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devotion to duty, love of country, thought of home, and a sincere belief in the ri^htroiiMirss of tlu-ir cause trusting in a Divine Prov- idence, and daily renewing their strength by offering upon the wing of prayer to the throne of God, an humble- supplication for the suc-
n of the cause and the protection of the dear ones they had left behind.
But the Confederate soldier was ever willing and ready to sacri- fice his all for the sake of the land he loved; ever willing to face the dangers of the battlefield, or to suffer the privations of a soldier's life. Whether those dangers and privations appeared upon the lonely picket, or along the batteries' iron rain, or o'er the tiresome march, or across the front of the enemy's withering fire, he faltered not, but accepted them as his humble share and part in that mighty conflict, and faced every danger and bore each hardship with a he- roism that can never be excelled, and a devotion to duty which should inspire all mankind.
THEY FEAR TO BE FORGOTTEN.
Such self-sacrifice should never be forgotten; such love of country should live forevermore, and such loyalty to principle should implant in us a deeper love and reverence for the cause said to be "lost," but in the losing of which we gave the world the highest example of true manhood; made heroism more than a name, and added new lustre and meaning to glory. But, my friends, the saddest thought in the life of every soldier, martyr, or patriot, is the fear that some day he shall be forgotten; that some day those who will follow after him will forget his name, and remember not his deeds.
We are told that this fear hastened the death of Napoleon Bona- parte, and caused him more mental anguish and suffering than his incarceration upon the island of St. Helena. The soldier of every army has feared it; the martyr in every noble cause has dreaded it; the Confederate soldier shivers at the thought to-day, and looks appealingly to the Sons of Veterans for aid and comfort.
Sad, indeed, is the thought, "some day I shall be forgotten." Beautiful, yet pathetic, is the description of this given us by the poet, Wilde:
" My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning sky, Hut c-re tin- similes of evening cli>sr, Is scattered on the ground to die:
