View allAll Photos Tagged moil
It's there and it's broken,
many centuries of battles,
drums and weapons have spoken;
about rocks to stand,
war after war over the land,
but swords will rust,
and hate will erode,
when rivers sing
about peace afloat,
and the caste still there;
broken and small,
under mountains high
to relative
once and for all
MISTY ISLE is a ring netter on the lines of a classic Scottish MFV and was built in 1948 by J. & G. Forbes of Sandhaven. She was commissioned by Macrae & Broadford of Skye for the herring ring net trade and she worked at this for forty years, before moving on to Stornoway Scallops. In her early days, she was skippered by Evander Macrae and her partner in the ringnet trade was a boat called CASTLE MOIL. Later, Evander and Alistair Macrae bought ACORN from Anstruther to be her partner and Alistair took over as captain. She was reputed to be the most sea kindly, safest and fastest boat in this trade and sailed the Minch in conditions which kept the rest of the fleet at home. In later years, she fished for clams, until bought by a private owner.
MISTY ISLE was a museum ship and kept seaworthy by the Scottish Maritime Museum until 1993. Currently under private ownership once more, she is still located at Irvine at the Scottish Maritime Museum's pontoon.
Listed on the National Historic Ships register www.nationalhistoricships.org.uk/register/1667/misty-isle
By Alan Kempster for SMM
Ruin is that of Caisteal Maol (Castle Moil)
Nikkormat FT2 Kodachrome slide copied by Nikon D300 + Sigma 150mm f/2.8 APO macro DG HSM
_DSC8629 Anx2 1600w Q90
Castle Moil or Maol on the Isle of Skye. Apparently one of the owners was known as Saucy Mary if I recall correctly.
(single exposure)
I recently made a modest art-historical discovery when I happened across an obscure reference to early illustrations by the American painter, art school director and art instructor Channel Pickering Townsley (1867-1921).
Chan is best known today for the California Impressionist works and European city scenes he painted in the first two decades of the 20th century.
However, these recently rediscovered pieces, which are not mentioned in Chan's biographies, reveal that he was already an accomplished artist by the mid-1890s.
The small item from the 7 April, 1909, issue of The Great Bend Weekly Tribune, of Great Bend, Kansas, that put me on the trail of Chan's forgotten illustrations appears below.
They appeared in Ellen P. Allerton's Walls Of Corn and Other Poems, collected and published by Eva Ryan.
Astonishingly, the 1894 book is still available through Amazon and other retailers as a modern reproduction of the original. It is likely the quality of the images is higher in the original than in the copy. www.amazon.com/Ellen-Palmer-Allertons-Walls-Other/dp/1164...
Townsley's name appears quite clearly on some of these works. Whether the others bear his name is a matter of conjecture. Marks that resemble indistinct letters can be found in the general area of the lower right corner. For what it is worth, the artist did not sign all his paintings.
Chan was about 27 years old when the book was published. It remains to be determined when these works were created relative to Townsley's considerable formal art education in New York and Paris.
The illustrations appear in the same order as in the original. Immediately below you will find the poem that was the inspiration for the image.
© 2022 A. Davey
=======================
Morning View of Lake Michigan, by Ellen Palmer Allerton
Here on this rugged bluff I stand alone
And look out on the waters. Could I tell -
Which I cannot - all that I see and feel;
Could I but give the swelling thoughts a tone
That press up to my lips a song so sweet,
So thrilling in its tuneful harmonies,
Should send out on the air its rhythmic beat,
That heedless wights should pause amid the street,
And listen with bowed heads and tearful eyes.
My eyes are wet. The beauty of the lake
At this still morning hour, draped in its veil
Of dreamy mist so soft, translucent, pale;
Its music, as the blue waves gently break,
Move me to tears. Yet am I all alone;
No sympathetic glances kindle mine,
No answering eye, where kindred feelings shine,
Another heart interprets to my own.
Ah, well! Here are the softly gleaming waves,
Here are the gold-fringed clouds, above, below,
Which from yon heaven and from the waters glow;
Here is sunshine, which my forehead laves,
And there the white-winged ships go sailing by;
The cool wind blows, and lightly lifts my hair.
Can there be solitude amid a scene so fair?
Can one be lonely with such company?
