Little more than three years ago there came a day long to be remembered by every man, woman, and child resident in New Orleans, and by all strangers then sojourning within her gates.  A day when the souls of thousands held but a single thought, when all hearts beat as one, when one impulse, strong, thrilling, irresistible led willing feet to where, upon a pedestal, raised stone by stone by love and self-sacrifice, stood the shrouded figure of General Robert E. Lee.  Above hung heavy clouds, alas! too suggestive of the hopes that perished forever at Appomattox, but ever and anon the struggling sun broke through, lingering awhile as if to recall the matchless glory which, even in the hour of disaster and defeat, gilded and made immortal the untarnished swords, the stacked arms, then and there surrendered.

To me the terrific storm which soon broke, upsetting all arrangements, abolishing all ceremonies, hushing all oratory, seemed to solemnize and mark in a most fitting manner this great occasion.  For no tongue of man or angel could have evoked a feeling so strong, a sentiment so lasting, as that written, as it were, by the finger of Heaven that day upon the hearts of that awe-stricken multitude.  Years hence, those who were boys then will remember the lesson there learned.  They will tell you of the soldierly figures standing at the foot of the monument, exposed to the pitiless storm, immovable, unshrinking ON DUTY, and these were men who, following where duty led, had won an imperishable record under the immortal Lee.

They will describe how, in the storm-swept streets outside the enclosure, legions of soldiers, the Blue as well as the Gray, calmly faced the howling tempest, standing “at rest,” awaiting the moment when the form of the great commander should be revealed to their reverent gaze.  Among these, the veterans of the Army of Tennessee bore a conspicuous part.  In their true, brave hearts, second to none in allegiance to their commander-in-chief, there yet lay enshrined another image, there burned another purpose equally high and holy.  Hope pointed down the long vista of the future to where lay—­a tomb! only a tomb! nay, more—­a “bivouac of the dead,” where, life’s battle fought, the toilsome march ended, weary comrades might gather to their rest.  And so far distant, yet always in sight, gleamed their Mecca; steadily towards it marched the pilgrims of memory, unfaltering, undismayed, led by a few brave, faithful spirits, through deserts of discouragement, when oases were few and far between, patiently bridging chasms which seemed impassable, until to-day they stand at the goal so hardly won.  There lie the veterans who one by one have stolen to the bivouac.  “After life’s fitful fever they sleep well.”  Above, faithful comrades keep watch and ward.  Here is a solemn but glorious trysting-place.