Kitabı oku: «Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 26, August, 1880», sayfa 14

There has also been observed a tendency of the current not only to strike certain buildings, but to enter the earth at a certain point whenever such buildings are struck. Some of our oldest and most successful appliers of rods believe that at certain points there are natural electric currents, or at least readier conduction for them than at others. Yet these points can become known only by repeated disasters. Lightning-rod men who are adepts in their business now take care to overcome adverse currents by enlarging the lower part of the conductors and by carrying them to greater depth.

Soon after the powder-magazine of the Boston Navy Yard was completed the neighboring residents grew fearful, and petitioned the authorities that it should be better protected from lightning. It had already four excellent rods, one at each corner of the building; but to these peaceful and unwarlike citizens every thunderstorm was a great battle in which their homes were in danger of destruction and their own lives in jeopardy. The result of their action was, that a trench four feet deep was dug entirely around the magazine, and in its bottom was laid a continuous line of sheet copper four inches in width: to this the plate of each rod was soldered, and then the soil was replaced.⁶ No one could doubt now that the stealthy upward stroke would be caught and the mysterious earth-currents overcome. It is supposed that thenceforth the tremors of the good citizens ceased. The massive magazine with its fiery contents yet stands, though terrible peals of thunder have shaken it and fearful bolts have fallen near.

George J. Varney.

THE SEA'S SECRET

 
Just as it is, it hath been, love, I know—
So long ago
That time and place have faded: I forget
What rivers ran, what hills closed round us; yet
Thus much my soul remembers: thou and I
Saw the sun's rise and set, felt life slip by.
 
 
And then it was that first the deep-voiced sea
Sang low to thee and me
Its ancient secrets by the lonely shore;
And we two watched the strange birds dip and soar
Between the fading sea-line, far and dim,
And the white dazzle of the sands' long rim.
 
 
All that thou saidst—all that we heard and told
In some lost language old—
Has perished like the speech; yet this remains:
From the vast desert of the ocean-plains
A great moon climbing, with a dull red glare
Like smouldering fire, far up the purple air.
 
 
And then—I cannot grasp it—yet I know
That something, long ago,
Held fast thy soul to mine with cords of pain
And marvellous joy, and love's sweet loss and gain.
All save that love the years have swept away—
A thousand years, a single yesterday!
 
 
But when my soul dreams, by the lonely sea,
Back to eternity,
I hear an echo, through its hollow moan,
From those lost lives drowned in the centuries gone:
I catch the haunting memory, and I know
The secret that you told me long ago.
 

G.A. Davis.

It is not usual that the body of moisture can be reached so near the surface, but this magazine is situated on low ground.

DUNGENESS, GENERAL GREENE'S SEA-ISLAND PLANTATION

Southernmost of those famed "Sea Islands" of Georgia, lying right in sight of Florida's northern shore, on the northern verge of the tropic border-land, Cumberland Island presents its beach-front to the ocean. It unites within itself all those attractions which have made Florida famous—all but river and lake: it has the balmiest climate in the South; the vegetation of its forests is semi-tropical; it has game in abundance. It has all these, and yet its territory is now a waste.

In November I visited it, and again in April, and later in August. To reach it one must go first to St. Mary's, the town farthest south on the Georgia coast, or to Fernandina, the northernmost city in Florida. In either case he will have to hire a boat and a boatman, and in either case he must carry with him his provisions.

St. Mary's in April is St. Mary's in August—a drowsy, quaint old town, warm in the daytime and cool at night; hot in the sunlight, but with cool sea-breezes. The streets of St. Mary's are her glory: they are one hundred feet wide, carpeted with a green sward smooth as a shaven lawn, lined with live-oaks and china trees. In April the latter are in full bloom, their lilac blossoms hanging in dense panicles, the green leaves flecking them just enough to afford contrast, and the sombre Spanish moss depending gracefully from every branch and limb. Great gaudy butterflies are continually hovering over them and fluttering uneasily from flower to flower, and gleaming humming-birds, our own Northern summer visitors (the Trochilus colubris), are flashing from tree to tree, now poised a moment in air, now sipping honey from the tiny cups.

