter a detachment of Confederate troops with reversed 
 
 arms, and form in open order to the right and left of 
 
 the line of march. 
 [Enter a Confederate officer, hurriedly ; salutes Beaumar. 
 
 General, a flag of truce from the Federal commander 
 craves the favor of a moment's parley. 
 
 Beau. Let the flag advance. 
 [Enter three Federal officers, under flag of truce ; salutes. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 181 
 
 Fd. Offi. General Beaumar, in the late engagement the 
 Federal arms sustained the loss of a gallant officer — General 
 Bellemont — who was left within your lines. The General 
 commanding, knowing the chivalrous character of the enemy 
 whom he now confronts, sends his compliments, and craves 
 the favor to remove the remains, in order that we may bestow 
 upon them the honors of war. 
 
 Beau. Sir, his enemies claim the privilege of bestowing 
 these honors first. There lies the dead — the sad remains of 
 one of the best of men ; an honorable enemy ; and, as a friend — 
 true as steel ! We will not separate him in death from the 
 colors he loved in life ; and this Confederate flag in mourn- 
 ing testifies that the sons of the South -delight to honor such 
 a man ! 
 
 Fed. Offi. Such noble words — such worthy deeds — are 
 indeed the silver lining to the cloud of war ! 
 
 A battle lost — a battle won — is no vain thing, if it do 
 but reveal one impulse of the human heart so honorable to 
 our race ! In the name of the Government I serve ; in the 
 name of our common humanity; in the name of all that is 
 most honorable in the heart of man, I thank you for this 
 courtesy ! 
 
 Beau. Sir, it is but a duty we have done, a tribute 
 paid when 'twas nobly won. We will escort you to the 
 lines, and fire a salute over the honored remains. You can 
 send a courier forward to make our purpose known. Now 
 let the column form. [An officer acting as marshal gives 
 the word of command] — 
 
 Mar. Attention, escort! Forward; Match! [and the 
 funeral cortege moves off.] [Exeunt omnes. 
 
182 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 2.— An apartment in a Federal hospital ; an amputating table, with 
 surgical instruments, lint, cloths, etc. ; time, night ; candles ; and a 
 lamp is swung over the table. 
 
 \Enter two soldiers bearing a human figure ; it is Augustus 
 
 Hampton. 
 \Enter a tall, dark figure, muffled in a short cloak ; it is Ralf 
 
 Rathmore — 
 
 Lay him there ! [he muttered, pointing sternly to the 
 table,] 
 
 Aug. You bloody demon ! What is your purpose now ? 
 
 Rath. Down with him I Hugh, hugh ; the man is 
 delirious. 
 
 Strap him firmly to the table, and then be gone! 
 
 Aug. Soldiers ! As you hope for God's mercy, do not 
 obey this murderous wretch ! Bring the Brigade or Division 
 Surgeon ! 
 
 Rath. Silence ! Utter another word, and I'll have you 
 gagged ! 
 
 Aug. Men, for God's sake bring the surgeon ; and pro- 
 tect me from this murderous devil 'till he comes ! 
 
 Rath. Gag that d — d lunatic ! Be quick with it ; do you 
 hear ? 
 
 . Sol. Aye, aye, sir ; Mike, me b'y ; shur-r-e, 'nd it's the 
 gintleman ! — 'nd the ither's the bludey shpalpeen ! 
 
 Mike. It's that same, Pat ! 
 
 Rath. What the devil is that you 're saying ? Obey 
 my commands, you d — d Irish whelps, or I'll drive a bullet 
 through you ! 
 
 Do you hear ? [he growled, drawing his revolver.] 
 
 Mike. Divil a bit '11 yez dthr-r-rive yez bullet ; ur the 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. J 83 
 
 loiks uv us aither to do yez dairty work ! [cried the Irish- 
 man savagely, as he quickly drew his sword-bayonet and 
 confronted the villain menacingly. 
 
 Dom the loiks o' yez, onyways ! 
 
 Pat, me b'y ; I'll say to it thet no horm cooms to the 
 bastely devil whilst yez foind the soorgeon ! 
 
 Faix ; 'nd I'll niver lit the gintleman hoort yez, et all, 
 et all, me hearty ! — but divil a bit moosht yez moove a 
 mooshel, ur Pll be afther dthr-r-riv'n the howl lingth uv it 
 into yez! 
 
 Pat. Be aisy, Mike ; but moind, lad, 'nd doon't lit the 
 divil git the"best o' yez. I'll be back in a jiffy. 
 
 [Exit Pat, hastily. 
 
 Mike. Now, jist yez be aisy, yes dom bludey, mur- 
 therin shpalpeen ! 
 
 [Re-enter Pat, jubilant. 
 
 Mike, me ould b'y ! Shur-r-re ; 'nd here's the shwate 
 leddy coom'n alahng wid the Soorgeon Gineral 'nd a shtav'n 
 cr-r-roud o' big goons ! Hurrah ! [and the jolly Irishman 
 twisted off his cap and commenced to rattle off a jig.] 
 
 Aug. Oh, thank God ! Lillian ! My darling Lillian ! 
 [Enter Lillian, in deep mourning, accompanied by a large 
 
 group of officers, amongst them the Surgeon General. 
 
 Augustus ! Oh, where are you ? [she sees Rathmore.] 
 
 Oh, horror! 'Tis the Bloody Hand ! [staggers back.] 
 
 Aug. Lillian ! Oh, kind heaven ; 'tis thy work ! 
 
 Lillian. Oh, dear Augustus ! [throws herself upon her 
 knees at his side, and clings to his breast.] 
 
 Augustus ; oh, why are you here ? 
 
184 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Has Fate again, with her dark fear 
 
 So shadowed us ? 
 
 What business has this demon here? 
 
 Aug. To wreak his vengeance on a helpless man ! 
 
 To cut me piecemeal into bits, 
 
 And perpetrate a bloody horror, than 
 
 Which no fiend with infernal wits 
 
 E'er concieved a thing more hellish ! 
 
 Sur. Gen. Sir [to Rathmore], what operation is this 
 you intended to perform ? 
 
 Rath. I am not sure, sir, that I should have per- 
 formed any, aside from an examination of his wound. 
 
 Sur. Is it your custom to strap a man to the ampu- 
 tating table for that purpose, sir ? 
 
 Aug. The infamous liar ! He has already examined 
 my wound, sir, if torture may be styled by such a name ; 
 and he pronounced it necessary to amputate my limb at the 
 hip ; giving me no option in the case. 
 
 Rath. That is a lie ! He was delirious, sir, and im- 
 agined this. 
 
 Pat. Och ! And may it plase yer honer — I hyeard it 
 mesilf ! 
 
 Mike. 'Nd it's mesilf that hyeard the silf-same, Gineral ! 
 
 Sur. If the lady will please retire to the next apart- 
 ment, I will examine the wound myself. 
 \_Exit Lillian, with some officers ; Rathmore moves towards 
 
 the door.] 
 
 Sir, you will remain where you are. Men, see that he 
 does not leave this room [the former words were addressed 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 185 
 
 to Rathmore ; the latter to Pat and Mike, who quickly take 
 positions at the door. The surgeon then examines the 
 wound]. 
 
 So, so ; and it was your purpose, sir, to amputate this 
 limb at the hip ? , 
 
 Aug. At the femoral joint, sir. 
 
 Sur. What ! The operation is almost certain death ! 
 
 Aug. That is what he proposed to do, sir ; but it is not 
 the first time that he has attempted my life. 
 
 Sur. The wound is simply a deep flesh-wound, sir ; 
 and is not at all dangerous, unless neglected or grossly mal- 
 treated. 
 
 [Enter Lillian — 
 
 Oh, sir ; and it was this fiend who murdered my brother, 
 and tried to murder me ! 
 
 Pat. Och, gintlemen ; 'nd Mike 'nd me, 'nd soome o' 
 the ither b'ys hev seen enoof o' the divil to mak us shur-r-re 
 thet it was himsilf, 'nd not the Johnies, thet killed the Gin- 
 eral Billmunt ! 
 
 Offi. Great God ! [startled exclamations, murmurs, etc., 
 in the group.] That seems like a revelation ! He was shot 
 from behind, but his face was always to the enemy ! 
 
 Another Offi. I have heard a terrible story from Gen- 
 eral Bellemont ; and . I think this must be the sequel. I 
 suppose this villain is the man Rathmore. 
 
 Sur. That is the man's name, sir. 
 
 Offi. Then he is a most despicable and damnable 
 wretch. It would be a long story to recite his atrocious 
 deeds. 
 
186 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 It seems he is the illegitimate son of Colonel Ralf Rath- 
 more, whose sad fate you remember ; and whose wife was 
 sister to Mrs. Arlington, the mother of Miss Lillian Belle- 
 mont. 
 
 The mother of this monster — a most horrid creature — 
 followed, and finally succeeded in destroying Colonel Rath- 
 more, his wife, and infant son, together with all the pas- 
 sengers and crew of the ill-fated steam-ship Lone Star. 
 Then, having herself alone escaped, she took her own vile 
 offspring to Mrs. Arlington, and palmed him off as her 
 sister's surviving child, whom she claimed to have saved 
 from the wreck. The kind-hearted lady adopted him, and 
 gave him every advantage. 
 
 Then his inhuman mother, to make him the. sole heir to 
 the Arlington and other estates, abducted and endeavored to 
 drown the widowed lady's only child, who turned out in 
 after years to be the young Miss Bellemont, who had been 
 adopted by the parents of the General. This gentleman, 
 whom I have met before, is the one who saved her from that 
 sad fate, and their early life was spent together beneath his 
 mother's roof, but she was finally resigned to the wealthy 
 Bellemonts, because they were able to give her greater ad- 
 vantages than she could have had with the Hamptons. 
 
 When the whole history of this strange affair was finally 
 exposed, and the young lady restored to her own mother, 
 this villain endeavored first to murder them all before Mrs. 
 Arlington could change her will. Failing in that, he sought 
 by every foul and dishonorable means imaginable to force 
 the young lady into a marriage with himself, in order that 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 187 
 
 he might gain possession of her property. Baffled in that, 
 his only purpose seems now to be, to wreak his vengeance 
 upon her and hers. 
 
 Sur. Gen. The inhuman wretch ! Tear off those straps ! 
 Soldiers, secure that man ! Off with him to the guard-house ! 
 If no graver charge can be sustained, his conduct here is vile 
 enough to have him cashiered and drummed out of camp ! 
 Sir [to Augustus], as soon as you can be removed, I will ac- 
 cept your parole, to report in Baltimore. 
 
 Aug. Thank you, sir ; I am ready now ! 
 
 Lillian. Oh, brave Augustus ; again kind heaven has 
 spared you ! 
 
 Aug. So has it sent my guardian angel to me ! 
 
 Sur. On your parole of honor, sir, you are now free. 
 
 Aug. I as freely give it ; and most joyously 
 
 Give hearty thanks, kind sir, to heaven and thee ! 
 
 Mike. Faix, 'nd if ye '11 relave us, sir, o' the bludey 
 shpalpeen fer a bit, Mike 'nd me '11 jist give the gintleman a 
 lift! 
 
 [And the true-hearted Irishmen, at a nod from the Sur- 
 geon General, spit on their hands and lifted Augustus in 
 their stalwart arms. \Exeunt all. 
 
 Scene 3. — A room in the Old Capitol Prison in Washington. General Lateur 
 is discovered sitting at a table covered with papers, etc. 
 
