Chapter III: Part 3

Far away from the voice of the rolling sea
A noble banner is waving free,
With its motto of blue on a pure white ground,
And a single stripe of scarlet around.
America’s tri-color, red, white, and blue,
Flutters softly there all the long day through.
On the high, firm rock, ’bove the grassy strand,
With its heavy brace, does the flag-staff stand;
While not far down on the rough hill’s side
Is the small, rude cot, where the workers abide.
We know, ere the cold winter flitted o’er,
That want peered in through the open door;
But hearts were willing to boldly strive,
And hope and faith kept the soul alive;
So, spite of famine’s half-looked-for shock,
The work still prospered in Dungeon Rock.
Strong hands kept picking the stone chips out,
And forcing the long, circuitous route;
Strong hearts were waiting, for well they knew
That the summer would bring them enough to do.
With curious eyes, and a curious name,
Or open purses and open fame.
But the stranger’s scorn and the stranger’s love
Were never valued true friends above.

Years pass like the hours of a summer day,
And leave no memento to mark their stay.
We have told of the faith in the Rock alive
In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-five.
Let us turn time’s current, and backward go,
And see what new wonders her book will show,
By skipping two centuries, just to derive
The knowledge of sixteen fifty-five.

There’s still a dark wood, and a winding stream,
Where the cold, bright stars, and the moon’s pale beam,
Light up a low path, by the underbrush hid,
And gild the smooth plate on the coffer’s dull lid.
There are hurrying footsteps and stifled tones
In that lonely ravine of earth and stones;
’Tis the hiding-place of a pirate band,
Who came from a distant, brilliant land,
And their burden of spoils from the broad, high seas
They have borne to that forest of woodland trees,
Where the wild wolf howls in his dismal den
Or makes his home in that pirate’s glen.
They are startled now, those men so brave,
And are taking their treasure to Dungeon Cave.
Away through the woods that once skirted the vale
They had made for themselves an invisible trail;
And, now that the night was so dark and still,
They were moving their spoils from the glen to the hill.
An iron bound box, with its shining gold,
And a limestone fossil, pure and cold,
On its soft, white cotton, was resting there,
Treasured with superstitious care.
There are noble hearts in that lonely home,
And Harris, the leader, is soon to come.
They hear him now, as they firmly tread
O’er the fallen leaves and the flowers dead:
“Halt”--the low, deep summons is soon obeyed,
And Harris moves out from the tall tree’s shade.
There’s a light in his eye, and a stern command
In the haughty wave of his ungloved hand,
As he lifts the cap from his high, white brow,
And says, “My men, be ready now.
Have you ta’en the strong box from the vessel’s hold,
And well secured it, with all its gold?
Have you counted the diamonds we stole from the berth
Of the fair Cristelle, on that night of mirth?
Have you closed my coffers? In short, my men,
Have you cleared all the trash from our silent glen?
For I have an inkling, from what I have heard,
By the foundery, to-night, that the settlers have stirred,
And will soon be for finding the men of ease,
That dare to murder on God’s high seas.”
“We have moved them all,” was the men’s reply,
As Harris gazed at the moonlit sky;
“We have moved them all; but what, your honor,
Shall we do, to-night, with our fair Madonna?
Shall we leave her alone in the glen to abide?
Will she make for Sir Wolf a fitting bride?
Or, will she tell tales when they come to look?
For I’ll risk a woman to find our nook.”
“Peace!” thundered Harris, “and no more fun;
Ye are seven in number, in purpose one.”
He added, more kindly, “But now, move on,
For to-night our labor must all be done.”
Then he quickly turned toward the lonely glen,
And left in the darkness that band of men.
We can tell no more. But the lady fair,
Ere the next day’s sunshine reached her there,
Had followed the winding, woody road,
And found on the hill-side a new abode.
At noon she saw from the high cave door,
A party of men and torches four
Creep slowly in through the tangled green,
Where the pirate robbers had last been seen.
Three times did the lady fair look down;
Three sunsets she saw on that little town;
Then she rested her fair, pale face alone,
By the cool, bright spring in the hollowed stone;
And that night, when the pirates came home from the dell,
They buried the form of proud Arabel.
Then years passed on and another bride
Blessed the cavern home on the high hill-side;
But the pirates were traced to their home by the sea,
And, of all the seven, there escaped but three.
One of these fled to his rocky home,
And dared not away from the cave to roam.
But the merry Cathrin, the pirates bride,
Mourned out her young life, that year, and died.
And the sturdy Veale, who could ever bear
The darkest storm of both sea and air,
Became a coward, and dared not brave
The suspicious look of a lowly grave.
So he carefully laid that form of clay
On a shelving rock in the cave away;
And he flung the pure folds of her own white dress
O’er her marble brow, in that dark recess.
Then he wandered on, and lived and grew,
Like the rest of Lynn people, tied to a shoe;
For he dared not betray the gold, so bright,
Lest he should be murdered, some silent night,
But, at last, the great earth felt the earthquake’s shock,
And Veale was immured in the prison rock.
Then time fled on, and the silent life
Of nature alone by the rock was rife;
Till the baby city had a regular blow,
Which shattered the stones to their base so low,
And rattled them down till they closed the mouth
Which the earthquake had left toward the sunny south
The good effects which this blowing made
Were to use the powder, and help the trade.
Then again was the solitude deep and still,
By the pirate glen, on Dungeon Hill.
But curious minds spied the legends out,
And a new scene of labor was brought about.
A mesmeric lady, of wondrous fame,
And a band of brothers, with as wide a name,
Became interested, and tried for a while
The rocks of the Dungeons high roof to unpile.
But, though they grew faint, we believing ones say
That Jesse the talented, Jesse the gay,
The brother that shone, ere he passed from sight,
Like a trammeled star of unbounded might,
This scene of his labor has not forgot,
But is lingering still round the lonely spot,
Where the brothers shall some time again unite,
And sing for the dungeon with all their might
The good they did is, that the heavy bole
Of the flag-staff rests low in the Hutchinson hole.
Then, again, the excitement of Dungeon Rock
Forgot to be the general every-day talk;
And the forest was valued, like other land,
For the visible worth on its rocky strand.
For long, long years was the silence unbroke,
Save the owlet’s dull hoot, or the woodpecker’s stroke
But, lo! the hill-side must once and again
Be made to resound to the works of men
And a long, dark cavern tells half the fears
And all the hopes of long, weary years.