From the lighthouse dome at Fernandina one can look over half the island, trace the white sand-beach miles to the south—follow it north till it curves inland where Amelia Sound, the mouth of the St. Mary's River, forms the harbor. Away north runs up Cumberland Beach, and among the trees and over a broad stretch of marsh gleam white the ruins of "Dungeness." West, again, one sees the gloomy pines of the main land, behind which the sun goes down, lighting gloriously the marsh and silver threads of the river.

Unlike the seasons of the North, there is here no perceptible line of demarcation between them. We cannot positively assert that spring has opened or summer or winter begun. As for autumn and harvest-time, the crops are being continually gathered in. So since the year came in I have seen various plants and shrubs in bloom that ought to open with spring. Up the Ocklawaha in January I saw the blackberry or dewberry in blossom; and ever since, along the St. John's in that month and February, on the banks of the St. Mary's in February and March, and even here, in Fernandina and St. Mary's, it is blossoming and bearing fruit. It is this week—the first week in April—that we obtained the first fruit for the table, buying it for ten cents a quart. It puzzles one to think of planting. When must he begin? Last Christmas one of our truck-farmers had a large crop of peas ready to harvest: a chance frost gobbled them up, however: now (April) peas and potatoes are in their prime.

By the middle of April the china trees have dropped their blossoms, and the streets beneath are strewn with withered flowers. The fragrance that filled the air has departed with the humming-birds and butterflies. The pomegranate still continues in bloom: its vividly-scarlet flowers have delighted us ever since the middle of March. The figs commenced leafing with the month: now they are green with broad leaves, and in the axil of each appears the rudiment of a fruit. They are grotesquely gnarled and twisted, taking most unthought-of shapes and positions. The mocking-birds have mated and begun the construction of their nests. Their music is delightful: nearly all the day long they sing, and sometimes in the night. It seems almost wicked—to mercenary man—to think that birds worth twenty-five dollars apiece are freely fluttering about unharmed. When the breeding season has opened, however, it will not close without some family of mocking-birds being made desolate, for the young Ethiopian hath an ear for music, and most eagerly seeketh the young bird in its downy nest, trusting to the unsuspecting Yankee for remuneration therefor.

The month went out in glorious style: every morning of its thirty days had opened with unclouded sky, and each night's sun went down with a blaze of glory that flooded the marshes with golden light and left painted on the sky clouds of royal purple and crimson. Two or three showers sprang upon us in the afternoon, ending after a stay of an hour or two, cooling the air and refreshing weary man most wonderfully. Plums and peaches are nearly grown and turning color. They afford another illustration of the dilatory motions of vegetation here. In January I left some plum trees in full bloom: returning a month later, I found the same trees still white with flowers. The peaches were pink with bloom in February and March, and even in April some blushing flowers appear.

This was Fernandina and St. Mary's in April: in August the latter town had changed but little. The streets were as green as in early spring: the flowers were fewer, but the air was heavy with the fragrance of crape-myrtle and orange. It was hot in the morning, but an early breeze from the ocean soon came in, blowing with refreshing coolness all day long. It was even pleasanter than in spring and winter, the air clearer and more bracing, and annoying insects had disappeared.

St. Mary's is intimately connected with Cumberland Island in history. In the war of 1812 the island was taken, and the slaves were offered their freedom by Admiral Cockburn; but such was their attachment to the place and their masters that but one availed himself of this opportunity to escape. At Point Peter, where the main land of Georgia terminates in the marshes of St. Mary's, a fight occurred, and there are yet the remains of an earthwork thrown up by the Americans to repulse the British fleet in its advance on St. Mary's.

The oldest inhabitant of St. Mary's, who is said to have scored a century, old "Daddy Paddy"—a negro who bears in his face the tattooing of his native Africa—participated in that fight. He lives in a little cabin on a street by the wharf, and devotes his time to fishing, at which he is very expert. Upon being questioned regarding the fight, he seemed rather hazy as to dates, but was positive as to the time he first saw America: "De wah ob de rebenue was jes' clar' peace when I land at Charleston from Afriky. Was young man den, jes' growd. No, sah, nebah saw Gin'l Wash'tun, but heah ob him, sah: he fout wid de British, sah, an' gain de vic'try at New Orleans, sah."

"That was General Jackson, uncle."

"No, sah! Gin'l Jackson mout ha' ben thar, but Gin'l Wash'tun, he hab a han' in it. Yes, sah, I'se de fust settlah, sah: was in St. Mary's afo' a street was laid out [in 1787], an' 'twas all bay-gall an' hammock."