 \Enter an officer ; salutes ; delivers a dispatch to the General, 
 who tears it open with an expression of disgust. 
 La. So, then, this beastly business must proceed ; 
 And I am ordered to perform the deed ! 
 
188 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Such bloody work I cannot but abhor ; 
 
 For 'tis no part of honorable war. 
 
 Yet 'tis not I who must for this atone ; 
 
 But that dark spirit who sits alone 
 
 In that silent chamber ; whose clouded throne 
 
 Is charged with sullen thunder ! 
 
 Hence has the flash of luried lightning flown, 
 
 Which has the earth with blackened ruin strown ; 
 
 Whose echoing thunder is the dismal groan 
 
 Of writhing human thousands ! In wonder 
 
 And amaze, the suffering millions moan 
 
 And mourn the loss of loved ones, dead and prone 
 
 Upon the fields of battle — yet will he add 
 
 To this ghastly horror by a deed so sad, 
 
 The soul turns shuddering away. 
 
 But 'tis the stern command without delay 
 
 To execute these men ere noon to-day. 
 
 Orderly ! 
 
 [Enter a soldier ; salutes. 
 
 La. Order the officer of the guard to report to me. 
 
 [Salutes]. \_Exit Orderly. 
 
 [Enter officer of the prison guard ; salutes. 
 
 La. Captain, this paper contains the name of every 
 tenth officer on the prison-roll ; these men have been sepa- 
 rated from the other prisoners, I believe. [Hands him the 
 paper]. 
 
 Capt. They have, sir. 
 
 La, Order these men to fall in for roll-call; then count 
 out every tenth man, and conduct them here. [Salutes]. 
 
 \Exii Captain. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 189 
 
 Voice (without). God have — mercy on — my — soul! 
 [Enter Old Robin Sponger ; stands smiling, bowing, and 
 
 gesticulating with both hands, just inside the door. 
 
 La. Well, sir ; I see you are safely back ; any news ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [ejaculated the old man in his peculiar, 
 elevated tone, wiping some trickling drops from his nose on 
 his coat-sleeve. 
 
 La. Where have you been? 
 
 Sponge. A-wa-a-ay up — the val— ley of — Z^v-ginny ! 
 [he drawled]. 
 
 La. Well, what then ? 
 
 Sponge. We have — organ— ized — the ne-groes, and they 
 will — soon — rise — and de— stroy the whites ! [Noise of feet 
 without]. 
 
 La. Take a seat, sir ; this is nice business you have 
 been in, truly. 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [ejaculated the old man in his high 
 treble]. 
 
 La. But I have another matter equally savory that 
 must be attended to before I can hear you. Sit down, sir. 
 [Sponger obeys]. 
 [Enter a number of Confederate officers under guard ; the 
 
 Captain salutes ; men present arms. 
 
 Capt. General, your order has been executed. These 
 are the men ; their names are checked off on the list. [Re- 
 turns paper]. 
 
 Augustus Hampton is discovered amongst them. 
 
 La. Gentlemen [with much emotion], 
 
 Are you informed of the sad duty imposed on me ? 
 
190 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Aug. We have some conception of it, sir. 
 
 La. I shall not stoop to the mockery of an apology, or 
 an attempt to justify such inhumanity.; I merely wish to 
 wash my hands of this barbarous deed, and assure you that 
 / have no sympathy with it. I have most solemnly pro- 
 tested against it to the Secretary of War, but to no purpose. 
 Your blood be upon his hands ; / am in no way responsible 
 for it. 
 
 Aug. We can well believe that, sir. 
 
 La. This box contains a number of ballots, equal to 
 the number of yourselves, gentlemen — I add one more for 
 myself. [He drops in another ballot]. 
 
 Three of those ballots are black ; those who draw them 
 are to be immediately conducted without the fortifications, 
 and there shot ! Should / draw one of them, I will die 
 rather than execute this order [he shakes the box and sets 
 it on the table ; then turns his head and draws his ballot. 
 It is white. 
 
 He throws it upon the floor and stamps upon it. 
 
 I had hoped [he cried] that it might be black ! 
 
 Advance, sirs, one by one, and draw ; it is life or death ! 
 
 [The Confederate officers advance as directed ; draw, 
 and stand aside. All but three are drawn, and but one black 
 ballot. There is but one more chance for life ; and Augustus 
 has not yet drawn. They are three friends that stand there ; 
 two of them must die ! Each says to the other — " draw ! " 
 
 One draws ; it is black ! The two remaining friends 
 look silently into each other's faces for a moment ; then 
 grasping hands, one quietly says — 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 191 
 
 Con. Offi. Augustus, it is one of us ; it will not matter 
 who draws first ; there is but one to take, and one to leave. 
 Which shall it be? Take your choice. 
 
 Aug. Draw, my friend ; the will of heaven be done. 
 [He draws, and his ballot is — white! 
 
 There is no need for me to draw [said Augustus sadly]. 
 
 Friends, should any of you survive, I do not doubt that 
 you will see this foul wrong avenged ; yet do I protest with 
 my dying breath against the repetition of this barbarous act 
 on our own sacred soil, to avenge our blood ; let it not be 
 polluted by such an act of inhumanity. Gentlemen, we 
 have already said our adieus, and acquainted each other with 
 our several wishes ; yet will we again say — -fare— well ! [they 
 sadly shake hands and say their last adieus]. 
 
 La. Gentlemen, nothing now remains for me to do 
 but remand to prison all save these three unfortunates. 
 
 Captain of the guard, detach a squad of your men to 
 conduct these prisoners to their quarters. 
 
 [Exit prisoners under guard. 
 
 In pursuance of orders received from the Secretary of 
 War, you will then conduct these gentlemen — Colonel 
 Augustus Hampton, Captain Stephen Sterling, and Major 
 John Worth — under a strong guard to that place without the 
 fortifications designated in your written instructions ; and 
 there, after having given them the usual Christian rites and 
 privileges, cause them to be shot until dead, in retaliation 
 for murders and outrages committed on soldiers and citizens 
 of the United States in the enemy's country, but within the 
 Federal lines; and which the Government of the United 
 
192 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 States assumes to believe are sanctioned and encouraged by 
 the Confederate States. 
 
 You will then officially report the same to me. Gentle- 
 men, I will now bid you farewell ! [bids them a kind fare- 
 well.] 
 
 Sponge. If you — will per-mit me — I should like — to say 
 fare-ivcll to — this young gentle-man ! [pointing at Augustus.] 
 He — once saved — my life ! [Lateur nods consent.] 
 
 Why — how do you — do ? [exclaimed the old man 
 smilingly, rushing forward with his long, bony hand ex- 
 tended towards Augustus, as if he had suddenly and un- 
 expectedly met him under the most delightful circumstances.] 
 
 Fer-haps you — re-mem-ber me ? 
 
 Aug. I remember you, sir ; yes. 
 
 Sponge. How is — your es-teemed — and — ven-er-#— ble 
 — mother ? 
 
 Aug. Oh, my God ; my God ! [breaking down.] 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [ejaculated the old hard-shell in his 
 peculiar, elevated voice, as if he had touched upon a pleasant 
 topic, yet having some dim perception of the young gentle- 
 man's distress.] 
 
 Aug. Oh, if I could see that- angel face once more, 
 
 And claim her blessing ere I seek that shore 
 
 From which no ship beats up against the wind 
 
 That drives against it ever — evermore ! 
 
 Capt. Guard. It is nearly noon ; the order must be 
 obeyed. Gentlemen, we shall have to proceed. [He steps 
 to the door ; commands] — 
 
 Attention, company ! Prisoners, fall in ! 
 
 [Exit Capt. and prisoners 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 193 
 
 Voice (without). Forward ; march ! [sound of troops 
 marching ; muffled drums ; dead march.] 
 
 La. Well, sir, I am now ready to attend to you. 
 
 Sponge. I am — gr-e-at-ly grieved to — see that young — 
 man die ! 
 
 La. Well, sir, so am I. What information have you 
 to impart ? 
 
 Sponge. He is — ajiue — young — man ! 
 
 La. Well, sir ; I am aware of that. 
 
 Sponge. At the time he — saved my — life ! I saw his 
 — mother ! an-d rec-^~nized her- — after a gr-e-at many — 
 years ! I knew her — 
 
 La. I shall have to insist, sir, on your coming at once 
 to business ; I have no time to listen to your stories. 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [ejaculated the old man in a tone that 
 indicated that he had failed to comprehend the full meaning 
 of the General ; so full was he of his subject that nothing 
 foreign to it seemed able to make any impression upon him.] 
 
 I dis— cov— ered — 
 
 La. Well, sir, be brief! 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! That she — was the — 
 
 La. Will you tell me what you have learned up the 
 Valley, sir ? 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! She was — the — gra-n-d daughter — of 
 — old Gineral Jeems — Breck-on-ro'tf^v? — of — 
 
 La. What? [yelled Lateur, fiercely.] 
 
 Sponge. Yes ! [looking much surprised, and in some 
 alarm.] 
 
 Bout-e-/#«/ — County — Ver-GiNNY ! 
 13 
 
194 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 La. Great God ! What was her name ? — quick ! — 
 quick ! 
 
 Sponge. Her name was — Ann — Hot-SPUR — but — 
 
 La. Oh, my God ! Orderly ! — orderly ! [rushing fran- 
 tically to the door.] 
 
 \Enter Orderly, hurriedly ; salutes. 
 
 La. Quick ! My horse ! — quick ! Great God ! Am 
 I the executioner of mine own son ! 
 
 Orderly. The horses are at the door, sir. 
 
 La. To horse ! To horse ! 
 
 \_Exeuni all, hurriedly: 
 
 Scene 4. — A place in the garden of the humble home of Augustus Hampton. 
 It presents a sad spectacle of neglect and desolation ; the few hardy 
 flowers that remain are choked with weeds ; the grass has grown 
 rank and tangled ; the graveled walks are unkept ; and the house 
 looks weather-beaten, and seems fast falling into decay. Its closed 
 shutters are covered with dust ; and across the door-ways the spiders 
 have woven their webs ; whilst in the unused key-holes they have 
 made their homes. In the back of the house there is one solitary 
 window whose open shutters still indicate a remnant of life within. 
 Time, night. 
 
 \_Enter two tall, dark figures, with martial bearing. 
 
 This is the place, sir [said the younger of the two ; at 
 the same instant the moon glided out into a clear place in 
 the cloudy sky, and revealed the uniform of a Confederate 
 officer; it was Augustus. The other is discovered to be 
 General Lateur.] 
 
 La. Ah, it has an eloquence of its own. 
 
 Such desolation has sorrow alone, 
 
 My son ; but now haste you onward to the door ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 195 
 
 My hot imagination torments the more 
 
 With vague forbodings as we draw near 
 
 The object of my search, through many a year ! 
 
 This dismal silence, oppresses with fear, 
 
 Lest some misfortune has befallen her ! 
 
 Aug. Thus do my feet approach the sacred shrine 
 
 Of her who, next to God, seems most divine ! [Tries 
 the door, but finds it fast. He knocks long and 
 loud, but there is no response from within, save the 
 echoing thunder from the door. 
 
 La. So well has fear been schooled in that dread past, 
 
 It has a prophet true become at last! 
 
 Aug. There is another entrance, which is never fast. 
 
 Come, we will seek our ingress there. \_Exit both. 
 
 Scene 5. — A room in the same house. 
 
