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(From the Atlanta, Georgia, Constitution.)
(By Alan Rogers.)
Pathetic Scenes Marked the Interment of Lee’s “Old War-Horse.”
With muffled drums and the flag that was furled
With the cause that was lost, when the last smoke curled
From the last old gun, at the last brave stand—
His soul marched on with the old command;
And the step was slow, as they bore away,
To await the eternal muster day,
Their old-time comrade, lost awhile,
But loved long since for the brave old smile
That cleared the way when he only knew
His ways were Gray and their ways were Blue;
And if for a time, he walked alone,
He’s all right now, for “Longstreet’s home:”
Back to his old command he’s gone,
With Lee and Jackson looking on,
And cheering him back to the ranks again
With the Blue and the Gray all melted in.
Gainesville, Georgia, January 6, 1904.
Slowly the bells of Gainesville toll a requiem, the last taps have sounded only to be lost again across the winter-browned fields of Georgia, but the reveille of awakening still rings out clear and true that to-day old comrades in arms, citizens, soldiers, admirers, friends, women of the South, children of a rising generation, Georgia, and all Dixieland may know that Lieutenant-General James Longstreet, the “war-horse” of the Confederacy, has at last again joined his old command.
And the thousands who marched to the little cemetery just as the sun started on its sleeping journey in the west did not come to say a last good-by; with uncovered heads they simply said good-night.
In the court-house which but a few months ago was a converted hospital for the care of those maimed by a terrible cyclone, the body of General Longstreet rests beneath the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy and the Stars and Stripes of the Union. Old soldiers passed in a never-ending procession with uncovered heads for one last look upon the face of their commander. Look if you will behind that curtain of mist before the eyes of that wearer of a gray uniform and you will see quite another picture. It is that of his beloved “Old Pete,” as he was known by his own command, hurrying on to the support of General Jackson at Manassas. Or his indomitable courage on the retreat from Gettysburg “leading on and on as strong in the adversity of defeat as in the success that follows victory.” Or perhaps hurrying towards the front at the Wilderness, the intrepid leader so far in the van that he was wounded by his own men. Or at the last succumbing at Appomattox to the inevitable and with Lee reaping the reward of honor that belonged to a surrender that cost more bravery than all of the battles of that blood-drained period of history.
The sentinels that guard the bier are withdrawn. The body is carried by loving hands to the court-room above. Here in the presence of his nearest relatives and friends that taxed not alone the capacity of the building, but overflowed into an acre of mourning humanity outside.
Here in the closely crowded hall of justice converted into a sanctuary by lighted candles and the priestly robes of the officiating clergy, the services were held. There was no music save the stifled sob of brave men whose hearts were awakened to the sacred ties of old-time memories in a way beyond their control. Bishop Keiley, himself an old soldier of General Longstreet, and Rev. Fathers Gunn, of Atlanta, and Schadewell, of Albany, officiated. After the reading of the prayers of the impressive service of the Roman Catholic Church, Bishop Keiley in a beautiful eulogy revered again the memory of his old friend and commander. His address appears in another column, but the choking of his voice, the closed eyes shutting back the tears that would come,—these things are lost in the reproduction of printer’s ink and can only remain in the memories of those who were so privileged as to be present.