The Indian name of Cumberland Island was Missoe ("beautiful land"), and this was changed when Oglethorpe visited the island, at the request of an Indian chief who had received some kindness from the duke of Cumberland. It is related in an old English record, of which I have seen a copy, that the duke was so well pleased at this evidence of good-will that he caused a hunting-lodge to be erected there, and named it Dungeness, after his country-seat, Castle Dungeness, on the cape of Dungeness in the county of Kent. From that time until the breaking out of the Revolution it was "owned successively by peers of the British realm."

The island is eighteen miles in length and from half a mile to three miles in breadth. The soil is sandy, adapted to the culture of cotton, corn, potatoes, etc.: pomegranates, olives, dates, figs, limes, lemons, oranges and melons yield abundant crops. The great frost of 1835, which extended over the entire peninsula of Florida, destroyed the fine groves of orange trees: at one time this fruit was shipped in schooner-loads, and from one tree three thousand oranges have been gathered. The forest trees are live-oak, cedar and a few pines. A most interesting fact in the history of the island is found in its chronicles, for here were obtained the timbers for the Constitution (Old Ironsides), that noble frigate so well known to every American. Some of the stumps of the indestructible live-oak from which the timber was cut for her ribs may yet be seen. Deer, raccoons, bear and 'possum are abundant in the thick forest. The climate is temperate and healthy: many of the former slaves live to a great age. The island has never been afflicted by fever: while the town of Brunswick, to the north, and Fernandina, just across the channel to the south, have been scourged by Yellow Jack, Cumberland has ever remained untouched. St. Mary's, across the marshes on the main land, also boasts this immunity.

The creeks of the marshes swarm with fish of every sort, and there are oyster-beds containing large and toothsome bivalves. With 'possums and 'coons, fish and oysters, is it strange that Cuffie clung to his old home long after his master had left it? is it a matter of wonder that there yet remains a remnant of the old slave population, houseless and poverty-stricken, clinging to the island that once gave them so delightful a home? At the close of the war, it is related, Mr. Stafford, proprietor of the central portion of the island, burned his negro houses to the ground, telling his people to go, as he had no more use for them nor they for him. Cumberland to-day is nearly depopulated, the fertile cotton-and corn-fields run to waste, and wild hogs and half-wild horses roam over the pasture and scrub that cover once-cultivated fields.

The history of this island commences with that of Georgia. We read that in 1742 the Spaniards invaded Georgia and landed on the island. With a fleet of thirty-six sail and with more than three thousand troops from Havana and St. Augustine, they entered the harbor of St. Simons, north of Cumberland, and erected a battery of twenty guns. General Oglethorpe, with eight hundred men, exclusive of Indians, was then on the island. He withdrew to his fort at Frederica, and anxiously awaited reinforcements from Carolina. By turning to account the desertion of a French soldier he precipitated the attack of the Spaniards, and on their march to Frederica they fell into an ambuscade. Great slaughter ensued, and they retreated precipitately. The place of conflict is to this day known as "Bloody Marsh." The Spaniards retreated south along the coast in their vessels, and on their way attacked Fort William, at the southern extremity of Cumberland Island, but were repulsed with loss. This fort, which was constructed, I think, by Oglethorpe, is placed on the extreme southern end of Cumberland in a map of the island made in 1802. Even then the fort was half submerged at high water, and at the present day its site is far out in the channel. The water of the river-mouth is constantly encroaching upon the land, and the ruins of a house once standing upon the southern point may be seen, it is said, beneath the water at low tide. Old Fort William has been seen within the memory of residents of St. Mary's, but likewise beneath the waves.

About 1770 that rare naturalist and botanist, William Bartram, landed here and traversed the island, being set across to Amelia Island (Fernandina) by a hunter whom he found living here. He was then at the commencement of his romantic journeyings among the Seminole Indians up the St. John's River, then running through a wilderness. Another fortification, Fort St. Andrew, situated on the north-west point of the island, may still be traced by the ruins of its walls. A well is known there into which, it is said, the English threw ten thousand pounds in silver upon the approach of the Spaniards. In this way, by vestiges of foundation-walls, are indicated the various settlements of the island—mansions and cabins that have passed away, leaving no other sign but these sad memorials of the past.