 \_Enter Augustus and Lateur. Augustus strikes a light ; a 
 tallow candle stands upon a table, to which he applies 
 the match ; its feeble rays faintly illuminate the place. 
 Everything had evidently been left scrupulously clean 
 and in perfect order, but all was now covered with cob- 
 webs and dust. The tears come into our hero's eyes as 
 he recognizes the well-worn and familiar objects which 
 had so often been handled by those poor old hands 
 that now handle them no more. An open Bible lies 
 upon the table — the old family Bible ; upon the sacred 
 volume lie his mother's spectacles, just as she had 
 evidently left them when last used. Motionless Augus- 
 tus stands, his eyes swimming in tears ; then they fall to 
 
196 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause, 
 
 the now naked floor, and he beholds some object there, 
 
 which he quickly stoops to pick up. For a moment he 
 
 holds it reverently in his hands, then presses it fondly 
 
 to his lips. Turning to Lateur, he says with deep 
 
 emotion — 
 
 [May be sung]. Tis but a single hair, sticking there 
 
 In the old, splintered floor 
 
 Where the poor old feet, with patience sweet, 
 
 Went, weary, wane, and sore — 
 
 All alone ; all alone. 
 
 'Tis but a broken hair — faded, fair — 
 
 Near the old creaking door, 
 
 Whose rusty knob turns 'round with a sob ; 
 
 For she turns it no more — no more, 
 
 Here alone ; all alone. 
 
 'Tis but a faded hair, white with care, 
 
 And sorrow's wint'ry hoar ; 
 
 A silver thread from an angel's head ; 
 
 If now on the other shore, 
 
 Not alone ; not alone ! 
 
 [Why quiver his lips, and trembling grips 
 
 His hand the battered door? 
 
 From his mother's head, is that silver thread 
 
 That lay on the dusty floor — 
 
 All alone ; all alone ! 
 
 La. Alas, my son ; sorrows in cycles run ; 
 
 And mine return, as fresh as when begun. 
 
 But see, how well hath she chosen this text ; 'tis the xc 
 Psalm [said Lateur, thoughtfully, as he stood gazing stead- 
 fastly at the open Bible]. See how appropriate it is — 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 197 
 
 " Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all genera- 
 tions. Before the mountains were brought forth, or even 
 thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from ever- 
 lasting to everlasting, thou art God. Thou turnest men to 
 destruction, and sayest — 
 
 "Return ye children of men, 
 
 "For a thousand years in thy sight are but yesterday 
 
 when it is past, and as a watch in the night. 
 "Thou earnest them away as with a flood ; they are as a 
 
 sleep ; 
 "In the morning they are like grass which groweth up. 
 "In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up ; in the 
 
 evening it is cut down, and withereth. 
 "We are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are 
 
 we troubled. 
 "Thou hast set our iniquities before thee ; our secret sins 
 
 in the light of thy countenance. 
 "For all our days are passed away in thy wrath ; we 
 
 spend our years as a tale that is told. 
 "The days of our years are three-score years and ten, and 
 if by reason of strength they be four-score years, yet is their 
 strength labor and sorrow ; for it is soon cut off, and we flee 
 away. Who knoweth the power of thine anger ? — even ac- 
 cording to thy fear, so is thy wrath. 
 
 "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our 
 hearts unto wisdom. Return, O Lord, how long? and let it 
 repent thee concerning thy servants. Oh, satisfy us early 
 with thy mercy ; that we may rejoice and be glad all our 
 days. Make us glad according to the days wherein thou 
 
198 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. 
 Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto 
 thy children. 
 
 "And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us, 
 and establish thou the work of our hands upon us ; yea, the 
 work of our hands, establish thou it. " 
 
 Aye, "Return, O Lord, how long? — And let it repent 
 thee concerning thy servants ! " [he cried, with a strange in- 
 tensity, as they stood with bowed and uncovered heads be- 
 fore those sacred pages. 
 
 Aug. And " make us glad according to the days where- 
 in we have seen evil ! " 
 
 La. "And let the beauty of the Lord our God be 
 upon us ! " 
 
 Aug. Nay, touch not a thing ; these are all sacred as 
 they are. 
 
 She is not here ; we know not what has befallen her, or 
 whither she has gone — mayhap to the grave. We must 
 seek elsewhere to learn the truth. Come. 
 
 La. Hark ! [he whispered, seizing Augustus by the 
 arm. 
 
 Did you hear that door ? Some one has entered here ! 
 Perhaps 'tis she ; quick — she must not meet me unprepared ! 
 
 Aug. True ; this way ; we can enter this small room. 
 But stay, I will first put out the light. 
 
 \_Exit in darkness. 
 
 [Enter a dark female figure ; she strikes a light ; and it is dis- 
 covered to be no other than the mother of Augustus. 
 She is dressed in deep mourning, and she looks pale and 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 199 
 
 haggard, and much older than she was. She staggers 
 
 to a seat beside the table. 
 
 And I am home ! [her trembling voice piteously wailed. 
 
 Home ; nor yet home ! This dear, familiar place 
 
 Seems not like home, since his proud form doth grace 
 
 No more its halls. And yet each thing 
 
 Mine eyes rest upon, sweet memories bring 
 
 To mind. How kind and gentle in his ways ; 
 
 How brave and noble ! But, alas, his days 
 
 Are fled, and he is dead ! Oh, my son, my son ! 
 
 My son Augustus ! Oh, death ; and hast thou won 
 
 So proud a trophy ? [And the poor old head laid its 
 hoary sorrow heavily down on the Word of God]. 
 
 \_Enter Augustus, softly. 
 
 Mother ! [he said, standing behind her. She starts 
 wildly]. 
 
 H. Hath then his spirit left the blazing sun, 
 
 To revisit these old scenes and me, ere he begun 
 
 The blissful round of immortality ? 
 
 Aug. Deafest mother! [he repeated with infinite ten- 
 derness, laying his hand gently upon her]. 
 
 She springs to her feet ! With a cry of joy 
 
 And folds to her breast her own darling boy ! 
 
 H. My son ! — my son ! By what stroke of heaven 
 
 Art thou restored to me, and thus given 
 
 New lease of life ? 
 
 Aug. That strange fatality that has marked my life 
 
 Throughout the course of this unnatural strife, 
 
 Has now at last its purpose so revealed, 
 
200 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 That things I had not dreamed — so well concealed — 
 
 Are now as plain as day. The history 
 
 Of your sad life, dear mother, is to me 
 
 No more a veiled and tearful' mystery, 
 
 Which I ne'er could fathom. I can now see 
 
 And understand the cause of all your sorrow. 
 
 H. What dost thou mean, my son? Dost borrow 
 
 From thine imagination thy strange words ? 
 
 Aug. Nay, dear mother ; 'twas my father saved my life ; 
 
 Who has now come to claim you as his wife ! 
 
 \_Enter Lateur. She recoils. 
 At last I find you, Annie ; oh, thank God ! 
 Whom I have mourned as dead, and 'neath the sod ! 
 Nay, more ; aye, more ; yes, by a thousand fold, 
 With such deep grief as language has not told, 
 In tragic tale, or minstrel songs of old. 
 Hi What ! Lateur ! Hath sorrow then no bound, 
 That thou must come to tear afresh the wound 
 Thy broken troth and treason made when life 
 Was yet a dream of paradise to me as thy young wife ? 
 La. Nay, speak not so ! Alas, that such dread grief 
 Should be the fruit of love's blind unbelief! 
 That love should be so wed to love's most subtle thief — 
 To that base passion — jealousy ; and such divine 
 And noble sentiment, meant by nature to entwine 
 And bind together things so frail as human hearts, 
 Should be thus foully served, and by the arts 
 Of lower passions, thus outwitted, and so brought 
 By foul malignity and lies to naught, 
 
Ihe Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 201 
 
 Must a marvel be. 
 
 H. Alas, Lateur ; and wilt thou yet descend 
 
 To cloak thine infamy, and thy sin defend ? 
 
 'Twere much more honorable not to lend 
 
 Thyself to this — 'twould serve thine end 
 
 Far better, and be more worthy to admit 
 
 Thy shameful fault, and repent of it. 
 
 La. That very temper that makes the metal true, 
 
 Makes truth untrue, dear wife, when 'tis in you. 
 
 But I can soon convince you that you falsely drew 
 
 Your quick conclusions from reports that flew, 
 
 With pestilent breath before the people knew 
 
 The harmless truth ! 
 
 H. Oh, that 'twere not merely to believe ; if I could 
 
 know 
 That thou, whom I have ever loved and worshiped so, 
 Art true and worthy, so that I might throw 
 Me at thy feet for pardon ! 
 La. Nay, my dear wife ; that may never be. 
 Kneel you to God ; you shall not kneel to me. 
 But her with whom foul rumor linked my name, 
 Was mine own sister, whose purity and fair fame 
 You will not question. She was the bride 
 Of one you know quite well ; by whose side 
 Our brave Augustus has oft stemmed the tide 
 Of battle — e'en noble Beaumar ! 
 H. Oh, tell me not, Lateur, it was the bride 
 Of Beaumar ! — She who so early died — 
 So worshiped ; so loved by all; the joy and pride 
 
202 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Of all who knew her ! Oh, leave me ! Let me hide 
 
 My face in shame and sorrow in the dust ! 
 
 La. No, my virtuous wife ; I can appreciate, I trust. 
 
 The sacrifice and suffering that you must 
 
 Have patiently endured through a sense of duty, 
 
 And of self-respect. And though your beauty 
 
 Is now withered, and the bloom of youth 
 
 Faded from your cheek, your purity and truth, 
 
 And sterling worth that have borne the proof 
 
 Of all these years beneath this humble roof, 
 
 But prove the right of that idolatry 
 
 Which, in the flash of youth, I gave to thee! 
 
 Oh, then, whoe'er hath erred, so let it be 
 
 Recked 'gainst the common lot of our humanity ! 
 
 We now are old ; full thirty years have sped 
 
 Since, thrilled with hope and joy, dear Annie, we were 
 
 wed ! 
 Let then the years roll backward to the time 
 When merrily we listened to the merry chime 
 Of our gay wedding bells, that made the old church 
 
 tower 
 Tremble with the sweet delights of that enchanted 
 
 hour ! 
 Let all the sorrow be forgot — buried now and dead — 
 And where we left the path of life, we'll now take up its 
 
 thread. 
 Come, come to my heart ! No more — pray God ! — no- 
 more 
 To part again, dear Annie, this side eternity's shore I 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 203 
 
 [Extends his open arms ; with a cry of joy she rushes 
 to his breast]. 
 
 H. Oh ! My noble husband ! 'tis I — 'tis I alone 
 
 Who brought thee all this sorrow ; how may I atone? 
 
 La, Hush ! 'twas yesterday ; we live now for the 
 morrow, 
 
 And shall we cloud the future, Annie, with the olden 
 sorrow ? 
 
 \Enter Dina, hurriedly. 
 
 Miss Ann ! — fo' de sake ub heab'n ! Ole Mas. ! [in 
 great astonishment]. 
 
 La. What ! Dina ? Are you, too, living ? [extend- 
 ing his hand]. 
 
 Dina. Lib'n ! Lo'dy, Ole Massa ; say I is lib'n ! Is 
 you lib'n ? 
 
 La. I was never more alive in my life, Dina [he 
 laughed]. 
 
 [Enter Old Tom, with great joy. 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus ! Hyeah, hyeah ! I ubsarved yo' fru de 
 winda ! 
 
 Heb'n an' yearth ! Da's Ole Mas. ! [awed into sudden 
 sobriety]. 
 
 La. Will miracles never cease ? Tom ! Is it possible ? 
 
