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 streets and public highways were thronged, business was suspended, and thousands came to see the last of ‘Old Jube.’ A beautiful site for his grave was donated by the trustees of Spring Hill Cemetery—an elevated spot, in full view of the mountains, and but a few yards from the point where he had his headquarters on the field of battle when Hunter was defeated. The sun was sinking behind the peaks of Otter and shedding its last rays over the scene as he was lowered to rest. The artillery and the cadets of the Virginia Military Institute, the same gallant corps that had been with him upon this field thirty years before, fired a last salute, a grizzled bugler sounded taps near by the spot where Tinsley sounded the advance in 1864, and all was over. As we turned away from the new-made grave, I thought of what the Indians said when Powhatan, the great king, was no more: ‘Our chief has passed beyond the mountains to the setting sun.’ There was another thought that looked beyond the sunset's radiant glow — that the spirit of our mighty warrior had passed to Him who inspires ‘the ancient and eternal purpose of knighthood’ to stand for the weak, to fight for them, and, if needs come, to die for them content. Virginia holds the dust of many a faithful son, but not of one who loved her more, who fought for her better, or would have died for her more willingly. Incorruptible hero, noble friend. Farewell! Farewell!
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