Behind me lies the city, fast asleep,
Save early workmen going to their toil
With sounding tread. The long day's dusty moil
Clanks not along the streets. The convent bell,
Whose tones above the dreamers softly swell,
Unheeded, troubles not their slumber deep.
The sleeping city and pale blue lake,
The convent bell, the low waves' ceaseless break,
The morning mists all these shall memory keep.
=======================
From:
Ellen P. Allerton's Walls Of Corn and Other Poems
Collected And Published With
Memorial Sketch By
Eva Ryan.
Illustrated.
Press of
The Harrington Printing Co
Hiawatha, Kansas.
Copyrighted, 1894,
=======================
ALLERTON, Mrs. Ellen Palmer, poet, born in Centerville, N. Y.. 17th October, 1835. Her ancestors were of Knickerbocker blood. She received a district-school education and afterwards spent a few terms in academies, but never graduated.
Her marriage to Alpheus B. Allerton, took place in 1862, soon after her removal to Wisconsin. Mr. and Mrs. Allerton were both invalids in Wisconsin, but in 1879, traveled to Kansas in a wagon, cooking their own meals and getting health and happiness out of the journey.
They selected for a home an unimproved farm, a quarter section, on very high land in Brown county, in sight of Padonia, Hamlin, Falls City and Hiawatha.
They now have a handsome home and every comfort that prosperity brings in its train.
Mrs. Allerton composed and recited verses before she could write, but offered little to the press until she was past thirty years of age.
Her first poems were published in "The Jefferson County Union," Ex-Governor Hoard's paper. Later she contributed to Milwaukee and Chicago papers, and was at one time book-reviewer for the Milwaukee "Sentinel."
She has published one volume, "Poems of the Prairies." (New York, 1886). She is considered one of the leading authors of Kansas. As a woman and as a writer she is quiet and sensible.
At her home in Padonia she has a wide circle of loving friends, and throughout the West the hearts that hold her dear are legion.
From:
A Woman of the Century
Fourteen Hundred-Seventy Biographical Sketches
Accompanied By Portraits of Leading American Women in All Walks of Life
Edited By Frances E. Willard And Mary A. Livermore
Assisted By A Corps Of Able Contributors
Buffalo, Chicago, New York
Charles Wells Moulton
1893
A lovely serene image of Kyleakin harbour and Caisteal Maol. The white boat behind the front of the nearest black fishing boat (annoying can't read its registration number but BRD (Broadford) something) was the car ferry to Kyle of Lochalsh on the mainland in these days.
Having just suffered a wave full in the face while trying to set up on the wave cut platform I retreated to a slightly higher viewpoint to make this image. While my camera has no electical parts, I have found to my cost in the past that a wooden camera and salt water don't mix and didn't wan't to be out of action for a day while it recovered.
This image was made after the sun had set looking south down the west coast of North Harris with Taransay just visible through the gap on the horizon.
All too soon, these feet must hide,
In the prison cells of pride.
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod.
Made to trod the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil.
Happy if their tracks be found,
Never in forbidden ground,
Happy if they sink not in,
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! That thou could'st know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy.
This is an excerpt from a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier (Barefoot Boy). I found it, after my grandma passed away in 1999; hand written in a scrapbook that was started in 1939. It's always stayed with me, and I often think of it, when the days start to warm and little feet are once again bare.
© Web-Betty: digital heart, analog soul
The moored boats reflect in the still water of Kyleakin Harbour Isle of Skye Scotland.
Castle Moil ruin in the background.
Thank you for all your comments and visits
© Ralph Stewart 2009
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
I was sitting on a troller boat on an afternoon. The little boy was swimming beside my troller, some people were talking bath on the river. it was a joyous moment to them.
This image - it provides a short history lesson.
While we are on the subject of history...
I need you to know, first of all - it's all Jon's jah32 fault. He thinks he can throw a sentence, oh so casually, and I will not leap at it with my talons extended.
He said that the sky in one of his unique images reminded him of the cremation of Sam McGee.
So what you would do?
No. For Real.
What will YOU do?!
Will you brush it away? Pretend you understood what Jon wrote and move on?
Or will you be like me?
