tent he might not have improved Shiloh had he lived—he received a wound of which he was scarcely conscious when it was inflicted—a mere flesh wound, and trifling, had it been properly and promptly treated, but of which he bled to death. Destiny, ever the foe of the Confederacy, interfered, and slew him to ruin her. He died in the very front of the fight, surrounded by struggling combatants.
Thus passed the spirit of Albert Sidney Johnston, "in the glory of his manhood" and the hour of his victory. A noble and stainless life was appropriately closed by a heroic death. He left his children poor in the world's goods, but rich in the heritage of his name—he left his people the priceless example of unswerving personal honor and patriotic devotion. The chivalry of the Southland, the subject of sneer and satire by her foes, and, it must be sadly confessed, too often perverted by her sons—for many evils have been done in its name—had in him a true exponent, and its loftiest, purest representative. The young knighthood of the South—sometimes mutinous under authority founded upon hollow and pretentious claims, but instinctively obedient to true leadership—admired him living and revere him dead. They served under him in the same spirit with which Tancred, Robert and Bohemond accorded supremacy to the wisdom, virtue and exalted heroism of Godfrey. Monument nor mausoleum may never be erected in his remembrance; no costly national inscription will ever record his virtues and his services; but until the last trumpet summons the sons of his own land to "arise from this quarter of the earth to answer for the sins of the brave," they will cherish his fame and love his memory.
