Danger to the Republic.The danger to the republic now lies in the mailed hand of centralized power, and the South will yet be the bulwark of American liberty. If you ask me why, I answer, it is the only section left which is purely American; I answer that anarchy cannot live on southern soil; I answer that the South has started on a new line of march, and while we love the past for its precious memories, our faces are turned toward the morning. Time has furled the battle-flags and smelted the hostile guns. Time has torn down the forts and levelled the trenches and rifle-pits on the bloody field of glory, where courage and high-born chivalry on prancing chargers once rode to the front with shimmering epaulets and bright swords gleaming; where thousands of charging bayonets, at uniform angles, reflected thousands of  suns; where the shrill fife screamed, and the kettle drum timed the heavy tramp, tramp, of the shining battalions, as the infantry deployed into battle line and disappeared in the seething waves of smoke and flame; where double-shotted batteries unlimbered on the bristling edge and hurled fiery vomit into the faces of the reeling columns; where 10,000 drawn sabres flashed and 10,000 cavalry hovered for a moment on the flank and then rushed to the dreadful revely. The curtain dropped long ago upon these mournful scenes of carnage, and time has beautified and comforted and healed, until there is nothing left of war but graves and garlands, and monuments, and veterans, and precious memories. Blow, bugler, blow; but thy shrillest notes can never again call the matchless armies of Grant and Lee to the carnival of death! Let the silver trumpets sound the jubilee of peace. Let the veterans shout who wore the blue. Let him kiss the silken folds of the gorgeous ensign of the republic, and fling it to the breeze and sing the national hymn. Let the veterans bow who wore the gray, and with uncovered head salute the national flag. It is the flag of the inseparable Union. Let them clasp hands with the brave men who wore the blue, and rejoice with them, for time has adorned the ruined South and robed her fields in rich harvests, and gilded her skies with brighter stars of hope. But who will scorn or frown to see the veterans of the South's shattered armies, scattered now like solitary oaks in the midst of a fallen forest, hoary with age and covered with scars, sometimes put on the old worn and faded gray and unfurl for a little while that other banner, the riddled and blood-stained Stars and Bars, to look upon it and weep over it? For it is hallowed with recollections, tender as the soldier's last farewell! They followed it amid the earthquake throes of Shiloh, where Albert Sidney Johnston died; they followed it amid the floods of living fire at Chancellorsville, where Stonewall Jackson fell; they saw it flutter in the gloom of the Wilderness where the angry divisions and corps rushed upon each other and clinched and fell and rolled together in the bloody mire. They rallied around it at Gettysburg, where it waved above the bayonets, mixed and crossed on those dread heights of destiny; they saw its faded color flaunt defiance for the last time at Appomattox, and then go down forever in a flood of tears. Then who will upbraid them if they sometimes bring it to light,  sanctified and glorified as it is by the blood and tears of the past, and wave it again in the air, and sing once more their old war songs? When these heads are white with glory,
When the shadows from the west,
Lengthen as you tell your story,
In the vet'ran's ward to rest,
May no ingrate's word of sneering,
Reach one heart of all the brave,
But may honor, praise, and cheering,
Guard old valor to the grave.