You'll read it and you'll never forget it in your life cuz it's one of the deepest history lessons I read in a long time? And I'll tell you what else happened to me - it touched me straight in the soul.
When was the last time a history lesson touched your soul?
Right.
That's what I thought.
I bet you never.
So it's up to you. You're the Boss. Will you embark with me on a journey down history lane, or will you ring the bell and step down at the next station?
It is all up to you.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe.
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan;
"It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead - it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! He looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate these last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows - O God! How I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near:
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked"... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
I always dreamed of owning a castle and a boat! Please excuse me if I do not reply quickly. I'm heading North, back soon.
The Thames from Wallingford Bridge
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves, - God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut, - he is some mitred old
Bishop in PARTIBUS! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master's hands were on the keys
Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne
From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.
Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome's lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now - those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God's body from the common fruit of corn and vine.
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,
And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield
Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue
Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little weed of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer
There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening's dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold
As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry, -
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,
Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis
Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love's own sake to leave the other's side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia's bard
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet's plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;
Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,
For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring, -
Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, -
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!
Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush
Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!
Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!
Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear, - O to be free,
To burn one's old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!
O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.
O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!
Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!
Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?
O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!
Cease, cease, or if 't is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile
Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids' caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody
So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of bloody heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.
The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another's bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat's small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell's brimming cell.
And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark ! 't is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.
Caisteal Maol
Loch Aillse
Caol Àcain
02.04.2023 13:00 BST
50mm 1/640 sec f/8.0 ISO 100
As seen on a walk from Drumbuie to Caol Àcain
...or Castle Maol, the English spelling varies; it's Caisteal Maol in Gaelic. What's left of it dates back to the 15th or 16th century.
Last Thursday, I was standing on the shores of Lake Lebarge, and thinking about the poem Robert Service wrote many long years ago. Wish I could have been around in the wild and wooly days of the late eighteen hundreds.
(Service spelled the name of the lake; "Lebarge" - but the correct spelling according to all of my maps is; "Laberge.")
The Cremation Of Sam McGee . . .
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Robert William Service
This view is across South Obbe in Kyleakin. I was on route to walk out to Castle Moil which is a ruined castle on Skye. You know you have arrived in Skye when you start to see houses with white snowcem. Snowcem is a tough weather proof paint which protects the houses against the wild weather in the West Coast.
I enjoyed the views from Castle Moil in Kyleakin. From the ruined castle you can see the Skye bridge which was opened in 1995 you can also see the old ferry slipway. It was overcast and grey but the day stayed dry.
One of the ferries that crossed from Kyle of Lochalsh to Skye before the bridge was built in 1995. This particular vessel, the Lochalsh (II) served from 1957 to 1970.
Is the car on the left a Humber Sceptre?
Kyleakin Harbour on the Isle of Skye. The ruins of Castle Moil can be seen in the background.
Thank you for all your comments and visits
© Ralph Stewart 2013
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
Nikon 5100 (3 shots hand held + - 2)
Robert W. Service used Sam’s name in his poem The Cremation of Sam McGee, and became famous because of this particular poem
The Cremation of Sam McGee
poem by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.
The northern lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see,
Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tenessee
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to roam
’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell,
Though he’d often say in his homely way
That “he’d sooner live in Hell.”
On a Christmas day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn’t see.
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’er head
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turns to me, and “Cap” says he
“I’ll cash in this trip, I guess.
And if I do, I’m asking that you
Won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no,
Then he says with a sort of a moan,
“It’s the cursed cold, it’s got right hold
’til I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet tain’t being dead – it’s my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains.
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail.
And we started on at the streak of dawn,
But, God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tenessee,
And before nightfall, a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven.
With a corpse half hid, that I couldn’t get rid,
Because of a promise given.
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say,
“You may tax your brawn and your brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you
To cremate those last remains.”
Now, a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart, how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night by the lone firelight
While the huskies ’round in a ring
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows
Oh, God, how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow.
But on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in.
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing
And it harkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake LeBarge
And a derelict there lay.
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum,
Then “Here,” said I with a sudden cry
“Is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
And lit the boiler fire.
Some coal I found that was lying around
And heaped the fuel higher.
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -
Such a blaze you seldom see.
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like
to hear him sizzle so.