 Tom. Seems zif dat's a fac', sart'n ! But da's nary pos- 
 sum 'bout dis coon, Massa ; no sah ! Fs awful glad, but I's 
 awful s'prised to see you hea', sah ; I is, dats a fac', sho 'nd 
 sart'n ! Hyeah, hyeah, hyeah ! An' I 's awful s'prised to 
 see dis nigga hea', /is! We 's been hab'n a dick'n ub a 
 time git'n hea' — me an' Mas. Beauma' ! De Yankees come 
 mouty nigh git'n us, sho ! [Enter Beaumar, hastily 
 
204 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Augustus ! — my dear boy ! — how is this ? Great Caesar ■ 
 
 Lateur ! Am I gone mad ? — do my eyes deceive me ? 
 
 La. Beaumar ! Oh, thank God that we so meet 
 
 In this dear presence ! Beaumar, now first greet 
 
 Your sister ! — then your brother and your nephew, here ■ 
 
 This is my long-lost wife, whose memory dear 
 
 You know I've treasured, lo ! for many a year ! 
 
 And this splendid fellow is mine own son, 
 
 Who has such luster and promotion won 
 
 In your command ! Oh, life is now begun 
 
 Anew, my brother ! God grant that it may run 
 
 As long in happiness as it has in sorrow. 
 
 Beau. I am o'erwhelmed with this excess of joy! 
 
 To each I give my greeting ; to you, dear boy, 
 
 A double share, since you have 'scaped the fate 
 
 From which your rescue came almost too late. 
 
 H. Thus to my husband love is due twice o'er, 
 
 Since 'tis by him our son is spared once more. 
 
 Beau. Dear friends, I have no time to joy with you, or 
 
 stay ; 
 I ventured much that I might come this way, 
 To give such consolation as one may 
 In times of such distress. But my sad voice 
 Has changed its key ; so I may now rejoice. 
 Yet must I get me to the front of war, 
 And to the work my soul doth now abhor. 
 The end is near ; the odds are now too great ; 
 'Tis but the work of time to seal the fate 
 Of our heroic South. We are too few 
 To wage so fierce a war, with ten to two ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 205 
 
 But now we gather all our strength once more, 
 
 To hurl a thunder-bolt 'gainst the iron door 
 
 Of Fate, with one great, final blow before 
 
 Tis closed on us forever ! And thus I mix 
 
 My joy with sadness ; to greetings, I affix 
 
 Farewell, dear friends, at parting. 
 
 Aug. Stay yet one moment ; I cannot see you starting, 
 
 And remain behind ; I will accompany thee. 
 
 Dear mother, father ; my bleeding country calls me ! 
 
 Once more I claim your blessing. If at last it be 
 
 That death betide me, / shall at least be free, 
 
 And spared the pain of seeing my dear country 
 
 Bound in the Tyrant's chains. 
 
 La. My son, I shall remain behind. I have done 
 
 With war, and have sent in my resignation. 
 
 I shall draw my sword no more. Now, go ; 
 
 And do your duty before your country's foe ! 
 
 H. I need not tell thee as the dread hours fly, 
 
 My prayers go winging upwards to the sky ! 
 
 Once more I bless thee ; to thy country's cause 
 
 Once more I give thee — nor do I pause 
 
 To bid thee go. Yet will we belate 
 
 Our tearful parting 'till we reach the gate ! [Exeunt all. 
 
206 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 6. — An elevated place near Petersburg, Va., with a view of the city and 
 country beyond, where the Federal host lies entrenched; in the 
 foreground a Confederate camp, with fires and arms stacked, whilst 
 the men are busily employed preparing their frugal meal; in the 
 middle distance the Confederate defences, with a view of Forts 
 Alexander and Gregg. In the extreme distance the camp-fires of 
 the enemy twinkle like stars in the starless night. Ever and anon 
 the sudden flash and sullen boom of a heavy gun in the Federal 
 works proclaims the state of siege. 
 
 \_Enter an old negro man, in a very dilapidated condition, 
 presenting a wierd and picturesque appearance in a 
 heterogeneous collection of old clothes — partly military, 
 partly civic, and partly nondescript, evidently the ex- 
 travagant creation of his own fertile powers of inven- 
 tion. To judge from his appearance, it might have been 
 difficult for a stranger to determine whether he was a 
 Confederate general, a Northern statesman, a common 
 soldier, or an itinerant preacher ; but we all at once 
 recognize in him our faithful Old Tom. Notwithstand- 
 ing four terrible years of camp-life, and the fluctuating 
 fortunes and long marches of many a campaign, there is 
 the old carpet-bag still, and the old embossed sabre with 
 its brazen sheath ; but the epaulets and plumed chapeau 
 are gone, as are also the dove-colored pants and blue 
 coat with brass buttons. Yet Tom has enough, and to 
 spare — a Sharpe's carbine is slung to his back, which 
 supports in addition a knapsack of no small proportions. 
 On one hip he carries an emaciated-looking haversack, 
 and on the other a large dragoon revolver, which would 
 never stay cocked ; and dangling to his knapsack was a 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 207 
 
 general assortment of tin-cups, pans, and divers useful 
 and useless articles, too numerous to mention. 
 
 Tom. I 's gwine home ; I 's gitt'n tiad ub dis hea' wah ! 
 I 's gwine away fum hea' ! Ca'n't stay hea' no ways — no 
 ways 'tall, wha' da 's sitch awful gwines on ! Da 's no use 
 a-talk'n, I 's gwine back to Dina 'nd de ole log cab'n, / is — 
 you hea' me ! Mas. 'Gustus said I mout, 'nd I's gwine! 
 But dat ah chile ; ca'n't lebe dat ah chile, no way. Ugh, ugh ; 
 wha' 'd he done been gone to by dis time, 'f Ole Tom hadn't 
 a been da to tote 'im way fum de cha'ge ? No sah ! Mas. 
 'Gustus an't no mo fit'n to be hea' as I is ; neba takes no mo 
 ca' ub 'self zif de balls want a fly'n 'roun' dah likes de bees 
 'roun' de cida mill, and gwine cha'ge'n squa' down de werry 
 jaws ub def, zif dey want all a drip'n wid blood ! Deb'l 
 scotch me ; how de balls did buz ! An' dem ah calbery ! 
 Dey come tar'n squa' oba de heads 'spect'n ebry minute to 
 bang de brains out ! Ugh, ugh ; golly ! Looks dis way, an' 
 dat way, an' tudda way ; an' hea' dey comes like de stone- 
 wall ub steel ; an' da 's Mas. 'Gustus lay'n dah foh sho 'nuff 
 gone up, an' foh urn to ma'ch all oba, 'nd run de hosses 
 oba, 'nd dribe de canons oba, an' da 's no tell'n — dey mout 
 a killed de chile foh all I knows ! So I jis picks up Mas. 
 'Gustus like de bag ub corn 'nd tuck de bee line squa' 'way 
 fum dah ; an' sitch a yell'n 'nd a cheer'n fum de sojas dis ole 
 nigga neba did hea' ! But I got de chile 'way fum dah ; 
 hyeah, hyeah ! Dey did n't git um dat time, sho ! 
 \_Enter Will Keene, whose coat collar is now decorated with 
 
 a single star. 
 
 Hello, Uncle Tom ; what has become of Augustus? He 
 
208 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 is not in the hospital. Thunderation ! — what a load ; why- 
 do you persist in carrying all that truck? Do you take 
 yourself for a jackass ? 
 
 Tom. Cah' n't 'pend on dem wagons, young Mas. — 
 no sah ! So I habs to make dese p'pa'ations 'co'd'n, 
 to be perspiad fo' de 'casion ub de mugency ! Ugh, ugh ! 
 De chile 'd sta've' fo' de wagons 'd git dah ; an' dah 's mouty 
 little bit in um no ways when dey does git dah ! Ugh, 
 ugh ; golly ! Habs to 'pend on dem ah chick'ns an' sich 
 likes ..; but dey 's git'n mouty scarse, dey is — dat 's a fac'. 
 
 Will. Well, well ; ha, ha ! I'm willing, if you are. 
 But where is Augustus? I must see him at once. 
 
 Tom. Don't 'knows, Massa ; spec' he's wid Mas. 
 Beaumah. 
 
 Will. What ? Not on duty ? What of his wound ? 
 
 lorn. De wound 's awful so'a, but reckon mebby he 
 kin bar it to trabble 'long sort ub slow like. 
 
 Will. Travel ? — where ? 
 
 Tom. Spec' we 's gwine home, Massa ; de stugeon says 
 so. Hyeah, hyeah, hye-a-h ! but dat do tickle dis ole 
 nigga, sho ! 
 
 Will. On leave ? Good enough ; wish I could go 
 along. But I don't see how that can be, Tom ; for the 
 Yankees are around there thick as hops. However, I must 
 find him, as I have a pleasant surprise for the old boy ; his 
 mother and Miss. Lillian, together with some other friends, 
 have managed to pass the lines and just arrived in camp. 
 
 Tom. Fo' de lo'd ! You doesn't say so? Whew; 
 golly ! see da ! Hea' dey comes now ! 
 
 [Exit Tom, hastily, to meet them. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 209 
 
 Will. If there ever was a faithful heart, that old black 
 man carries it. 
 \Enter the mother of Augustus, Lillian, and others, closely 
 
 followed by Old Tom, again loaded down with luggage.- 
 
 H. What ; is he not here ? Hath then my son turned 
 ignis fatuus. 
 
 To lead us such a chase ? 
 
 Will. Oh, fie ; fiddle, say I ! But the fun has yet 
 scarcely begun ; 
 
 As the shadows fly from the rising sun, 
 
 And so hide from his shining face, 
 
 Your knightly son from your presence doth run 
 
 To some dark and mysterious place 
 
 Past finding out; the rascally lout — 
 
 Not dreaming, of course, that you are about ! 
 
 In school-boy style, with a twist of the ear, 
 
 He ought to be caught and quickly brought here 
 
 To account for his being out. 
 
 Vix. Eucher ! You could do it, no doubt ! 
 
 La. A truce to your jesting. Since he is nowhere, 
 
 Surely his wound can not be as severe 
 
 As popular rumor would make it appear, 
 
 And our fears had pictured, withal. 
 
 Will. No, but for all, 'twas a mighty close call ; 
 
 We thought 'twas all day when we first saw him falL 
 
 It was faithful Old Tom, there, who bore him away 
 
 From that terrible spot where our hero lay 
 
 Unconscious, and well-nigh dead ! 
 
 14 
 
210 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Had it not been for him, he must surely have bled 
 
 To death ere he received assistance ; 
 
 For we all supposed him dead, as I said, 
 
 And retreating when further resistance, 
 
 And bloody sacrifice of such brave persistence, 
 
 Promised us no reward — our noble dead 
 
 Were left on the field where the charge was led 
 
 With such heroic devotion. 
 
 La. What in the world could have been the notion 
 
 Of General Lee to thus put in motion 
 
 A column of assault with such disproportion 
 
 Of force at his command ! 
 
 Will. Now, you're too many; he ne'er shews his 
 
 hand ; 
 But the game he was playing, I so understand, 
 Was deep and strong, and might well withstand 
 The scrutiny of brains more able then mine. 
 The plan of assault was bold ; in fine, 
 Its promises were large. But it has failed ; 
 And failing, great loss upon us has entailed. 
 
 La. And with this failure the lid is nailed 
 
 On the leaden coffin of the South's Lost Cause ! 
 
 Tom. Dah dey comes ! Dah dey is ! 
 
 Will. Who ? 
 
