The Hermit of Sawmill Mountain [pp. 152-162]

The Hermit of Sawmill Mountain.
Another closing fact worthy of record is,
that now scarcely a vestige of the great struggle on Missionary Ridge remains, except
that the plowshare occasionally turns up a
solid shot or shell, a minie ball, or even,
once in a while, a skeleton. The only mark
on the battle-ground where we fought is a
remnant of the rocky barricade to which reference has been made. Almost the entire
top of the ridge is cleared and divided into
small fruit-farms, where the finest of fruits
and vegetables are raised for the markets of
Cincinnati and other cities. But the oddest thing about it is, that these well-tilled
places, almost without exception, are owned
by men from Pennsylvania and other Northern States-the very people we tried to drive
away from there twenty-one years ago. Yet
so changed are times and feelings now, that
we would not drive these thrifty neighbors
from our Southern land if we could, but, on
the contrary, we extend them a cordial welcome to our midst.
The saddest of all sad thoughts, as one
gazes enraptured from the dizzy "Point" of
Lookoul Mountain over the truly magnificent
panorama of mountain and valley and river
where these battle-scenes occurred, is this:
The National Cemetery in full view contains
nearly as many silent inhabitants as there
are people in the busy homes of Chattanooga in I880-I3,oo000 Federals, who perished in the deadly campaigns of Chickaniauga, Chattanooga, and Dalton; while, on
Cameron Hill, near by, rises the tasteful
monument in memory of nearly or quite as
many Confederate dead. Nor does any reflection lessen our sorrow, when we think
of the myriads of victims of fearful and
shall we say useless?-strife, unless it be the
truth that our Union of States is twice as
strong today and twice as likely to be perpetual as it was before the craggy defiles of old
Lookout and Missionary Ridge reechoed the
roar of the "red artillery," and the deadly
rifles of our fratricidal war.
J W. A. Wright.
THE HERMIT OF SAWMILL MOUNTAIN.
IT was neither religious fervor nor a desire
to fly from the "world's cold scorn," which
had made a recluse of Charles Sydney. He
was simply a victim to himself-a slave to
his appetite for drink. Fresh from a somewhat strict collegiate course, he had gone to
the home of his wealthy parents in Western
New York, and, in the exuberance of youthful spirit and regained liberty, immediately
proceeded to do his utmost to disgrace a
good old family name that had been honored in the county for generations. Instead
of following the brilliant professional career
of parental anticipation, he grew more and
more dissipated as the years went on-and
bade fair to degenerate at last into a confirmed sot.
Affairs grew desperate at last. The heart
of the mother was breaking at the waywardness of her only child. An added shade of
silver tinged the massive head of the father.
A family council was called then. The Judge
and Mrs. Sydney, Agnes Denton, the Judge's
ward, and Charles, the derelict, assembled in
the library one bright June morning.
It was a more than usually pleasant room,
the library at Sydney farm, with an outlook
upon lawn, and river, and distant woodland.
It was the favorite assembling room of the
family, and many-of the most pleasant hours
of their lives had been passed within it. But
it was for no pleasant purpose that the Judge
had requested the presence of his family here
this morning. He sat now, stern and erect,
in his big chair by the south window. In a
low chair near him, Agnes stitched busily to
hide her nervousness, upon some bit of Kensington work. Mrs. Sydney sat at the end
of the reading table, her head bowed upon
her hands; and Charles stood leaning upon
the low mantel, drumming nervously upon it.
He had been upon a more than usually dis
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