Thus reasoning, we took our last look of the lovely panorama of river, islets, and hills; of the city of the dead—beautiful in wooded heights and streams and peaceful valleys, on our right—while on the left was the city of the living, noble and fair, and, in the distance, now as silent as Hollywood.
My companion lifted his arm abruptly and pointed northward.
A long, low line of cloud hung on the horizon—dun, with brassy edges—sullen and dense, save where a rainbow, vivid with emerald, rose-color, and gold, spanned the murky vapor.
“Fair weather cometh out of the North,” uttered the resolute optimist. “With the Lord is terrible majesty. After all, He is omnipotent. We will hope on!”
We were measurably cheered on our way back to the heart of the city by the sight of the Flag of Virginia flying serenely from the staff where had flaunted the Stars and Bars, an hour ago. At supper, my father related with gusto how a deputation of Secessionists had waited on the Governor to offer congratulations upon the Confederate victory. How he had received them but sourly, being, as the deputation should have known, an “inveterate Unionist.” When felicitated upon the result of the siege, he returned that he “did not consider it a matter for any compliments.” At that instant he caught sight of the flag hoisted to the roof of the Capitol, demanded by whose order it was done, and straightway commanded it to be hauled down and the State flag, usually sported when the Legislature was in session, to be run up in its stead.
“Governor Letcher has a rough tongue when he chooses to use it,” commented my father. “He is honest, through and through.”
The talk of the evening could run in but one channel. Our nerves were keyed up to the highest tension, and the day’s events had gone deep into mind and heart. Two or three visitors dropped in, and both sides of the Great Controversy were brought forward, temperately, but with force born of conviction. If I go somewhat into the details of the conversation, it is because I would make clear the truth that each party in the struggle we feared might be imminent, believed honestly that justice and right were at the foundation of his faith. I wrote down the substance of the memorable discussion, as I recorded and published other incidents of the ever-to-be-remembered era, while the history of it was still in the making. I am, then, sure that I give the story correctly.
John Miller opened the ball by “hoping that the North was now convinced that the South was in earnest in maintaining her rights.”
I liked my Scotch brother-in-law, and we bandied jests safely and often. But it irked me that we should have a Secessionist in a loyal family, and I retorted flippantly, lest I should betray the underlying feeling:
“There has been no madness equal to Secession since the swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea. The choking in the waves will come later.”