At the conclusion of the address a hymn, “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” was sung by the uplifted voices of the whole multitude, even to the outermost edge they caught up the sweet refrain, and it rose and fell, swelled and softened, till it rolled back upon our ears in waves of melodious music, which stirred our hearts and sent a mist floating before our eyes.
Now the ladies descend from the platform and scatter themselves over the ground, their mourning figures passing to and fro among the graves: on every mound they lay a bunch of flowers, regardless on which side they fought,--the “boys in blue” and the “boys in gray” are all arrayed in one common raiment now. Who knows but a spirit army may be bending down from the skies above, watching the pious work, and no longer seeing through a glass darkly, longing to whisper, “All is well,” to the hearts which are still sorrowing below.
The solemn ceremonial over, drums beat, the soldiers resume their arms, form in line, the band plays a stirring military air, and they march quickly off the ground. We watch the crowd melt away, but do not feel disposed to join the busy, chattering stream on its homeward road, especially as by this time quite a miniature fair has risen up outside the cemetery gates; and roast; peanuts, fruit, cake, and iced drinking stalls are surrounded by thirsty multitudes, who keep up a lively rattle among themselves; while the tag-rag of the gathering run after the military procession, and follow it on its way back to the dusty town. We wander for a while through the deserted cemetery, reading the strange medley of mottoes, and the sometimes ludicrous and always commonplace chronicles of the virtues of the sleeper. We are presently invited to sit down and rest in the porch of a rustic dwelling, the home of one of the crippled guardians of the place--a grand old man he was, with gray hair and a face bronzed by exposure to many weathers, and scored and wrinkled by the hand of time. He brought us a jug of deliciously cool milk, and sat down and talked, as old men love to talk, of “the days that are bygone”; and told us many pleasant anecdotes of “how we lived down south forty years ago.”
The evening shadows were lengthening, and lying like long spectral fingers on the dead men’s graves, as we rose up and made our way hurriedly to the horse-car which was to carry us back to Atlanta.