 Tom. Mas. 'Gustus an' Mas. Beaumah. 
 
 All Where ? 
 
 H. Oh, my son ! My darling boy ! 
 
 \Exit, hurriedly, to meet him. 
 
 La. He looks the worse for wear, poor boy; his step 
 has now 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 211 
 
 The halt and tremor of old age. [Follows H. off to 
 meet him]. 
 [Enter Augustus and Beaumar, with the parents of Augustus. 
 
 Greetings]. 
 
 Aug. Lillian ! Sunlight of my soul ; 
 
 How comes this happiness to pass? [Approaches her 
 slowly, as if to lengthen out the moments of bliss- 
 ful expectancy ; he sinks upon his knee and gently 
 takes her hand, pressing it softly to his lips]. 
 
 Lillian. Thus kind heaven favors us, my dear Augustus. 
 
 Aug. Oh, heaven ! — and hast thou then such rapture 
 until now 
 
 Reserved, that I may taste thy pleasures, and know how 
 
 It is in thy bright realms? [and then, with one great 
 surge of passion, he folds her to his heart. Boom- 
 ing of cannons in the distance]. 
 
 Hark ! In this blissful moment comes a sullen boom 
 
 Like the dismal voice of Fate rumbling through the 
 gloom, 
 
 Ah, 'tis the signal of attack ; now the dreadful doom 
 
 Of the South is sealed forever ! 
 
 The wide horizon blazes with a sheet of flame, 
 
 And hell her horrors belches forth in sweet heaven's 
 name. 
 
 [The long-roll is beaten, the soldiers quickly seize their 
 arms and exit. Hurried orders are heard without, 
 to fall in, etc.] 
 
 From batteries, from mortar-beds, and from bristling 
 forts 
 
212 T/te Tragedy of tlie Lost Cause. 
 
 Now roars the thunder of the siege — guns' deafening 
 
 reports. 
 The hiss of shot and shriek of shell join in the awful 
 
 chorus 
 Of the Carnival of Death that now appears before us. 
 From the doomed city vast volumes of smoke and flame 
 Now drape the somber heavens, and make them blush 
 
 for shame 
 Of human inhumanity. Upon the inky sky 
 The fiery trail of bombs inscribes the infamous lie 
 Of moral mockery that seeks to justify 
 A deed so horrible ! 
 
 And now the early dawn flashes the orient ; 
 And to this ghastly scene another phase is lent. 
 Far as the eye can reach, dark columns of assault 
 Sweep forward from the enemy's works ; nor ever halt 
 In their steady purpose. Their numbers make them 
 
 feel 
 Confident of victory. Forests of polished steel 
 Wave with majesty, glist'ning in the early sun. 
 So moves the pageant ere the bloody work 's begun. 
 Before them there, in sullen silence grimly lies 
 The long line of Confederate works — now the prize 
 Of victory ; the sole barrier that now stands 
 'Twixt independence and the iron bands 
 Of slavery. Along the line in their array 
 Are strong the grizzled veterans in coats of gray ; 
 With knitted brows and teeth clenched fast, the fray 
 Await on that unequal field this fatal day ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 213 
 
 The cold north wind unfurls the northern banners gay 
 O'er two hundred thousand men in battle array ; 
 Scarce sixteen thousand worn-out troops dispute their 
 
 way, • 
 And receive the shock of their assault as best they may — 
 Nor cower before that magnificent display 
 Of o'erwhelming force the foe presents to-day, 
 In hopes the Confederate arms will shrink away 
 From their imposing front in blank dismay. 
 Nay, the shattered remnant of those glorious arms 
 Has no eye for the odds, and no ear for alarms ; 
 But still steadily breast that wild tempest of fire, 
 As was their wont ere victory 'gan to tire 
 Of fruitless effort, and thankless sacrifice ! 
 From the Appomattox to Hatcher's Run, 
 The storm-cloud lowered, and the battle begun. 
 From the sullen gloom of those masses in blue 
 The sheeted lightning and thunder flew. 
 'Midst the leaden hail came the screaming of shell, 
 With demoniac shriek, like a spirit of hell ! 
 From the Confederate front rose the terrible yell 
 That on many battle-fields sounded the knell 
 Of death to the insolent foe. And now, to swell 
 The frightful clamor and roar of battle, 
 The blaze of musketry, and the death-rattle 
 Of rifles along the lines, and the thunder 
 Of a hundred cannon bursts asunder 
 The vault of heaven, and shakes with wonder 
 The very earth ! 
 
214 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 All along the line the Federal troops recoil 
 
 'Neath canopies of smoke ; the Confederates foil 
 
 Their frenzied efforts ! 
 
 Now they mass 'gainst Gordon's feeble lines, 
 
 Just to the left of where the Federal mines 
 
 Were sprung with volcanic fury ; and here, 
 
 After a terrible struggle, they now appear 
 
 To have success, and for the time obtain 
 
 Possession of some works ; now they retreat again, 
 
 Exposed right and left to a raking fire ; 
 
 Decimated and shattered, they retire 
 
 In utter rout. 
 
 But whilst this furious contest is in progress 
 
 On the " Croler's " left, far more decisive success 
 
 Now crowns the Federal arms further to the right, 
 
 Where the enemy hurls his prodigious might 
 
 'Gainst Hill's unprotected left. But Gowan's brigade 
 
 Is no longer there where it erst had made 
 
 The place impregnable. The picket in front, 
 
 And the men at the guns, must withstand the brunt 
 
 Of the enemy's great assault. The work is done — 
 
 The entrenchments are carried — the batteries won ! 
 
 Forts Alexander and Gregg are now all 
 
 That stand between them and the final fall 
 
 Of the Confederate Cause, and the hated thrall 
 
 Of northern dominion. Now with cheers and a rush 
 
 They storm Fort Alexander in the full flush 
 
 Of victory. 'Tis taken, although the men stand 
 
 Bravely to their guns, and hand to hand, 
 
 In that unequal conflict, gallantly yield life 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 215 
 
 And liberty at once in that heroic strife ! 
 
 Again the Federal cohorts confidently form 
 
 In beautiful array, and now prepare to storm 
 
 The sullen front of frowning Gregg. 
 
 In all the majesty of o'erpow'ring numbers, 
 
 They move on that silent place where slumbers 
 
 The volcano's fire, and the voice of thunder. 
 
 Along the lines the battle lulls ; as if in wonder, 
 
 By mutual consent the armies both stand still 
 
 In breathless expectation ; hope and fear now thrill 
 
 In turn each breast. Will the garrison fulfill 
 
 The enemy's hopes, and send the deathly chill 
 
 Of irreparable disaster through their comrades' ranks? 
 
 Will they thus surrender, nor fire a gun ? No ! — thanks 
 
 To the brave Captain Chew and his gallant crew, 
 
 This final disgrace will be spared the few 
 
 That remain of the grand old army ! 
 
 'Tis not a white flag, but a white puff of smoke — 
 
 A sheet of flame, and terrible roar that broke 
 
 The silence and dread expectancy of the hostile hosts ! 
 
 Reeling, broken, the shattered mass gives way ; 
 
 No longer glistening in beautiful array 
 
 Of symmetrical lines, with waving banners gay — 
 
 But routed, torn, and bleeding, in dismay, 
 
 Retreating under cover ; whilst on the red earth lay 
 
 Their dead and wounded thickly strewn ! 
 
 But hurrying forward, reinforcements soon 
 
 In columns dark move up to their support ; 
 
 But none are there to reinforce the fort ! 
 
 Now rings a shrill bugle-call, sharp and clear, 
 
216 TJw Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 O'er the Confederate lines, sounding far and near ; 
 Why curdles the blood in those brave men's veins ? 
 Why blanch their dark faces at those wild strains ? 
 'Tis because they know that its meaning dread 
 Proclaims that all hope is now well-nigh fled ! 
 Tis the stirring appeal for a Forlorn Hope — 
 A devoted band who are willing to cope 
 With the fearful odds before them ! 
 Must the sacrifice of the glorious dead, 
 And the cause of the South for which they bled ; 
 Must all those proud mem'ries whose luster shed 
 Such glory o'er the terrible life they led, 
 At last be lost? — fruitless the sacrifice? — fled 
 Forever those memories into the past? — 
 Into that sacred, silent sepulcher at last ! 
 Beau. Alas, gentlemen ; our fortunes are failing fast ; 
 But I am now too old to heed that bugle's blast ! 
 Will. Ha ! — by Jove — the boys obey the call ! 
 To horse! — Farewell — I'll not be last of all. 
 Aug. Nor I ! Mother, your blessing ! If I now fall 
 
 [he kneels at her feet], 
 Let my country's banner be my funeral pall. 
 Father, farewell ! Lillian, darling ; all [embracing her] 
 That I need say is that your willing thrall 
 Will try to turn his face to you in death, 
 And breathe your name with mother's on my parting 
 
 breath ! 
 Now fare you well — forever — mother — all ! 
 /shall not return to you when the loud recall 
 Is sounded from the trumpet's brazen throat ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 217 
 
 Farewell — farewell — / shall not heed its note ! 
 
 \Exit Will. 
 
 Augustus moves away ; Lillian swoons ; Augustus, who 
 
 has reached the door, hastily returns ; he kneels at her side, 
 
 and smoothes the golden hair tenderly from her brow ; then 
 
 kisses her softly and resigns her to his mother. 
 
 Nay, I would not awaken her, even though I could, 
 To other fears and the agony of suspense. 
 Sleep on, poor heart, whilst the awful storm 
 Of battle decides our fate. 
 
 Oh ! How the sight of her unnerves my heart, 
 And makes my very soul to shudder in its shell — 
 Filling this garish daylight with shadowy forms of fear ! 
 But steady ; my duty calls me there! [pointing off to- 
 wards the field of battle]. 
 
 \Re-enter Will Keene, hastily- 
 Augustus ! They have chosen you to lead the Forlorn 
 Hope ! 
 
 Aug. So ? Then I will lead it — aye ; and to glory, 
 E'en though it be shrouded in death so grim and gory ! 
 This day will seal our fate, and end this dark, sad story. 
 For four long years, oh war, your desolating hand 
 Has swept with fire and sword our once most happy 
 
 land. 
 Our wealth has perished, and our blood runs low — 
 The torrent is dry, and the flood cannot flow — 
 Yet the proud, brave spirit of our sunny south-land 
 Stands firm and defiant 'midst her smouldering ruins — 
 Overwhelmed, indeed, but still unsubdued ! 
 But the end is near ; ere the red sun is seen in the west, 
 
218 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 All will be over, and these fatal questions be at rest. 
 Ah ; will the dead or the living then be most blest ? 
 Once more, farewell to all ; mother, 'tis best 
 Thus to leave my darling on my mother's breast ! [moves 
 away]. 
 
 Tom. Mas. 'Gustus! I can't bah to stay hea' ; feel zif 
 suf 'n awful 's gwine to hap'n ; an' Ole Tom orta be dah ! 
 
 Aug. Thank you, Uncle Tom; bless your trusty heart. 
 But I cannot take you with me to-day ; you will be needed 
 here. And now, good-by ; your life has been closely inter- 
 woven with mine, Tom, and if the fortunes of war now 
 separate us forever, remain as faithful to the loved ones I leave 
 behind as you have been to me ; and remember that you 
 are not the least of those who are dear to me. [Tom falls 
 upon his knees and clings frantically to the hand of his 
 master]. 
 
 Tom. Mas. 'Gustus ! Lef me go 'long jis dis hea' once ;. 
 please, Mas. 'Gustus; please! 
 
