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[192] I will recall one or two instances to show the spirit of those women: I had a friend, a widow, who had only two sons; both enlisted for the war. The first was killed at Fredericksburg; the other was killed by the same volley that laid low our immortal Jackson, and this heroic boy, with his life-blood ebbing fast, had only breath to gasp, ‘Is the General hurt?’

When I was weeping with that poor mother, comfort I could not give, she said: ‘Both of my boys are gone, but if I had to do all this over again, I would not act differently.’

I knew a boy who belonged to the company that was organized in the village where I am now living. When he had been in Virginia more than two years, and had been in many battles, his mother wrote to President Davis, and in her letter used these words:

‘I notice that General Lee has gone into winter quarters, and there will be no fighting for several weeks. So, if my boy has done his duty, I respectfully beg that he be granted a furlough to come home to see me, for I greatly long to see him.’

Mark the simplicity and sublimity of that mother's words: ‘If my boy has done his duty.’

Bishop Polk gives an instance of sublime devotion of a Tennessee mother, who gave five sons to the Confederacy. When the first one was killed, and the Bishop was trying to say some words of comfort, she said: ‘My son Billy will be old enough next spring to take his brother's place.’

The only idea of duty that this heroic mother had was to give her boys to the cause she loved as soon as they were old enough to bear a musket.

Such was the spirit of your mothers and your grandmothers.

I will tell you of two funerals I attended—one in 1861, the other in 1865. In the early summer of 1861 I witnessed the funeral of the gallant Colonel Charley Dreaux, who was killed in Virginia in a skirmish before any of the great battles had been fought. Colonel Dreaux was the first Louisianian who sealed his devotion to the cause with his blood, and one of the very first from any State.

When he was borne to his last resting place, he was followed by a vast concourse of people with drooping flags, muffled drums, the tolling of all the church bells and the bands playing the dead march. It was a funeral that befitted a hero who had died for his country.

Very different was it later on. In the spring of 1865, I was in

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