to his honor, let him off: let all offenders off that day. "No. 4" shook
hands with him, unable to speak, and turned away. Then he had a
strange turn. We had hard work to get him to go into the procession. He
positively refused; said he was not fit to go, or to live; began to cry,
and took off his jacket. He would go back to jail, he said. We finally
got him straight; accepted from him a solemn promise not to touch a drop
till the celebration was over, so help him God, and sent him off to join
his old command at the tobacco-warehouse on the slip where the cavalry
rendezvoused. I had some apprehension that he would not turn up in
the procession; but I was mistaken. He was there with the old cavalry
veterans, as sober as a judge, and looking every inch a soldier.

It was a strange scene, and an impressive one even to those whose hearts
were not in sympathy with it in any respect. Many who had been the
hardest fighters against the South were in sympathy with much of it,
if not with all. But to those who were of the South, it was sublime.
It passed beyond mere enthusiasm, however exalted, and rested in the
profoundest and most sacred deeps of their being. There were many
cheers, but more tears; not tears of regret or mortification, but tears
of sympathy and hallowed memory. The gayly decorated streets, in all
the bravery of fluttering ensigns and bunting; the martial music of many
bands; the constant tramp of marching troops; the thronged sidewalks,
verandas, and roofs; the gleam of polished arms and glittering uniforms;
the flutter of gay garments, and the smiles of beautiful women sweet
with sympathy; the long line of old soldiers, faded and broken and gray,
yet each self-sustained, and inspired by the life of the South that
flowed in their veins, marching under the old Confederate battle-flags
that they had borne so often in victory and in defeat--all contributed
to make the outward pageant a scene never to be forgotten. But this
was merely the outward image; the real fact was the spirit. It was the
South. It was the spirit of the South; not of the new South, nor yet
merely of the old South, but the spirit of the great South. When
the young troops from every Southern State marched by in their fresh
uniforms, with well-drilled battalions, there were huzzas, much applause
and enthusiasm; when the old soldiers came there was a tempest:
wild cheers choking with sobs and tears, the well-known,
once-heard-never-forgotten cry of