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Think of
him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and
wounds. Having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the
hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and
pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills,
pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful
journey. What does he find--let me ask you who went to your homes eager
to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four
years' sacrifice--what does he find when, having followed the
battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half
so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and
beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves
free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money
worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away;
his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the
burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very
traditions are gone.


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