but when the case was investigated it turned out that the house
was a bar-room over which the man lived, -- he was the same man
who had pitched the dog into the water, -- and that "No. 4",
after being given whiskey enough to make him a madman, had been put out
of the place, had broken into the bar during the night to get more,
and was found fast asleep in a chair with an empty bottle beside him.
I think the jury became satisfied that if any money had been taken
the bar-keeper, to make out a case against "No. 4", had taken it himself.
But there was a technical breaking, and it had to be got around;
so his counsel appealed to the jury, telling them what he knew of "No. 4",
together with the story of the child's dog, and "No. 4"'s reply.
There were one or two old soldiers on the jury, and they acquitted him,
on which he somehow managed to get whiskey enough to land him back in jail
in twenty-four hours.


In May, 1890, there was a monument unveiled in Richmond. It was
a great occasion, and not only all Virginia, but the whole South,
participated in it with great fervor, much enthusiasm, and many tears.
It was an occasion for sacred memories. The newspapers talked about it
for a good while beforehand; preparations were made for it
as for the celebration of a great and general ceremony in which
the whole South was interested. It was interested, because it was
not only the unveiling of a monument for the old commander,
the greatest and loftiest Southerner, and, as the South holds, man,
of his time; it was an occasion consecrated to the whole South;
it was the embalming in precious memories, and laying away in the tomb
of the Southern Confederacy: the apotheosis of the Southern people.
As such all were interested in it, and all prepared for it.
It was known that all that remained of the Southern armies would be there: