eaven was
on his face, as I gazed on the noble features that afternoon. The bullet
had passed through his official papers and found his heart. He had
received his discharge, and the glorious reward had been won.

This is the other picture that the talk of the two old soldiers called
up,--dead Confederate against living Federal; and these two pictures
stand out before me again, as I am trying to make others understand and
to understand myself what it was to be a Southern man twenty-five years
ago; what it was to accept with the whole heart the creed of the Old
South. The image of the living Federal bids me refrain from harsh words
in the presence of those who were my captors. The dead Confederate bids
me uncover the sacred memories that the dust of life's Appian Way hides
from the tenderest and truest of those whose business it is to live and
work. For my dead comrade of the Valley campaign is one of many; some
of them my friends, some of them my pupils as well. The 18th of July,
1861, laid low one of my Princeton College room-mates; on the 21st, the
day of the great battle, the other fell,--both bearers of historic
names, both upholding the cause of their State with as unclouded a
conscience as any saint in the martyrology ever wore; and from that day
to the end, great battle and outpost skirmish brought me, week by week,
a personal loss in men of the same type.

[Note: The Princeton College room-mate who fell on the 18th of July was
JAMES KENDALL LEE, a distant relative of the great soldier; the other
was PEYTON RANDOLPH HARRISON, of Martinsburg (W.) Va., representative of
the oldest families in the old state. His brother, DABNEY CARR HARRISON
(Princeton, '48), another close friend, took service in the Confederate
army, first as chaplain, then as captain of a company, and was killed at
Fort Donelson which, as I painfully remember, was at first reported as a
Confederate victory.]

The surrender of the Spartans on the island of Sphacteria was a surprise
to friend and foe alike; and the severe historian of the Peloponnesian
war pauses to record the answer of a Spartan to the jeering question of
one of the allies of the Athenians,--a question which implied that the
only brave Spartans were those who had been slain. The answer was tipped
with Spartan wit; the only thing Spartan, as some one has said, in the
whole un-Spartan affair. "The arrow," said he, "would be of great price
if it distinguished the brave men from the c