At the conclusion of peace, and immediately after the close of the Revolution, the southern portion of Cumberland Island came into the possession of General Nathaniel Greene. It is said by some to have been presented to him by the State of Georgia in connection with the beautiful estate of Mulberry Grove, where he removed with his family and took up his residence. His lamentably premature death prevented the consummation of his design to build here a retreat in which to spend the hot summer months. He had resided but a year upon his estate of Mulberry Grove, and had hardly commenced to beautify and adorn this chosen residence of his maturer years, when a sun-stroke cut him down in the prime of his life.

The general had selected the site of the mansion to be built at Dungeness, and had planned the grounds, laid out a garden—which subsequently became famous for its tropical products and roses—and had lined through the forests of live-oak those avenues which have since grown to such magnificent proportions. As has been related, he did not live to see the completion of his work, but died almost at its very inception. In 1786 the year of his death, the foundation-walls were laid of the mansion-home of Dungeness, but the building was not finished till 1803. Even after it had been occupied for years, and during the sixty years and more it was used as a residence by the descendants of General Greene, there remained a few unfinished rooms. A tradition in the family to the effect that some great misfortune would befall it if the building were finished prevented, it is said, its completion. In the early part of the present century it was the most elegant residence on the coast.

A mound of shells, the accumulation of centuries and the result of countless Indian feasts, rose high above the southern marsh of Cumberland. A forest of live-oaks surrounded it on three sides, and at its feet ran the broad creek which wound through the marsh for miles, seeking the Sound at a point opposite the Florida shore. Here, for ages of time, the Indians of the South had resorted to feast upon the oysters with which the creek was filled. The Creek Indians—the most honorable with whom the United States ever had dealings, from whom sprang the Seminoles, and who occupied the entire territory of Georgia and Carolina at the period of the white man's advent—were the last who aided in the erection of this monument to a race now passed away. The summit of this shell-mound was levelled for the site of the house, and a terraced area of an acre or more constructed with the shells. Upon this base, raised above the general level of the island, its foundations were laid. It was four stories in height above the basement, and from cellar-stone to eaves was forty-five feet. There were four chimneys and sixteen fireplaces, and twenty rooms above the first floor. The walls at the base were six feet in thickness, and above the ground four feet. They were composed of the material known as "tabby," a mixture of shells, lime and broken stone or gravel with water; which mass, being pressed in a mould of boards, becomes when dry as hard and durable as rock. The walls are now as solid as stone itself. The second story above the terrace contained the principal rooms: the room in the south-east corner was the drawing-room in the time of the Shaws and the Nightingales. The room immediately back of the drawing-room, in the north-east corner, was the dining-room: a wide hall ran through the centre, upon the opposite side of which were two rooms, used respectively as school- and sewing-room. Above these apartments, in the third story, were the chambers. That directly above the drawing-room is the most interesting of all, for it was occupied by General Harry Lee, who was confined there by sickness, and there died. The interior of the house corresponded with its exterior in beauty of finish and magnificence of decoration and appointments.

Enclosed by a high wall of masonry (the "tabby" just described) was a tract of twelve acres devoted to the cultivation of flowers and tropical fruits. This wall, now broken down in places and overgrown with ivy-and trumpet-vines, yet divides the garden from the larger fields once devoted to cotton and cane. The gardener's house was next the mansion, and joined to it by this high wall. The garden lay to the south, reaching the marsh in successive terraces. On and about the semicircular terrace immediately around the house were planted crape-myrtle, clove trees and sago-palms: some yet remain to indicate what an Eden-like retreat was this garden of spices and bloom half a century ago. The first broad terrace, which ran the entire length of the garden-wall east and west, was divided by an avenue of olives, which separated in front of the house, leaving a space in which were two noble magnolias. A broad walk ran from the house to the lower garden, which was divided from the other by a thick-set hedge of mock-orange: in this garden was another walk bordered by olives. This space was entirely devoted to flowers: on each side was a grove of orange trees, and in the lower garden were the fig, India-rubber and date-palm, the golden date of Africa. Of trees there were the camphor tree, coffee, Portuguese laurel, "tree of Paradise," crape-myrtle, guava, lime, orange, citron, pomegranate, sago-palm and many others whose home is in the tropics. The delicious climate of this island, several degrees warmer than that of the main land in the same latitude, enabled the proprietors of this insular Paradise to grow nearly all the fruits of the torrid zone.

