The handsomest monument to an individual which I saw upon the battlefield was the admirable bronze bust of Major General Martin L. Smith, C.S.A., and the one which appealed most to my imagination was also a memorial to a Confederate soldier:  Brigadier-General States Rights Gist.  Is there not something Roman in the thought that, thirty or more years before the war, a southern father gave his new-born son that name, dedicating him, as it were, to the cause of States Rights, and that the son so dedicated gave his life in battle for that cause?  The name upon that stone made me better understand the depth of feeling that existed in the South long years before the War, and gave me a clearer comprehension of at least one reason why the South made such a gallant fight.

* * * * *

Of more than fourscore national cemeteries in the United States, that which stands among the hills and trees, overlooking the river, at the northerly end of the military park, is one of the most beautiful, and is, with the single exception of Arlington, the largest.  It contains the graves of nearly 17,000 Union soldiers lost in this campaign—­three-fourths of them “unknown”!

It is interesting to note that, because the surrender of Pemberton to Grant occurred on July 4, that date has, in this region, associations less happy than attach to it elsewhere, and that the Fourth has not been celebrated in Vicksburg since the Civil War, except by the negroes, who have taken it for their especial holiday.  This reminds me, also, of the fact that, throughout the South, Christmas, instead of the Fourth of July, is celebrated with fireworks.

CHAPTER XLVI

SHREDS AND PATCHES

It was Marse Harris Dickson who showed us the battlefield.  As we were driving along in the motor we overtook an old trudging negro, very picturesque in his ragged clothing and battered soft hat.  My companion said that he would like to take a picture of this wayfarer, and asked Marse Harris, who, as author of the “Old Reliable” stories, seemed best fitted for the task, to arrange the matter.  The automobile, having passed the negro, was stopped to wait for him to catch up.  Presently, as he came by, Marse Harris addressed him in that friendly way Southerners have with negroes.

“Want your picture taken, old man?” he asked.

To which the negro, still shuffling along, replied: 

“I ain’t got no money.”

Marse Harris, knowing the workings of the negro mind, got the full import of this reply at once, but I must confess that a moment passed before I realized that the negro took us for itinerant photographers looking for trade.

With the possible exception of Irvin S. Cobb, I suppose Marse Harris has the largest collection of negro character stories of any individual in this country.  And let me say, in this connection, that I know of no better place than Vicksburg for the study of southern negro types.