Now, onward we go, for a century more,
To tell of the change that has flitted o’er.
There are lofty mansions, and spacious domes,
And silvery fountains, and pleasant homes;
There are green, bright trees, and flowers gay,
Where now the dark forests so gloomily sway;
And, most of all, is an open cave,
And a clear, pure spring the gray rocks lave;
And the plate-glass protects, without hiding a room,
Where the relics of age and piratical gloom
Are treasured in safety, not for their worth,
But because they had rested so long in the earth;
And the brilliant oxygen light at night
Half shames the moon, with its pure, pale light.
While a painted balloon, with its rubber case,
Floats gracefully down to its proper place,
As though it were waiting the moment when
It could fly far away ’bove the homes of men,
And be guided with equal precision and ease
As far or as near as the rider may please.
And the flag-staff glows with its highland plaid,
With which the painter the bare stick clad;
While high ’bove the earth, in his own free pride,
Is old Red Jacket standing, his bow beside,
And carelessly pointing to those below
The way the wild winds in the cloud regions blow;
And the gay, pure flag, with its tri-colors bright,
Is floating now in the morning light;
But around the bright scarlet, that was once its edge,
Is a border of flowers ’bove the rocky ledge;
’Tis England’s emblem, the roses bright,
And Scotia’s thistle, pale, green, and white;
The shamrock, that Erin’s children love,
And the iris and fuchsia that droop above.
All these shall be gathered together there,
While the workers faint not on the hill-side bare;
And, at last, when the triumph is made complete,
Shall be woven together these flowers sweet;
And hundreds and thousands yet shall see
The flower-bordered banner waving free.

And now I have finished this history true
Of the present, the past, and the future, too;
And all ye great world, whether timid or brave,
Look out for the next news from Dungeon Cave.

ENESEE.

CONCLUSION.

