Bell, Brailsford, Dougherty, Rumbert, and Baxter, who,
with myself, grouped near him, all are in the grave, save only I, and,
standing a few weeks since by the fresh mould that covers Joseph H.
Lumpkin, and yesterday by the grave of Bell, my mind wandered back to
the old State House, and to those who were with me there. Separated for
more than forty years from the home of my birth, being with, and
becoming a part of another people--a noble, generous, and gallant
people--and almost forgetting my mother tongue, these had faded away
almost into forgetfulness; but, tottering with years, and full of
sorrows, I am here amid the scenes made lovely and memorable by their
presence, when we were all young and hopeful. They come back to me, and
now, while I write, it seems their spirits float in the air of my
chamber, and smile at me. Why is my summons delayed so long? All that
made life lovely is gone--youth, fortune, and household gods. My
children are in bloody graves--she who bore them preceded them to
eternity; yet I live on, and sigh, and remember, while imagination
peoples with the past the scenes about me.
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