"He wore breeches."
"Then you are my long lost grandfather!" says the secesher, endeavoring to embrace me.
"It won't do," says I; "I've been to the Bowery Theatre myself;" and with that I took off his neck-tie and wiped my nose with it. This action was so repugnant to the feelings of a Southern gentleman, that he immediately died on my hands; and there I left him.
It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband and father——him whom I had morally assassinated. And there he sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting blessing to his children. Under ordinary circumstances, my boy, there's something deeply affecting in
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.
My boy, my lion-hearted boy,
Your father's end draws near;
Already is your loss begun,
And, curse it, there's a tear.
I've sought to bring you up, my son,