 Aug. No, Tom ; no — God bless you all — farewell ! 
 
 \Exit Augustus. 
 
 Lo'd, lo'd ; spa' dat chile ! [cried the devoted old black 
 man, still on his knees, with his hands extended in the direc- 
 tion of his master's exit. A tremendous shock of battle 
 startles him to his feet]. Hea' de battle roa' ! He 's gone 
 to the cha'ge ub de Fo'lo'n Hopes ; 'nd wha 's I ? Wha 's 
 Ole Tom, dat orta be dah ? Who 's gwine to sabe de chile 
 dis time ? An' dah 's de poo' little Miss Lilly ; all de light 
 done gone out de bright little face wha de sunshine use to 
 be — all da'k now ! De good Lo'd hab pity on all ub us ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 219 
 
 H. Alas, my son ; this sudden shock, and the giddy 
 whirl 
 
 Of war's excitement, quite shakes the reason of this 
 poor girl, 
 
 And leaves me dazed and 'wildered. [Lillian sighs 
 heavily, and slowly opens her eyes ; she presses her 
 hand to her heart]. 
 
 Lillian. Oh, then, has he gone, indeed ? [She starts at 
 the heavy crash of cannon]. Oh ! — oh, dear ! — that dreadful 
 noise — so like that night of terror! Oh, my poor, dear 
 brother ! Oh, Horatio — Horatio ! And what if he too — my 
 brave and noble ; my first and only love — oh, Augustus ! if 
 you be taken from me — then indeed has my sun set ! Father 
 in heaven ! — oh spare — oh, spare me that! Gone — gone, and 
 no farewell — no parting kiss ! Nay, I remember now — he 
 did not leave me so. But oh, that I might say farewell with 
 reason still enthroned ! I cannot bear a parting such as this ! 
 Oh, I must see him once more ! There ! — there ! — quick, 
 Tom; quick! 'Mount the fleetest horse — fly — fly! Tell 
 him his Lillian must see him once more ! 
 \Exit Tom and the rest, followed by Lillian with outstretched 
 
 arms and streaming hair — crying wildly : Oh ! — it is 
 
 too late ! — too late ! — too late ! ! \Exeunt omnes. 
 
 [Ha ! What now ? From the Confederate lines now 
 swoop, 
 
 Like an eagle, the Forlorn Hope — a little troop 
 
 Of heroic men ! Who leads the desperate band ? 
 
 With flashing sword and battle-flag in hand, 
 
 And rumbling thunder in his horse's feet ? 
 
220 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Augustus leads the charge ! Now they meet 
 The foe in shock of battle ; they are lost 
 In clouds of dust and smoke ! Alas, the cost 
 Is terrible ; but the confident foe 
 Has received at their hands a terrible blow ! 
 Yet is the bloody sacrifice all in vain — 
 For but few of that band reappear again 
 On the crest of the wave of battle ! Now back 
 They are borne on the fiery tide, in the front of attack, 
 To the fort. The serried ranks of the foe are now seen 
 Again moving forward in battle array. The sheen 
 Of their glistening front 'midst the smoke and flame 
 Of the lurid scene, in ominous flashes came. 
 Now the roll of musketry, fast and thick, 
 And the roar of the rifled-guns, sharp and quick, 
 'Midst curses and cheers, and the bursting of shell, 
 Made a scene that was worthy the regions of hell ! 
 Now the smoke lifts ; the enemy reach the ditch ; 
 They swarm up the sides ; the foremost ones pitch 
 Headlong on their comrades below. Once, twice, thrice, 
 They reach the top, only to pay the fearful price 
 Of their temerity ! And yet they bravely persevere 
 In their desperate efforts and mad career 
 Of stubborn courage ! 
 At last the artillery ceases to play ; 
 And the heroic garrison, driven to bay, 
 Club their muskets and continue the fray 
 With savage fury 'till the last of them lay- 
 Dead or wounded upon the red clay 
 That is drenched with the blood of her sons ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 221 
 
 Alas ! 'midst their number are two loved ones 
 Of our dear friends there lying — 
 Wounded — bleeding — dying ! 
 
 Scene 7. — A place near Petersburg, within the Confederate lines; time, night. 
 
 [Enter General Beaumar. 
 
 I fain would have broken this sad news myself, 
 
 And sought to soften the terrible blow ; 
 
 But alas ! I am too late ; the work is done. 
 
 It has come upon her like the shock of an earthquake ; 
 
 And all sense and power of reason have together fled. 
 
 Augustus is gone ; his noble life has at last gone out 
 
 With the last, flickering flames of accursed war ! 
 
 In that gallant charge of the Forlorn Hope, 
 
 He bravely fell in a blaze of glory ! 
 
 But oh ! — the waste — the ruin — the death ! 
 
 And after all, our cause is lost forever ! 
 
 \_Enter a Confederate officer ; salutes. 
 
 General, there is no time to be lost, sir ; in a few 
 moments we shall be left within the enemy's lines. Our rear 
 guard is now moving past at a double-quick, hard pressed by 
 the enemy's cavalry. [Sound of the retreat without]. 
 
 Beau. Then farewell, these scenes of sorrow ; 
 
 Poor child, farewell ! \Exit all amidst great noise and 
 confusion]. 
 
222 The Iragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Scene 8. — A ghastly battle-field; time, night; snow is slowly falling, covering 
 the dead and debris of war; out of the surrounding silence comes 
 a groan, and the form of a wounded officer of high rank slightly 
 moves. It is discovered to be Augustus. 
 
 Aug. {faintly). Was it but the echo of mine own 
 
 thought, 
 Or the gurgle of my life's blood ? So fraught 
 Is mine imagination with the flood 
 Of fancy, and the train of fevered thought 
 So drifts upon this ebbing tide of blood — 
 My thought and sense seem so confused that naught 
 Seems well defined ; yet methought I caught 
 A sound that sounded like the voice of Tom ! 
 Oh, that I could gather some of this cool snow 
 To quench my burning thirst ! It seems sent 
 From pitying heaven, that we may know 
 How kind and gentle are the ways of God ! 
 If I could only bare this throbbing wound 
 To the cold north wind ; it might freeze 
 A crust upon it, and staunch this flow of blood. 
 How faint I am [sinking] ; could I but turn 
 And look once more where that faint light doth burn, 
 And loved ones wait in vain for my return — 
 Only once — once more before I die ! 
 Ugh [with a painful effort he turns] ! there ! — where 
 
 is it? 
 I cannot see it now ; have I lost it ? 
 May be. I turned the wrong way ; no, there ! 
 How dim it is ! They do not know that I 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 223 
 
 Look so wistfully at it while I lie 
 
 Wounded and fainting, ready to die, 
 
 Amidst these ghastly horrors ! But they know 
 
 That I still think of them ; aye, although 
 
 Dead, and buried 'neath the drifting snow ! 
 
 I know that I am dying ; oh, that I 
 
 Could see them just once more before I die — 
 
 That I might feel once more my mother's kiss, 
 
 My father's touch — and oh, the heavenly bliss 
 
 Of that sweet presence that so fills 
 
 My fond soul with joy, and my heart thrills 
 
 With such excess of pleasure ! 
 
 See ! — how fast it fades ! The light is almost gone ! 
 
 Alas, 'tis gone. No — there ! — yes — gone — gone out ! 
 
 [He sinks heavily to the earth. A voice is heard with- 
 out. 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus ! Oh, Mas. 'Gustus ! D' you hea' me ! — 
 oh, Mas. 'Gustus! 
 
 \_Enter Old Tom ; he stumbles over a corpse and falls. 
 
 Oh, de good Lo'd hab pity on dis ole nigga ! Lef Ole 
 Tom go ; fo' I 's no 'count no mo' no ways ; but spar' dat ah 
 chile ! Lo'd, Lo'd ! Mas. 'Gustus ! [Scrambling to his feet]. 
 
 Aug. Tom ! [faintly, in an unnatural tone. The old 
 negro starts and trembles so he can hardly stand]. 
 
 Tom. Lo'd a mouty ! Dat sounds like de ghost ! 
 
 Aug. Tom — Tom ! Can you not hear me, Tom ? 
 
 Tom. Mas. 'Gustus! Mas. 'Gustus! [he shouted, wild 
 with joy]. Wha' is you, chile ? Ole Tom's hea' ! Mas. 
 'Gustus ! 
 
224 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Bress de Lo'd, hea' you is ! [kneeling and lifting the in- 
 sensible form tenderly upon his knee]. I 's done been look'n 
 fo' you all oba dis hea' place ! Mas. 'Gustus ! D' you hea* 
 me, chile? — hea' I is; hea' 's Ole Tom, Mas. 'Gustus! Oh, 
 de Lo'd hab pity ! — de chile am dead ! [stretching his hands 
 towards heaven in an agony of grief, he wailed — 
 
 Mas. 'Gustus — Mas. 'Gustus! Oh — de chile am dead ! 
 [Aug. moves]. See da ! He 's move'n ! Mas. 'Gustus! — 
 d' you hea', Ole Tom ? I 's hea' — I is ; look hea' at Ole 
 Tom ; oh, speak to me, chile, kase why de old hea't 's a 
 break'n ! Da ! — look da ! [terrified]. See de Jack ub de 
 lant'n bob'n roun' da 'mongst de dead ! Dat 's de eb'l spirit ! 
 [Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looks intently away 
 over the field of battle. 
 
 No, see ! — dey 's men, dey is ! Dey moves dis way ! 
 Hallo! — hallo, da! Hea' he is! — hea' 's Mas. 'Gustus! Hea' 
 we am ; quick, fo' de lub uv heab'ii ! Dey 's com'n, Mas. 
 'Gustus ! — dey s com'n ! Hea' ! Dis way, da ! Hea' we 
 am ! 
 
 Voice {without). All right, old boy ; we're coming ! 
 Hold your grit ! Here we are ; where are you ? 
 
 [Enter a Federal surgeon, and an assistant carrying a lantern. 
 
 The surgeon is discovered to be Ralf Rathmore. 
 
 Assistant. The devil ! — it's a darkey ! Hello, a Rebel 
 officer, too ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! [holding the lantern so that the light falls upon 
 the upturned face of Augustus. 
 
 He must have been a knight of the Golden Circle, and 
 a man of distinction, to judge from his appearance. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 225 
 
 Rath. Hold that light here ; let me see that face again ! 
 
 What ! Can it be ? Ha, ha, ha ! It is, by the shade 
 of Pluto ! 
 
 Why, I know this negro well, and his master, too ! 
 
 My dear Augustus, how — do — you — do ! Hugh, hugh t 
 — how delighted I am to see you — there ! 
 
 Well, well ; in the way of life there is many an up and 
 down ; and down you are at last ! 
 
 But then, the large humanity of these later days — hugh 
 — hugh ! — imposes duties we may not neglect, and what I 
 can I will do — [aside] to make you feel the serpent's fangs f 
 [he kneels by the side of Augustus, and thrusts his hand inter 
 his breast. Tom recognizes him, and glares ferociously upon 
 him, although he is shaking with terror. 
 
 Tis as I thought ! — close to the heart ; see, my hand is 
 sopping wet ! 
 
 'Tis true, 'tis warm ; 'tis warm, 'tis true ; 
 
 By heaven, another thinks so, too ! 
 
 Ben, is there a party with a stretcher near ? 
 
 The wound 's not mortal, but I cannot dress it here. 
 
 Ben. Not that I can see, sir. 
 