A little tongue of land runs from the garden into the marsh, an elevation of the original shell-mound, covered with oaks hung with long gray moss. This was called "The Park," and here the inhabitants of this favored estate would resort for recreation in the afternoon and evening. Near this strip of land, beneath the shade of an immense live-oak, luxuriates a clump of West India bamboo, said to have originated from a single stalk brought here by General Lee. The feathery lances clash and rattle with all the wild abandon characteristic of them in their native isles. I have not seen a more perfect group outside the islands of the Caribbean Sea.

From the walls of the second story—if you wish to view the wide-extended prospect to the south you must clamber there—you can look across three thousand acres of salt marsh to Fernandina and St. Mary's, along the river and beach, across miles of ocean. Ivy climbs the corner wall of the ruins and covers garden-wall and trees. Ruin everywhere stares you in the face: on every side are deserted fields and gardens—fields that employed the labor of four hundred negroes; fields that were fertile and yielded large crops of the famous "Sea-Island cotton." Bales from this estate were never "sampled." The Sea-Island cotton that took the prize at the World's Fair in London was raised on this island.

East of the garden, stretching toward the ocean-beach, is the olive-grove. Seventy years ago the first olive trees were imported from Italy and the south of France. They grew and flourished, and years ago this grove yielded a profit to its owners. In 1755, Mr. Henry Laurens of South Carolina imported and planted olives, capers, limes, ginger, etc., and in 1785 the olive was successfully grown in South Carolina; but probably there is not at the present day a grove equal in extent to this. It was estimated that a large tree would average a gallon of oil per year: there were eight hundred planted and brought to a flourishing and profitable stage of growth. There are several hundred now, scattered through a waste of briers and scrub and overgrown with moss.

But the avenues? In the hottest day there are shade and coolness beneath the intertwined branches of the live-oaks that arch above them. The eye is refreshed in gazing down these vistas over the leaf-strewn floors of sand. The sunshine sifts through the arch above, flecking the roadway with a mosaic of leaves and boughs in light and shade. From the limbs hang graceful pennons of Spanish moss, festooned at the sides, waved by every wind, changing in every light. Grapevines with stems six inches in diameter climb into the huge oaks and swing from tree to tree, linking limb with limb: the tree-tops are purple with great fruit-clusters. To the whole scene the dwarf palmetto gives a semi-tropic aspect. There are no signs of life, save a lizard darting over the leaves, stopping midway to look at you with bright eyes. In the evening the squirrels come out in countless numbers, and their crashing leaps may be heard in all directions; bright cardinal-birds, Florida jays and gay nonpareils enliven the gloom; the jays chatter in the branches and mocking-birds carol from the topmost limbs. It is one of the joys of earth to walk through the Grand Avenue of Dungeness at sunset.

There were, when the estate was in prosperous condition, eleven miles of avenues, seven miles of beach, eight miles of walks and nine miles of open roads. Grand Avenue, running midway the length of the island, was cleared eighteen miles, to High Point. There are now but three miles cleared, but you can look straight down beneath the arch of live-oaks for more than a mile of its length. From the Sound to the beach, crossing Central Avenue, ran River Avenue for a distance of about a mile.

This live-oak forest, which covers several thousand acres, is densely filled with scrub palmetto, impenetrable almost, and so difficult to pierce that the deer with which the forest swarms choose the old paths and roadways in their walks from sleeping- to feeding-grounds. The hunters take advantage of this, and after starting their dogs in the scrub post themselves on the main avenues where the paths intersect, and shoot the deer as they jump out. The deer of the island are estimated by thousands, and a State law which prohibits the hunting of deer with dogs, except with the owner's permission, has aided in their increase. Halfway up the island are numerous ponds, to which ducks resort in the winter in vast numbers. Bear are plentiful in the deep woods, and their tracks, with those of the deer in greater abundance, are often found crossing the abandoned fields.

