On the morning of the 6th of April, twenty-five years ago, a sky as bright and beautiful as that which to-day bends above us, became obscured and darkened by the smoke of battle.  Of the Confederate forces then and there engaged it has been said, “Their splendid valor has been rarely equalled, never surpassed, on any field of any war.”  Alas! why must it be that grief and glory always go hand in hand?  Up through the heavy clouds which hid the face of nature that terrible day sped hundreds of gallant souls, straight to the light wherein was made clear to them the awful Providence which even now disquiets our hearts and clouds our earthly vision.  Among them, one whose sudden taking off filled every breast with gloom, and wrested from the Confederacy the fruits of a splendid victory.

So many and so grand are the eulogies which have been pronounced upon Albert Sydney Johnston that nothing remains for me to add.  Who does not remember the sorrow of a nation at his death?  Who can forget the lava tide of indignation which spread over our land when the “conquered” were forbidden to mourn their fallen hero, when a stricken people were compelled to “lay their hands upon their mouths, their mouths in the dust,” when even the mournful voices of the bells were silenced?

Viewed in the glorious light of to-day, how like a prophecy fulfilled appear the beautiful lines of Father Ryan,—­

  “There’s a grandeur in graves, there’s a glory in gloom,
  For out of the gloom future brightness is born,
  As after the night looms the sunrise of morn,
  And the graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,
  May yet form the footstool of Liberty’s throne.”

Years of bitter strife have left sad traces all over this beautiful Southland.  In lovely valleys, upon every hillside, in the majestic forests, lie, side by side, the Gray and the Blue.  The sun clothes every mound with equal glory, the sky weeps over all alike.  Standing beside these graves, angry passions die in the hearts of brave men; “one touch of nature” moistens manly eyes, softens obdurate hearts.  Involuntarily hands meet in a firmer clasp, which expresses respect as well as sympathy.

The soldiers on both sides have learned to appreciate and understand each other, so, in spite of those who would fain prolong the strife, the long-oppressed people of the South are free to mourn their dead, and

  “The graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,”

indeed

  “Form a footstool for Liberty’s throne.”

To-day the veterans who met and fiercely battled at Shiloh unite in doing honor to the memory of General Johnston and of the men who, with him, won immortality upon that bloody field.

To-day imperishable laurels bloom afresh upon the upturned brows of the men who hail with loud acclaim the image of their chieftain placed here to guard forever

  “War’s richest spoil,—­the ashes of the dead.”