has a style peculiar to himself.
This is a fair specimen.
The ‘orator’ has this acknowledgment.
His sentiment all must heartily commend.—Ed.
I love to live in the land of Dixie, under the soft southern skies, where summer pours out her flood of sunshine and showers, and the generous earth smiles with plenty.
I love to live on southern soil, where the cotton fields wave their white banners of peace, and the wheat fields wave back their banners of gold from the hills and valleys which were once drenched with the blood of heroes.
I love to live where the mocking birds flutter and sing in the shadowy coves, and bright waters ripple in eternal melody, by the graves where our heroes are buried.
I love to breathe the southern air, that comes filtered through jungles of roses, whispering the story of southern deeds of bravery.
I love to drink from southern springs and southern babbling brooks, which once cooled the lips of
Lee and
Jackson and
Forrest and
Gordon, and the worn and weary columns of brave men who wore the gray.
I love to live among southern men and women, where every heart is as warm as the southern sunshine and every home is a temple of love and liberty.
I love to listen to the sweet old southern melodies, which touch the soul and melt the heart and awaken to life ten thousand precious memories of the happy long ago, when the old-time darkies used to laugh and sing, and when the old-time black ‘mammy’ soothed the children to slumber with her lullabies.
But, oh, the music that thrills me most is the melody that died away on the lips of many a Confederate soldier as he sank into the sleep that knows no waking,
‘I'm glad I am in Dixie.’
A brilliant civilization.
I doubt if the world will ever see another civilization as brilliant as that which perished in the
South a third of a century ago. Its whitecolumned
