It was in the autumn of that “most immemorial year,” the 1861st of our Lord, and of our Heroic Age the first, that a small brigade of raw troops—­troops were all raw in those days—­had been pushed in across the Ohio border and after various vicissitudes of fortune and mismanagement found itself, greatly to its own surprise, at Cheat Mountain Pass, holding a road that ran from Nowhere to the southeast.  Some of us had served through the summer in the “three-months’ regiments,” which responded to the President’s first call for troops.  We were regarded by the others with profound respect as “old soldiers.” (Our ages, if equalized, would, I fancy, have given about twenty years to each man.) We gave ourselves, this aristocracy of service, no end of military airs; some of us even going to the extreme of keeping our jackets buttoned and our hair combed.  We had been in action, too; had shot off a Confederate leg at Philippi, “the first battle of the war,” and had lost as many as a dozen men at Laurel Hill and Carrick’s Ford, whither the enemy had fled in trying, Heaven knows why, to get away from us.  We now “brought to the task” of subduing the Rebellion a patriotism which never for a moment doubted that a rebel was a fiend accursed of God and the angels—­one for whose extirpation by force and arms each youth of us considered himself specially “raised up.”

It was a strange country.  Nine in ten of us had never seen a mountain, nor a hill as high as a church spire, until we had crossed the Ohio River.  In power upon the emotions nothing, I think, is comparable to a first sight of mountains.  To a member of a plains-tribe, born and reared on the flats of Ohio or Indiana, a mountain region was a perpetual miracle.  Space seemed to have taken on a new dimension; areas to have not only length and breadth, but thickness.

Modern literature is full of evidence that our great grandfathers looked upon mountains with aversion and horror.  The poets of even the seventeenth century never tire of damning them in good, set terms.  If they had had the unhappiness to read the opening lines of “The Pleasures of Hope,” they would assuredly have thought Master Campbell had gone funny and should be shut up lest he do himself an injury.

The flatlanders who invaded the Cheat Mountain country had been suckled in another creed, and to them western Virginia—­there was, as yet, no West Virginia—­was an enchanted land.  How we reveled in its savage beauties!  With what pure delight we inhaled its fragrances of spruce and pine!  How we stared with something like awe at its clumps of laurel!—­real laurel, as we understood the matter, whose foliage had been once accounted excellent for the heads of illustrious Romans and such—­mayhap to reduce the swelling.  We carved its roots into fingerrings and pipes.  We gathered spruce-gum and sent it to our sweethearts in letters.  We ascended every hill within our picket-lines and called it a “peak.”