And the heavens scowled and the huskies howled
and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, I don’t know why.
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear.
But the stars were out and they danced about
‘ere again I ventured near.
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said
“I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”
…Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cold and calm
In the heart of the furnace roar.
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And said “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear
You’ll let in the cold and storm.
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tenessee,
It’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.
The northern lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
...and April, May, June etc. Access to the ruin of Castle Moil, Kyleakin, is easy when the tide is out but much more awkward at higher tides; shot taken in March, although not on the 15th!
The Cremation Of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Robert W. Service
From public signage:
On June 8, 1917, 168 men died in the Granite Mountain Mine Fire. The loss of life in this fire is metal mining’s greatest disaster.
-----------------------------
“Here they lie sleeping --- cut off ere their time
Givin’ their all to bring ore from the mine.
Shift after shift --- their’s but to toil,
With Buzzy or Lyner, Shovel or moil.
Irish and Serbian --- Cornish and Finn
Lascovich -- Maki -- Opie -- McGinn
Scotchman and Welshman -- Missourian -- Swede
McDonald and Evans -- Swanson and Reid.
Now their last shift is over --- at last deep enough
May the drilling be easy --- the bottom not rough
May the chutes all flow freely --- and no barring down
With things running easy ‘til they get in their round.”
William Burke, 1940
-----------------------------
World War I has begun. To meet the demand for copper, every mine is working to capacity. Friday morning, June 8, 1917, an electric cable being lowered into the mine gets away from workmen, and falls in a tangled coil below the 2400 level.
-----------------------------
TIME LINE OF THE FIRE - JUNE 1917
Friday, June 8
11:30 PM
The night shift of 410 men is at work. Four men go down to inspect the cable. An assistant foreman accidentally ignites the oily, frayed cable with his carbide lamp.
11:45 PM
The fires starts! Thick smoke drives the men from the 2400 level.
Midnight
The 4-deck cages are ready to be lowered to rescue survivors, but the signaling system is burned out.
Terror spreads through the workings and shift bosses try to warn men. Near the 2600 foot station, “the shaft is like a roaring furnace”.
Smelling the smoke, many of the miners escape through adjoining mines.
Gas penetrates to the High Ore, Diamond, and Badger mines.
Underground, J. D. Moore orders eight men to “make for the drift on the 2200 level”. They make a bulkhead and remain entombed for 50 hours.
Saturday, June 9
12:10 AM
Smoke is pouring from the shaft.
12:30 AM
Underground, Manus Duggan leads 29 men to the 2400 level and build a bulkhead. Thirty-eight hours will pass before they are found.
1:00 AM
Rescue attempts begun.
2:00 AM
Survivors tell of many badly burned bodies. “The soot was up to our knees. Several bodies are under the soot. They are all cooked.”
Sunday, June 10
11:00 AM
Underground, Duggan party struggles from the bulkhead to the shaft station and are met by startled rescue workers.
At the surface, the shaft bell rings from the 2400 level. The engineer spreads the alarm. It seems impossible for anyone to be alive at that level. The cage is lowered. Again, a signal -- this time to hoist. Up comes the cage with nine blackened and haggard men inside. Sixteen more miners are alive below!
Monday, June 11
9:00 AM
Underground, Moore’s bulkhead is discovered. Two men are dead, but six are revived and taken to the surface.
-----------------------------
A shift boss, J. D. Moore, saved six men from death. His group was underground for 50 hours. Moore died shortly before they were rescued.
Moore’s letter written in his time book:
FIRST LETTER
6-8-17
Dear Pet -- This may be the last message you will get from me. The gas broke about 11:15 PM. I tried to get all the men out, but the smoke was too strong. I got some of the boys with me in a drift and put in a bulkhead . . . . if anything happens to me you had better sell the house . . . . and go to California and live. You will know your Jim died like a man and his last thought was for his wife that I love better than anyone on Earth . . . We will meet again. Tell mother and the boys goodbye.
With love to my pet and may God take care of you.
Your loving Jim,
James D. Moore
SECOND LETTER
6-9-17 5:00 AM
Dear Pet: Well, we are all waiting for the end . . . . I guess it won’t be long . . . . We take turns rapping on the pipe, so if the rescue crew is around, they will hear us. Well, my dear little wife, try not to worry. I know you will, but trust in God, everything will come out all right. There is a young fellow here, Clarence Marthey. He has a wife and two kiddies. Tell her we done the best we could, but the cards were against us.
