The moment it was known that Virginia had passed the ordinance of secession, the cheering, enthusiastic crowd which had for hours surrounded Mechanics’ Institute, made a rush for the State-House to “haul down” the old flag, and run up the “stars and bars.”  Upon making the attempt, it was found impossible to move the United States flag, some one having either nailed or driven it with staples to the staff.  Two boys, burning with zeal, started for the cupola to cut loose the flag.  One of these, although a lad of eighteen, was a member of the Richmond Howitzers.  Hoping to outstrip the other, he climbed hand over hand up the lightning-rod.  Just as he reached the goal of his ambition, however, the staples securing the rod pulled out and the boy was left swaying back and forth in mid-air, while the crowd upon the top of the capitol and on the ground below looked on in horror.  The lightning-rod was one of the old-fashioned sort, and more than an inch in diameter.  One after another the staples gave way under the weight.  The rod swayed gently back and forth as if uncertain which way to fall, but finally lurching towards the up-town side.  Every one expected that the lad would be so disconcerted and appalled when he struck the edge of the roof, that he would be unable to look out for his own safety.  One of the party resolved to attempt a rescue, although by so doing his own life would be endangered.  Throwing himself flat on the roof like a bat, he slid down headforemost to the gutter, which, fortunately, was very wide.  Placing himself on his back in this gutter so as to be able to arrest the other poor boy in his fall, he waited until the lightning-rod struck the roof, then called out loudly, “Let go; I’ll catch you.”  The boy obeyed, and as he slipped down the roof in an almost unconscious condition, his rescuer in the gutter grasped and held him until he recovered his self-possession, when both pulled off their shoes and climbed the steep roof to the skylight.  Both boys were gallant soldiers, but perhaps neither was ever again in greater danger than when excess of patriotism cost the one that hazardous ride on the lightning-rod, the other to assume the equally dangerous but noble position of rescuer.

Both are still living,—­veterans now.  One, occupying a position of honor and of public trust, is a personal friend of the writer.

To me the Confederate flag was an object of profound love and passionate devotion.  It represented hopes that I thought could never fail, possibilities so glorious that imagination was dazzled.  I used to go to the square before sunrise, leading my little boy, trying vainly to make him understand and share in some degree my own enthusiasm, but instead he only busied himself in trying to steal near enough to pounce upon one of the many little birds flitting from spray to spray with happy songs.  Approaching the beautiful monument where the statues are so lifelike as to appear real companions, sentient and cognizant of one’s