 Rath. Then find one ; he must be removed. [Aside f 
 Hugh, hugh ! That I may have the pleasure of carving him 
 at my leisure]. Here, give me that flask before you go. 
 Now haste away. [Exit Ben, 
 
 Rathmore writes on a leaf of his note-book. [Reads 
 aside : " Camp-follower ; caught robbing and murdering 
 our wounded ; hang the black devil ! R. "] [Turning tcr 
 
 15 
 
226 Ihe Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Tom : Here, take this to where you see that light, and tell 
 the officers to send assistance — quick! 
 
 Tom. I kin tote Mas. 'Gustus down dah, sah [with a dis- 
 trustful glance at Rathmore, and a wistful look at Augustus. 
 [Aside] I knows de slimy sarpent. De vipa ! De ^Bloody 
 Hand ! 
 
 Rath. Hugh, hugh ; fool \ And kill him before you 
 get there. 
 
 Away with you, I say ; and be quick, if you wish to save 
 your master's life ; there's no time to be lost ! Do you 
 hear ? Go ! 
 
 [Tom glances defiantly at the villain, and then kneels at 
 the side of Augustus, pressing his cold hand passionately to 
 his lips ; then moves quickly away, muttering — aside — 
 
 To de deb'l wid de offica ! — de pisen sarpent ! I '11 git 
 de distance widout de bloody deb'l ! \Exit Tom. 
 
 Rath. Haste, haste to your doom, you shadow of the 
 devil ! 
 
 Who will now be food for the buzzards? Hugh, hugh, 
 hugh ! 
 
 They will swing me clear of the ground, will they ? 
 
 Fate fills the cup of my revenge ! Hugh, hugh ! 
 
 Haste ! Be you ever so swift, it will be long ere you 
 return ! 
 
 But let me see [kneeling, he rifles the pockets of Au- 
 gustus]. There may be something here of value ; a watch, 
 for instance, or some trinket to remember him by ; hugh, 
 hugh ; money I cannot hope for on these Rebel dead. [He 
 takes his watch and valuables ; draws a locket from his 
 breast]. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 227 
 
 Ha! What is this? A locket; let me see [opens it]. 
 
 It is, as I'm a saint ! [kisses it mockingly]. 
 
 My own, my beautiful love ! 
 
 Now I have it ; there's a chance for sport ! The thought 
 is worthy a better brain than mine. I will fan this flickering 
 flame of life [takes a pull at the flask himself; then pours 
 brandy down the throat of Augustus]. I have something 
 sweet to tell you, my dear Augustus. Hugh, hugh! 
 Revenge is sweet I I know 'twill be a parting joy to see 
 your friend once more, and be assured that / am left to care 
 for your little darling ! Hugh, hugh ; I'll tell you how kind 
 I'll be to her — 
 
 So kind that she shall soon forget that Augustus lived. 
 
 I'll tell you that she has promised to be mine ; 
 
 Nay, that she is already — in a way ! 
 
 That she is my prisoner, and my slave ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! That will wring your proud heart's core ! 
 
 You have scorned and insulted me ; and / will repay ! 
 
 I will bend your lofty spirit ; aye, bend and break it ; 
 
 And then laugh at you whilst I let you die I 
 
 I can save, but to know it makes my vengeance more 
 complete ! 
 
 He moves; he groans ; 'tis music to my ears. 
 
 Such sights and sounds to other eyes bring tears ; 
 
 But no such gladsome sight has mine beheld for years ! 
 
 Pity 'tis to disturb so sweet a sleep ; 
 
 But you may sleep when I have done ! 
 
 Aug. [Slowly opening his eyes, and raising himself 
 with his last strength upon his elbow, he fiercely cried — 
 
228 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Villain ! I thank you for the draught that gives me 
 strength 
 
 To rise and curse you! Liar! traitor! murderer!! 
 
 Oh, that I had the strength to rise and run you through ! 
 
 Robber! demon! monster ! Away with you, 
 
 And let me die in peace ! Or coivatdly assassin as you 
 are, 
 
 Finish your hellish wotk — and go ! [He sinks heavily 
 back ; Rathmore shrinks away appalled, and seems 
 suddenly seized with delirium. His eyes dilate 
 with horror ; he trembles violently]. 
 
 Rath. Dead! — dead! Oh, horror! Robber; mur- 
 derer ! ! 
 
 Tis false — 'tis false, I say ! There — there ! [casts his 
 plunder back at Augustus] 
 
 Take back that accursed plunder ! 
 
 It burns like coals of fire from hell ! 
 
 It is a lie ! I did not murder ; though I might have saved ! 
 
 Aye, and saved myself the knowing that I let you die ! 
 
 Assassin [he hissed] / The bloody hand! [Looks at his 
 bloody hands and shrinks with horror away from 
 them]. 
 
 Away ! — away ! ! And ye hideous dead — why gibe and 
 look on me 
 
 With those fiery eyes deep-burning in their hollow 
 sockets ! 
 
 Why beck and point at me, thou spectre of the damned ? 
 
 Off — off! Touch me not, I say; touch me not! [shud- 
 dering] 
 
 My flesh creeps beneath thy bloody hand 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 229 
 
 Like feathers in the flame ! 
 
 My brain is burning, and my limbs are cold as death ! 
 
 [The picture of horror, he reels and staggers back ; 
 
 pointing] — 
 See ! — see how they flock to haunt me ! 
 She, too, is dead ; and her pale spirit seeks me here ! 
 See -how she glides along the whitened earth — 
 No whiter in its shroud of snow, than she — 
 Stooping o'er the dead to scan each rigid face. 
 Too well I know the form she seeks, and where it lies ! 
 Voice (without). Miss Lilly ! Oh, Miss Lilly! Come 
 
 back ; come back ! 
 De snow am deep, an' de night am bitta cold ! 
 Mas. 'Gustus ! Mas. 'Gustus ! — whah is you, chile ? 
 Rath. What ! — that negro back ? Tis strange ! I 
 
 thought I had disposed of him. 
 No matter ; 'tis a human voice, and serves to break this 
 
 frenzied spell. 
 So this phantom white, flitting through the frosty night, 
 Is not the spirit .that I thought it might ; 
 But flesh and blood. What tragic mood 
 Has brought her forth in such a plight ? 
 A lovely sight ; hugh, hugh ; 'tis red and white 
 That make carnations pure and bright. 
 Thus blood and snow, mixed so and so, 
 Make pink, you know, 
 And white and pink, and pink and white, 
 Become her style the best — to-night. 
 Hugh, hugh; she comes this way! [He slinks away 
 
 out of sight]. 
 
230 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 \_Enter Lillian, dressed in white ; her hair streaming ; her 
 hands clasped and hanging down before her, and her 
 entire attitude that of despair ; her manner is that of a 
 beautiful, but touching insanity]. 
 She sings in a plaintive voice — 
 
 He is gone ; he is gone where the battle's wild roar, 
 And the bugle's shrill call can awake him no more. 
 Now his sun hath gone down; his last struggle is o'er; 
 He lies dead on the field that is red with his gore ! 
 Oh ! [She starts back with terror, and presses her hands 
 
 to her temples as Rathmore steps before her]. 
 Oh, horror! 'Tis — The Bloody — Hand ! ! [She turns 
 
 shuddering away to Augustus]. 
 Rath. Hugh, hugh, hugh ! Now is the hour of my 
 
 revenge ! 
 Fortune makes the triumph of my hate complete ! 
 The serpent that was trampled in the dust 
 And so despised, recoils — and coils — and — strikes ! 
 There ! — there ! [Pointing at Augustus]. 
 That is what you seek ! 
 
 Go, waste your sweetness — to perfume a corpse ! 
 \Enter Old Tom, stealthily, in the rear, with drawn knife ; he 
 suddenly springs with the ferocity of a tiger upon Rath- 
 more, driving the knife to its hilt in his breast; they 
 fall ; Tom clutches the villain by the throat ; a convul- 
 sive quivering of his limbs ; a few spasmodic gasps, and 
 Rah Rathmore lies still in death. Lillian, who had 
 been steadfastly gazing upon the form of her lover, had 
 not witnessed this silent but terrible struggle. Over- 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 231 
 
 powered, she staggers back, and comes in contact with 
 the corpse of Rathmore ; turning, she beholds the ghastly 
 spectacle, just as Tom has loosened his grip and risen 
 from the body. She starts and shudders ; then turns 
 slowly again to the object of her love, and with clasped 
 hands and spasmodic step approaches the dead. Tom 
 moves awe-stricken to a position behind her. 
 Lillian {singing). Yes, it is he — that face so fair, 
 With its crowning glory of waving hair ; 
 But the spirit that loved me, is not there. [She kneels 
 
 at his side, and smoothes the hair from his cold 
 
 brow ; toying with it playfully, as with childish 
 
 delight — for her reason has fled]. 
 She bends over and kisses his pale lips ; sings — 
 They are cold ; for the true heart that warmed them of 
 
 yore, 
 Sends the tide of his life to his proud lips no more ! 
 He is gone — he is gone where the battle's wild roar 
 And the bugle's shrill call can awake him no more ! 
 For his sun hath gone down; his last struggle is o'er; 
 He lies dead on the field that is red with his gore ! 
 But the pure, soft, white snow from its home in the skies, 
 Has tenderly covered the ground where he lies. 
 See how softly it falls on the form of the dead — 
 With its drift for his pillow, and its swirl for his bed ! 
 [Slowly she sinks upon his breast ; Tom springs to her 
 support, holding his bloody hand and glittering knife behind 
 him. She starts wildly at his touch, but is reassured by the 
 compassionate voice of Old Tom. 
 
 Tom. Miss Lilly ; come, chile, an' go wid Ole Tom ; 
 
232 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 I 's gwine to tote Mas. 'Gustus way fum hea' ; come 'nd go 
 wid Uncle Tom. 
 
 Lillian. How dark it is ; how cold the air. 
 
 Ah, there is the light ; they are coming — there! [point- 
 ing to heaven]. 
 
 They beckon to me ; oh, how wondrously fair ! 
 
 They are coming — all coming ; a glorious throng ; 
 
 And the heavens are filled with a soft, sweet song. 
 
 I am going, Tom ; going. Farewell, dear Old Tom [she 
 tenderly places her 'little white hand on his old, 
 black face] ; 
 
 I shall look for you — wait for you tliere ! [Looking up 
 at the heavens ; then she sinks upon the breast of 
 Augustus, as if dead]. 
 
 Old Tom. Oh ! [he fairly howled, extending his bloody 
 hand and glittering knife high above the senseless forms of 
 his loved master and the beautiful Lillian]. May de wraf 
 ub heb'n, and de tortia ub hell folia de cause ub all dis hea* 
 fru de ebalast'n tarnalty ub de wus sort ub bugga-ation dah is 
 no wha' ! 
 \Enter General Lateur, the Federal Surgeon-General, Mrs. 
 
 Hampton (that was), Mrs. Arlington, Vix Fairfax, and 
 
 many others in great haste — the ladies weeping, wailing 
 
 and bemoaning their loss ; old Dina blubbering as if 
 
 her heart would break, and poor Klack doubled up as if 
 
 he had a case of cramp-colic. 
 
 H. Oh, my son ! my son Augustus ! Oh, my God ! 
 
 A. Lillian! Oh, God! Oh, my child, my child! 
 [throws herself wildly upon the prostrate loved ones]. 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 233 
 
 Vix. Willie ! Oh, Willie — where, oh, where are you ? 
 