Goodby little loving wife
It is now 5:10
THIRD LETTER
6-9-17
7:00 AM
All alive, but air getting bad
Moore
One small piece of candle left.
Think it is all off
FOURTH LETTER
[Written on the cover of the book]
6-9-17
9 AM
“In the dark”
-----------------------------
Manus Duggan’s letters
These notes were found in the pocket of Manus Duggan, who saved the lives of 25 men by building a bulkhead against the gas. These notes were found when his body was recovered.
Sunday morning, 8:45.
Have been here since 12 o’clock Friday night. No gas coming through the bulkhead. Have plenty of water. All in good spirits.
I realize that all the oxygen has just been consumed. Everybody is breathing heavily. If death comes, it will be caused by all the oxygen used from the air in this chamber.
By the time all the men were rounded together Friday night, we were all caught in a trap. I suggested we must build a bulkhead. The gas was everywhere. We built a bulkhead and then a second for safety. We could hear the rock falling and supposed it to be the rock in the 2400 skip chute.
We have rapped on the air pipe continuously since 4 o’clock Saturday morning. No answer. Must be some fire. I realize the hard work ahead of the rescue men. Have not confided my fears to anyone, but have looked and looked for hope only, but if the worst comes, I myself have no fears, but welcome death with open arms, as it is the last act we all must pass through, and as it is but natural, it is God’s will. We should have no objection.”
DUGGAN
To my Dear Wife and Mother:
It takes my heart to be taken from you so suddenly and unexpectedly, but think not of me, for if death comes, it will be in a sleep without suffering.
I ask forgiveness for any suffering or pain I have ever caused. Madge, dear, the place [the Duggan home at 1010 Zarelda Street] is for you and the child.
MANUS
-----------------------------
From The Butte Daily Post on Saturday, 9 June 1917:
33 KNOWN DEAD; 162 MISSING
GRANITE MOUNTAIN DISASTER WORST IN METAL MINING HISTORY
BUTTE STAGGERS UNDER PARALYZING EFFECT OF TERRIBLE LOSS OF LIFE. EVERY MINING OFFICIAL IN BUTTE AIDING IN THE GHASTLY RESCUE WORK
HELMET MEN BRAVING DEATH EACH MINUTE. LATE TODAY PENETRATED 2200 FOOT LEVEL OF THE MINE; THEY REPORT SCORES OF BODIES IN THE WORKINGS
Mining officials of North Butte and Anaconda Companies, after making every conceivable effort to gain access to the lowest depths of the mine and taking innumerable risks, declare that there is almost no hope that any of the missing men below the 1800 level are alive.
Thirty-three bodies have been recovered, score of others have been sighted by mines rescue teams and helmet men in the gas-filled workings and 162 of the 412 miners who went to work last night are still unaccounted for this afternoon as a result of the greatest disaster in the history of quartz mining, resulting from a fire of accidental origin in Granite Mountain shaft of the North Butte Copper Mining Company.
The entire mines rescue organization of the Butte district, most efficient in the world, coupled with every agency of the city government, is engaged in rescue work, but hope of finding any of the men who were cut off from escape by the smoke and gas which filled the underground workings was practically abandoned at noon, so that there is likelihood of the death toll reaching possibly more than 190.
The great loss of life, heroic efforts to quench the flames and to rescue any who might still be alive produced a condition of confusion at the mine from which it is almost impossible to get an exact summary of the situation, although it is known that the Granite Mountain shaft is caved for some distance, due to the burning of timbers and effects of the big volume of water poured into it to stop the inroads of the flames.
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Castle Moil
The castle was a fortress commanding the narrow sound between Skye and the mainland, through which all ships had to pass or else attempt the stormy passage of The Minch.
Alpín mac Echdach's great-grandson Findanus, the 4th MacKinnon chief, brought Dunakin into the clan around the year 900 by marrying a Norse princess nicknamed 'Saucy Mary'. Findanus and his bride ran a heavy chain across the sound and levied a toll on all shipping vessels.
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