Bands of music continually enlivened the scene.  One of these (Gauche Brothers, of Dallas) was of rare excellence, rendering “Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Dixie,” and an exquisite nocturne, “The Soldier’s Dream” (composed for this occasion by the leader of this band), with so much expression and skill as to elicit great applause.  The speaker’s stand was beautifully ornamented.  Hanging on either side of the rostrum was a Confederate battle-flag.  Above them, in the centre, floated a new and very handsome United States banner in graceful undulations.  From its blue field not a star was missing.  All had been restored, and the bunting waved proudly as if instinct with knowledge of this fact.  But, oh, those other flags! sacred emblems of a cause so loved, so nobly defended, yet, alas, lost! shattered and torn by shot and shell, begrimed with the smoke of battle, deeply stained with precious blood; as the summer breeze dallied with their ragged folds, they seemed to stir with a feeble, mournful motion, like the slow throbbing of a breaking heart.  Pictures illustrating camp-life, battle scenes, etc., ornamented the stand, which was also decorated plentifully with red and white, with a sufficient admixture of blue to make one remember to be loyal to the present.  The attempt to depict camp-life, cannon, camp-fires, tents, stacked guns, sentries, etc., was utterly upset by the presence of hundreds of ladies and children, with the inevitable paraphernalia necessary to their comfort.  “The front of grim-visaged war” was constantly being smoothed into beauty by baby fingers.  Men, lured by siren voices, deserted the tented field, and were happy, in entire forgetfulness of duty (so called).  Soldiers who did not bring ladies enjoyed hugely living in tents and once more “messing” together.  Many eloquent speakers addressed the crowd.  Pearls of eloquence were sown broadcast, and brought forth a generous harvest of applause.

The number of officers present was surprising.  Generals, colonels, majors were pointed out to me by the score, and at last I began to wonder whether in the portion of the Confederate army here represented there were any “privates,” at least I might have so wondered had I not known that, after many of the battles now being recalled with honest pride and merited applause, my own eyes had been too dim with tears to see the glory, my ears had failed to catch the sounds of triumph, because so filled with awful death-groans or the agonizing cries of the wounded.  Men whose parting breath was an ascription of praise to the god of battles, whose last earthly joy was the knowledge of victory, and others who, shattered and torn and in throes of agony, yet repressed their moans that they might listen for the music of the fount which “springs eternal,” whose bright waters (to them) mirrored the cause they loved so well.

All honor to those who planned the glorious campaigns of the late war—­who dauntlessly led heroic legions.  Their record is without a parallel in the history of nations.  Equal honor to the rank and file—­whose splendid valor and self-sacrifice made success possible even when further efforts seemed but a “forlorn hope.”