that the possessor of them is unreconstructed (terrible word!) and
still a rebel!

But is it wrong to remember the past? I think of it without bitterness.
God decreed it--God the all-wise, the all-merciful--for his own
purpose. I do not indulge any repinings, or reflect with rancor upon
the issue of the struggle. I prefer recalling the stirring adventure,
the brave voices, the gallant faces: even in that tremendous drama of
1864-5, I can find something besides blood and tears: even here and
there some sunshine!

In this last series of my memoirs I shall deal chiefly with that
immense campaign. In the first series which, I trust the reader of
these pages will have perused, I followed Jackson through his hard
battles to the fatal field of Chancellorsville. In this volume I shall
beg the reader first to go with Stuart from the great review of his
cavalry, in June, 1863, to the dark morning of May 11, 1864, at Yellow
Tavern. Then the last days will follow.

I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on the
Plains of Culpeper.

It is a pleasure to return to it--for Gettysburg blackened the sunshine
soon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles rang; the great
banner floated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of
Villon? Alas! the strong hours work their will. June, 1863, is long
dead. The cavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are
ploughing. The rusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards.
The old saddles are shabby--and our friends take them away from us. The
old buttons are tarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The