 A. Doctor ! Quick ! — quick ; my child is still warm ! 
 Her heart still throbs ! Oh, for the sake of heaven, be 
 quick — save, oh save my child ! 
 
 [The surgeon hastens to her. 
 
 Stir. Why, she is not dead ! [He casts his cloak on 
 the ground and quickly raises her in his arms and lays her 
 upon it]. Here, chafe her hands, and work her arms back 
 and forth — so [showing them] ! And get some of this 
 brandy down her throat, if you can ; rub her with it, too ! 
 
 La. See there ! Augustus moves ! 
 
 Sur. What ! [Quickly kneels at his side and examines 
 him]. 
 
 H. Oh, tell me he is not dead ! 
 
 Sur. So far as I can see, he has only fainted from loss 
 of blood ! See, here is the wound — by no means fatal ; but 
 he has well-nigh bled to death for the want of attention ! 
 Bring my case ; I can soon stop the loss of blood, and then 
 I think hef will get along. Here, pour this down his throat, 
 and rub his hands and feet vigorously. There ; that begins 
 to do it ; so ! [Augustus sighs and moves]. 
 
 Good ! Now, I think we have them both all right ; 
 wrap them up in our cloaks, and keep them warm. We 
 must get them into comfortable quarters at once ; gentle- 
 men, lend a hand. [Several spring forward and raise Au- 
 gustus and Lillian in their arms ; some one stumbles over a 
 body ; he groans and turns over ; Vix springs forward with 
 a wild scream. 
 
 Vix. Oh, it is Willie — it is Willie ! [Supports him in 
 her arms]. 
 
234 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 Sur. Well, well ; this is not so bad. [Examines Will]. 
 I think there is hope for this poor fellow, too ! 
 
 Tom. Hyeah, hyeah, hy-e-ah ! Oh, glory ! — glory ! — 
 glory — hallelujum ! [And the old black man went capering 
 about in his awkward manner as if he were demented ; 
 whilst old Dina fairly broke into a break-down. Stopping 
 before the body of Rathmore, and spurning it with his foot, 
 the old man said — 
 
 So, dah you is, what dah is lef 'n ub you ; 'nd what dah 
 is n't lef'n ub you 's done gone somewhah, sart'n ! Whah 
 am dat ah debble now dat wuz in dah, dis chile don't knows ; 
 but reckon mebby de days ub yo' eble doens am done gone 
 foh eba ! 
 
 Chonts all. Away ! — away ! — ye shadows of the night ! 
 
 Away ! — away ! — for the morn is breaking bright ! 
 
 The golden rays of the morning sun 
 
 Will be heralds of a life begun 
 
 With joy — with joy ! — with joy without alloy — 
 
 A life begun with the rising sun — 
 
 A life of joy without alloy, to run — 
 
 To run its course with the golden sun ! 
 
 Tableau — Curtain . 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 235 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 Brightly broke the peaceful morning 
 Where the clouds with sullen warning 
 Lowered the day before. 
 But the grizzled host that erst 
 Had bravely breasted battle's worst, 
 Was marshaled there no more ! 
 
 No more the thunder of their guns 
 Speaks to the hearts of southern sons 
 In tones of sweet assurance ! 
 Faded now their dreams of glory ! 
 Their tattered banners, grim and gory, 
 No longer claim endurance ! 
 
 The sacrifice of all those years — 
 
 The blood, and treasure, and the tears — 
 
 Are now no more availing ! 
 
 Their Cause is Lost ! Their hopes are fled ! 
 
 Their braves lie sleeping with the dead ! 
 
 And we sit bowed, bewailing ! 
 
 Oh, Land of Sun — thine azure skies 
 No more with gladness greet our eyes — 
 But cold, and gray, and weeping ! 
 The fairest of thy sons are dead ! 
 The haughty conquror, instead, 
 Now stalks where they are sleeping ! 
 
236 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 THE REVEILLE. 
 
 Awake ! — Ye sons of the South — awake ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Awake ! — For you still have something at stake ! 
 
 Fall in ! — And still battle for that ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ; ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Awake ! — For you still have something at stake ! 
 
 Fall in ! — And still battle for that ! 
 
 Fathers, and mothers, and children dear — 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 Are waiting to welcome you, bless, and cheer ! 
 Fall in ! — And march homeward for that ! 
 Ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ; ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ! 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 They 're waiting to welcome you, bless, and cheer- 
 Double quick ! — March homeward for that ! 
 
 Your sweet-hearts, too, are waiting for you ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 With flow'rs of affection your path to strew ! 
 
 I trow you would battle for that ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ; ter-r-r-rat-tat-tat ! 
 
 Ter-r-r-rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 
 
 With flow'rs of affection your path they '11 strew ! 
 
 March on ! — We will battle for that ! 
 
The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 237 
 
 THE SEQUEL. 
 
 Lillianette ! Awake, my child ; the hour is late ; and 
 your mother is calling you to go to bed. 
 
 The speaker was a man far advanced in years, but his 
 tall, fine form was unbent by time, and his noble features 
 still retained their habitual expression of command, whilst 
 his martial bearing, no less than the deep scar which lay in 
 a white seam across his forehead, might well have indicated 
 to one not knowing it, that he had been no stranger to those 
 scenes of havoc to which we have referred ; and yet upon 
 the lips of that stern, dark man there was a tremor of emo- 
 tion — not that of weakness, but of strength of feeling — and 
 in his touch a tenderness like that of woman, as he toyed 
 with those masses of golden hair that lay like ripples of sun- 
 light on his battle-scarred breast, and fondly kissed the fair 
 young face that nestled so lovingly against his own. 
 
 Oh, my ! Oh, grandpa ! I have been sleeping, have n't 
 I ! Oh, dear ! — I have had such a long, long dream about 
 dear papa and mama — and you, grandpa — and all of them ! 
 And, oh ! — the most horrid old hag, and the wickedest man ! 
 Dear ! It makes me shudder to think ! 
 
 Indeed ! That is a strange coincidence, my dear ; for 
 the story of their lives has been running through my mind, 
 also, as I sat here on this picturesque porch and dreamed. 
 Who knows but that the sunlight sails of your bright 
 thoughts were drifting on the deep and silent current of 
 mine own ? 
 
 Need we say more ? The circle is now com- 
 plete, and we end where we began. This is the old home 
 
238 The Tragedy of the Lost Cause. 
 
 of Augustus and Lillian ; and Lillianette is their child. The 
 old soldier is General Lateur. Here they have all lived in 
 peaceful retirement since the storm of war was over ; for the 
 mother of Augustus could never be persuaded to exchange 
 the sweet seclusion of this enchanting place for a more 
 pretentious home. 
 
 Lillian's mother, Mrs. Arlington, now the wife of Gen. 
 Beaumar, lives happily on a magnificent estate adjoining ; 
 whilst the light-hearted Will Keene and the vixenish Vix 
 Fairfax keenly enjoy life at Fairfax Hall. 
 
 As for faithful Old Tom and the provident Dina, they 
 still preside over the festivities of " de ole log-cab'n," as was 
 their wont in the halcyon days " ub de good ole times, '' 
 tormented, as usual, by the mischievous doings of " in- 
 quisitum " Klack, but serenely happy for all that. 
 Exeunt omnes. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 
 Gentle reader, farewell ; my story is done. 
 The battle is fought ; is the victory won ? 
 Or is the sad title, by motherless wit, 
 Whilst true of the theme, true also of it? 
 
& 
 
 
 l/TJTJTJTnjlXUXTUXriJTJTJTJXriJTJTJinJT^^ 
 
 THE 
 
 g^lMl TRAQgj^r 
 
 By A ST. J. PICKETT. 
 
 Of this Great Southern Trade Poem of the War. 
 
 IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 The story of the old soldier ; whose silvery locks 
 Were lovingly mingled with the golden hair 
 Of a beautiful girl who was sleeping there 
 On his battle-scarred breast. 
 
ACT 1st. 
 The Echo ; Song and Shadow Dance of Old Tom, a negro ; Song and 
 Chorus ; Lillian Meadowbrook, the lovely heroine, and the mystery surround- 
 ing her life; The Beautiful Pastoral; The Old Hag, and the Dismal Prophecy; 
 Ralf Rathmore, the villain, and the Old Hag ; The Alarm ; The Plot ; The 
 Terrible Narrative of the Hag; Love, Betrayal, Pursuit, and the vengeful 
 sequel of fire and wreck at sea ; The Ruse ; The Bastard Son adopted ; The 
 Discovery of the Fraud; The Restoration of Lillian to her own mother; The 
 Assassin's plot; The Attempted Abduction; The Rescue; The Duel; The 
 Death of the Hag and Flight of Rathmore. 
 
 ACT 2nd. 
 Prologue ; Love Scene between Lillian and Augustus Hampton ; Old 
 Robin Sponger, the Northern emissary; The Old Man, the Old Mare, and 
 the Rickety Old Rockaway; Ralf Rathmore and Sponger; The Serenade and 
 Moonlight Love Scene; The Approaching War; The Parting; The " pepa- 
 ations" of Dina, and mischievous doings of Klack ;■ The Fete; Song and 
 Chorus; The Fright; The Departure for the Seat of War. 
 
 ACT 3RD. 
 The Coffee House; The Irish Pals; The "Shwate" Maleen ; Rathmore 
 and Buffer; The Plot; The Prison; Augustus Entrapped and Sentenced to 
 Death as a Spy ; The Terrible Scene in the Dungeon between Rathmore and 
 Augustus; The Attempted Outrage upon Lillian; The Dreadful Scene, and 
 the Timely Rescue ; The Federal Camp at Chancellorsville before the Battle ; 
 Reverie of General Bellemont; The Battle; Death of Bellemont; Rathmore 
 Again, and his attempt to Murder Lillian; The Awful Conflict, in which 
 Augustus, at the head of his men. Storms through the House and comes sud- 
 denly upon Lillian; The House in Flames; Tableau. 
 
 ACT 4th. 
 
 Honors of war to General Bellemont ; Lillian mourning over her Dead 
 Brother ; Gallant conduct of Confederates; Reverie of General Beaumar; The 
 Funeral March; The Salute; A Federal Hospital; Augustus Wounded; Rath- 
 more and his Fiendish Purpose; The Rescue; Pat and Mike; The Old Capitol 
 Prison; Augustus Doomed to be Shot and Ordered to Execution; Robin 
 Sponger, the spy, gives Information, Proving to the Officer Ordering his 
 Execution that Augustus is his Son ; The Race of Life and Death ; The Old 
 Homestead; Augustus and his Father; The Meeting withhis Mother and the 
 Reconciliation; The Last Effort of the War; Old Sambo; Old Tom's Dilap- 
 idated and 'Altered Appearance; The Great Battles About Petersburg de- 
 scribed at Length in Verse; The Forlorn Hope for the Relief of Fort Gregg; 
 The end of the Battle and our Cause is Lost Forever; Night on the Battle- 
 field ; The Tragic Scene between Rathmore and Augustus, Wounded ; Old 
 Tom Seeking his Master; Lillian in Delirium, Dressed in White, Singing a 
 Requiem, Seeking her Lover amidst the Dead ; Rathmore's sudden Delirium, 
 Horror and Remorse; The Awful Scene between him and Lillian; Old Tom 
 springs upon his Back like a Tiger, and Finally kills the Villain; Lillian 
 Approaches the Form of Augustus; Pathetic Scene; Swoons upon his Breast; 
 Enter Many Persons; Lillian Revived; Augustus Saved; Joyous Scene; ends 
 with a Chorus. 
 
 Epilogue; The Reveille; The Sequel; Adieu.