bities engendered by it are fast being buried in the grave of Oblivion — where is the gray-headed Confederate whose eve does not kindle at the remembrance of those four heroic years?
Does he not feel like re-echoing the glowing words which the great dramatist puts in the mouth of Henry the Fifth the night before Agincourt,
This story shall the goodman teach his son.—
The that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispin; Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day.
And does not his heart burn while he tells with pride of the days when with unfaltering steps, though weary and hungry, but with the light of battle in his eye, he followed in the lead of those illustrious captains and masters of war, A. P. Hill, Jackson, Hampton, Stuart, Mosby, Johnston, Kirby Smith and a host of other gallant spirits—and last, though not least, of Robert Edward