Reader! The writer said, when he began the "Reminiscences of the Guilford Grays," that it was not his purpose to undertake the severe labors of the historian, but to confine himself to the humbler task of relating what, has been part of his own experience.

To make the thread of narrative continuous and intelligible, it deserves to be mentioned, however, that it has been necessary to allude to portions of the history of those eventful times in which the Grays were only generally interested, which the circumstance will justify.

The writer closes this, his last chapter, with the consciousness that he has been actuated by the very kindest feelings to all, and that if an intimation has escaped him which may have injuriously touched the feelings of any one, none such was intended. How he has performed his work, the reader will judge. This much he will say for himself, that he has attempted to do it faithfully and—lovingly.

But little more now remains to be said. The morning of the 9th of April presented a spectacle never to be forgotten by those who saw it. General Gordon was at the front with a meagre two thousand men; behind us smoked the remnants of the wagon-trains; in the rear, drawn up and ready again to strike, was the shattered wreck of Longstreet's once grand and noble command. About ten o'clock dispositions were made for attack, when Gordon was ordered to advance.

In vain! Alas, in vain! Ye gallant few! Suddenly a halt was called, a flag of truce appeared upon the scene, hostilities ceased, and a dreamy sadness filled the April air. The grand old Army of Northern Virginia was environed! "I have done what I thought best for you," "the gray-headed man" said to his men. "My heart is too full to speak, but I wish you all health and happiness."

The negotiations relating to the surrender had been instituted on the 7th by a note from General Grant to General Lee. The correspondence was continued until the 9th, when the terms proposed by General Grant were accepted.

On the 10th, General Lee issued his farewell address to his army. On the afternoon of the 11th, the gallant Gordon spoke most eloquently to the little remnant massed in the open field.

The sun hid his face in sullen sympathy behind the clouds, night settled drearily over the camp, and the brave old army fell asleep.

On the 12th, the Army of Northern Virginia was marshaled for the last time, not to do battle, but to stack its arms and pass out of existence—forevermore.

Of the Guilford Grays who were present at the final scene of this eventful history, the following answered to roll-call: Captain Jno. A. Sloan, Lieut. Rufus B. Gibson, 1st Sergeant Thomas J. Rhodes, Sergeant Joel J. Thom; privates Peter M. Brown, Lewis N. Isley, Jas. M. Hardin, Walter Green, E. Tonkey Sharpe, Geo. W. Lemons, Silas C. Dodson, and Samuel M. Lipscomb.

On the 11th, printed certificates, certifying that we were paroled prisoners of war, were issued and distributed among us, bearing date April 10th, 1865, Appomattox Court-House, granting us "permission to go home, and remain there undisturbed."

Comrades! We entered the service in the bloom of youthful vigor and hope, with cheerful step and willing heart, leaving happy homes in peace and prosperity behind. We took the field for a principle as sacred as ever led a hero to the cannon's mouth, or a martyr to the place of execution.

This principle was honor and patriotism; a firm determination to defend to the last that constitution which our fathers had handed down and taught us to revere as the only safeguard of our personal rights and liberties.

After four long years, we returned to our homes in tattered and battle-stained garments, footsore, weary, and with aching hearts. We returned to see poverty, desolation, and ruin; to find the hearts of our loved ones buried in the graves of the dead Confederacy. Aye! and we have seen other sorrows. We have seen that constitution subverted under the forms of law; we have seen the rights of individuals and communities trampled in the dust without hope of redress. Nay, more! We have seen the government of the fathers removed from existence, and an engine of oppression, no longer a Union of States, but a Nation, like the devil-fish of the sea, reaching its hideous and devouring arms in all directions from one common centre, knowing only one law of action and of motive—the insatiate greed of avarice and plunder.

But though the Confederacy went down in fire and smoke, in blood and in tears, that truth, which was the guiding-star of the devoted soldiers who fought its battles, and of those at home who toiled and prayed for its success—that truth did not lower its standard or surrender its sword at Appomattox. We submit to the inevitable. We submit in dignity and in silence. But because we accept, with becoming minds and conduct, that subjugation which the fortune of war has entailed upon us, shall we therefore pronounce the word "craven?" Shall we now recant? Shall we now solemnly declare that we did not believe what we professed to fight for? Shall we thus insult, either in word or act, the memories of the dead heroes—and we dare maintain they died heroes—who sleep on a thousand hillsides and in the valleys of our common country?

Should we thus prostrate ourselves to invite the scorn and contempt which even our enemies would have the right to bestow upon us? Never! A thousand times never! "Will not history consent, will not mankind applaud, when we still uphold our principles as right, our cause as just, our country to be honored, when those principles had for disciple, that cause for defender, that country for son—Robert Lee?

"Not to his honor shall extorted tributes carve the shaft or mould the statute; but a grateful people will in time give of their poverty gladly that, in pure marble or time-defying bronze, future generations may see the counterfeit presentment of this man—the ideal and consummate flower of our civilization; not an Alexander, it may be; nor Napoleon, nor Timour, nor Churchill—greater far than they, thank heaven—the brother and the equal of Sidney and of Falkland, of Hampden and of Washington!"

A word to the survivors of the Guilford Grays, and I close these reminiscences. From the period of the outbreak of the war in April, 1861, to the surrender of the Confederate army in April, 1865, the muster-rolls of the Grays have contained one hundred and eighty names. Of this number, some were transferred to other commands, some were discharged for physical disabilities and other causes. A large proportion sleep, unmindful of the rude farmer's ploughshare upon the fields made memorable by their deeds. Some rest under the shades of the trees in the quiet cemeteries of your forest-green city, and some in the sacred churchyards of your historic country. Oh! they suffered a sad, dark fate—fallen in unsuccessful war!

On each return of Spring, come and bring flowers, nature's choicest, and scatter them on their graves. So long as tears fall, come and shed them there, and show to the world that we, of all men, are not ashamed of their memories or afraid to vindicate their motives.

And as we stand upon this hallowed ground, let us bury all animosities engendered by the war. In the grave there can be no rancorous hates; between the sleepers there is perpetual truce. Shall the living have less? Savages, only, perpetuate immortal hates. Then permit no "barbarian memory of wrong" to lodge in our breasts while we keep vigils over these graves of our illustrious dead.

To you who stood by me through all these eventful scenes, and came up out of the great tribulation, I pray Heaven's choicest blessings ever attend you—and now—adieu.