210 Southern Historical Society Papers.
of names and memories to be treasured of those, many of whom gave their lives, and all risked them, for a holy cause.
To us, the survivors of the war, the Confederacy as a government is dead as our buried heroes beyond the power of human resur- rection, even if we so willed it ; but, though dead, it liveth to us in its memories, so sad, yet at times so joyous, in its regrets mingled, but never remorseful. No true heart that ever wore the gray will ever apologize for so doing. We regret nothing that we did. Our regrets are, naturally, that we failed to accomplish that for which we hoped, for which we fought, and for which these brave men died. Our regrets are for desolated homes and hearts, for so much blood and treasure seemingly shed and expended in vain. Did I say seemingly ? Yes. The gifted and eloquent orator who has just ad- dressed you, and whose words linger in our ears, has given you a beautiful allegory in that window a moment since obscure and dark now unveiled, a radiant thing of beauty. So some of these days when the veil is taken from our eyes we may see and understand the " Divine" wisdom which hath ordered it all. I thank him for the thought (comforting, as beautiful) ; and our memories, how they brighten at the remembrance of scenes, of comrades and camp. Why I can quicken the blood of these old soldiers here if I tell them of the camp, the bivouac, the march, the simple jest, the song and the buttermilk raid. Then the excitement of the battle, softened by the memory of some comrade, our " chum, ' ' who, with light heart and merry eye, called out, " Good-bye, old fellow ! take care of your- self till I see you again." He never saw us again. We saw him a few hours later, cold and stiff, with lifeless eyes upturned to heaven; and then we remember that some of them left widows and orphans a sacred legacy to be treasured ; and comrades, many dependent in advancing years. I thank God this home, where day by day earthly wants and comforts are supplied to these time-worn and war-scarred veterans (their earthly refuge), this sacred building, in which each recurring Sunday they may worship and listen to the words of heavenly wisdom (to prepare them for their final march and eternal encampment) speak aloud the fact that we have not forgotten to remember them, nor will our children after us.
My comrades ! this is not a roll of the living but of the dead. It is not the only roll of honor. There is another, of mingled staff, infantry, cavalry and artillery, of officers and privates. Upon this may be found the names of Lee, Jackson and Stuart, of Sydney Johnson, Zollicoffer and Forrest (names we have honored), and some