Again the hand of time has made its mark in and around Dungeon Rock. Twenty-eight years have come and gone since this little book first went on its mission, and with them, many of those most interested in the progress and prosperity of the work and workers at the cave, have passed on to spirit life. One only, of the little family yet lives. Far away in the sunny South-west, in her own home, the first to say farewell to home and loved ones. Next the gentle, kind-hearted wife and mother, was called away by death’s relentless hand. The father and son still held steadfast to their faith, working winters and attending to visitors during the summer and autumn months. Friends always came in times of need, and when hope was ready to give way to doubt, and when hands and hearts grew weary with their labors, some cheering message from the other side, or the fulfilment of a long ago communication, gave them new courage and energy, and thus the work continued. The father’s health had been gradually failing, and in 1868 he joined the spirit band without having reached the cave occupied by the pirates, though quite a cave had been made by the excavators, and a huge pile of stone near by gave ample proof of the unwavering purpose of this man’s life for nearly twenty years. Intelligent, energetic and capable, sharp and clear-sighted, with a vein of humor, and pleasing manner, he welcomed all to his humble abode, whether believer or skeptic, with the same good natured, honest expressions of interest and assurance in the work, that he fully believed was given him to do by disembodied spirits, receiving, as he sometimes said all things as compliments, whether donations of money, provisions, or a profusion of wordy advice or ridicule. He had many firm friends, who were ever ready to lend their assistance in life, and in his death missed the companionship of a good and upright man.

Thus Hiram Marble, the Excavator, finds rest from his labors, and his inanimate form is placed beside that of his wife in the little church-yard of his native town in western Massachusetts.

The little house under the rock has now but two occupants. Edwin, first mentioned in the history as a youth of twenty, now takes up the task alone. A small, delicate man, with clear light blue eyes, light brown hair and a face white and fair as a woman’s; honest, credulous and hopeful, he has the will but not the strength to cope long with that hard unyielding stone, yet the thought of abandoning the work is not tolerated for a single moment, and every year the pile of stone outside is heaped higher, and the route of the excavation becomes longer, deeper and more circuitous; and, alas! each year the excavator grows weaker and more feeble and less able to carry on the work. More rooms have been added to the house, but the octagon foundation is now only a ruin. The interest is still kept up and many visitors come every year and all go away well pleased that they have spent an hour in this quiet spot, around which there hangs a mystery.

Early in the winter of 1879 Mr. Marble contemplated visiting his relatives and friends in the West, but instead thereof, he started on that journey from whence no traveler returns,--in the body--and one bright day, in the middle of January 1880, the last good byes were spoken and his grave was made by the side of the rock, just above the house where he spent more than half of his earthly existence.

There is little change in the place since then; the faces of strangers are seen in the places where the visitors of long ago saw, perhaps, those described in these pages; but they will give you a welcome, kind as ever, and try always to make your visit pleasant. The old platform, where there has been much merry-making, has been replaced by a larger and better one. The old flag-staff has long since blown down.

The cave, or excavation, is now nearly two hundred feet through and seventy-five feet below the entrance, and well worthy a visit from all who can find opportunity for such a pleasure. It teaches a lesson of faith--not without works--then the view from the top of the rock is beyond all description; far as the eye can reach, from the dome of the state house in Boston on the right, to Marblehead and Salem on the left, with a full view of the harbor even to Minot’s light, with its beaches and islands, its steamers and sail-boats, its constant trains of cars passing and repassing along the beach, the electric lights and japanese illuminations at the Point of Pines, are all plainly visible, and make a grand and majestic panorama, while the nearer view is still more picturesque and lovely. The song entitled “America” best describes ones feelings as they look around them from that point. The tall pines, the giant oaks and walnuts, the graceful cedars, with ash and hemlocks mingling with the monster gray boulders, forming beautifully contrasting colors and shades, in the sunlight, or the gray morn or eventide, while the shimmering light upon Saugus river and the sheeny blue of the Ocean contrast strangely with the large, smooth-faced sheet of water directly in front and just below, which just now is over-running its banks on every side, while a hundred little brooks and rivulets are hurrying and tumbling over their rocky beds to offer their tribute to Breeds Pond, that the people of Lynn may drink and not thirst. Around this beautiful pond is a shady, winding road, that is named Dungeon Rock Avenue, and leads directly to the rock from the city, while beyond and around are hundreds of acres of hills and valleys and mountains and glens, rocks and ravines.

The scenery is wild and romantic in the extreme, and a society, calling themselves Foresters, have formed for the purpose of purchasing and holding these granite hills for public use to be kept as a perpetual forest, that all may have the pleasure of visiting the wild woods, and this inside the city limits of Lynn and within a dozen miles of Boston. Dungeon Rock, or the Visitor’s Resort is in the midst of this quiet splendor, this silent temple, with its many spires and altars. It is accessible by the Myrtle Street horse cars, or addressing Dungeon Rock, Lynn Mass., parties will be conveyed direct from any part of the city, and can spend an hour of pleasure and profit and judge for themselves of all that has been said and written of this quiet, lovely spot and wonder who next will have the faith, courage and opportunity to go on with this strange work, and add to the monument that two good men have created to faith in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the grave.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.