Three hundred feet in width, hard as stone, shell-strewn, between wind-hollowed sand-dunes and foaming surf, this beach of Cumberland stretches for twenty miles. The sands that border it are covered with a network of beautiful convolvulus, tufts of sea-oats with nodding plumes, and picturesque clumps of Spanish bayonet (Yucca gloriosa) with pyramids of snowy flowers. This and the prickly pear suggest the climate of the tropics. I find them on the sandhills bordering the ocean-beach, the wind-swept dunes between the "beach-hammock" and the hard sand of the wave-washed beach. They are called barren by many, these sandhills of the Atlantic coast, but I never find them so. To me they are always attractive, whether I am traversing the sand-slopes of Cape Cod or the similar ones of Florida. Even the grasses possess a character of their own—gracefully erect, tiny circles traced about them where the last wind has caused them to brush the sand. Here too are grasses rare and beautiful—the feathery fox-tail, the tall, loose-branched sea-oats, and many others with names unknown, which you may see ornamenting the famous palmetto hats.

So fascinating are these sand-dunes that one wanders among them for hours, following in the paths worn by the feet of cattle which roam these hills and the neighboring marsh in a half-wild state. Sometimes the banks will shelve abruptly, hollowed out by the wind, and one can look down into a hole ten or twenty feet deep, arched over by thorn-bushes, grapevines and a species of bay. These sand-caverns are of frequent occurrence. There are clumps of scrubby oak completely covered with scarlet honeysuckle and trumpet-flower. While seeking to investigate one of these I startled a hen-quail, which, after whirring rapidly out of sight, returned and manifested much anxiety by plaintive calls. This is a queer place for quail: in the neighborhood of old fields, where they can easily run out and glean a hasty meal from weeds and broken ground, is their chosen place for a nest.

Along the surface of the sea long lines of pelicans pursue a lumbering flight; graceful terns (sea-swallows) skim the waves; a great blue heron stalks across the hard sand, majestic, solitary and shy of man's approach; and dainty little beach-birds, piping plover in snowy white and drab, glide rapidly past the surf-line. A mile below Beach Avenue is a high sandhill shelving abruptly toward the beach, half-buried trees projecting from its western slope: it is now known as "Eagle Cliff," so called by the proprietor of Dungeness from the fact of my shooting an eagle there one day in November.

In the beach-hammock are the same wind-hollowed hills, rooted into permanence by twisted oaks and magnolias. Upon their limbs in April the Spanish moss and air-plants were just blossoming, the former into little star-like, hardly-discernible flowers, the latter throwing up a green stem with a pink terminal bud, which in August had burst into a spike of crimson flowers. Curious lichens cover the rough trunks of these oaks—some gray, some ashy-white, some pink, some scarlet like blotches of blood. The Mitchella, the little partridge-berry, is here in bloom, and has been since the year came in.

The marsh that borders the beach-hammock and spreads a sea of silvery green before the mansion is not barren of attractions. Inquisitive and faint-hearted fiddler-crabs are darting in and out of their holes in the mud: an alligator now and then shows a hint of a head above the water of the creek, along whose banks walk daintily and proudly egrets and herons robed in white, and from the reeds of which myriads of water-hens send up a deafening chatter.

Midway between the mansion and the beach, in the southern corner of the orchard of olive trees, which overhang and surround it, is the graveyard of the family. It is the last object to which in this narrative I call attention, but to the visitor it is the most interesting, the fullest of memories of the past. By a winding and secluded path from the deserted garden, along the banks of the solitary marsh, beneath great water-oaks hung with funereal moss, one reaches this little cemetery, a few roods of ground walled in from the adjoining copsewood—

 
A lonesome acre, thinly grown
With grass and wandering vines.
 

Three tombs and three headstones indicate at least six of the graves with which this little lot is filled. In one of these graves rest the bones of her who shared the fortunes of the gallant general, the "Washington of the South," when he rested after the last decisive battle and retired to his Georgia plantation. In another lies buried his daughter, and in another the gallant "Light-Horse Harry," who so ably assisted him at Eutaw Springs—the brave and eloquent Lee. Upon the first marble slab is engraven, "In memory of Catherine Miller (widow of the late Major-General Nathaniel Greene, Commander-in-Chief of the American Revolutionary Army in the Southern Department in 1783), who died Sept. 2d, 1814, aged 59 years. She possessed great talents and exalted virtues." Phineas Miller, Esq., a native of Connecticut and a graduate of Yale College, who had been engaged by General Greene as law-tutor to his son, managed the widow's estates after the general's death, and later married her. His grave is here, though unmarked by any stone.