“I would like to have missed it very much!”[1] he said. [Footnote 1: His words.] XXVI. THE CHARGE OF THE VIRGINIANS. Lee’s great blow at the enemy’s left had failed. He had thrown his entire right wing, under Longstreet, against it. The enemy had been driven; victory seemed achieved;--but suddenly the blue lines had rallied, they had returned to the struggle, their huge masses had rolled forward, thrown Longstreet back in turn, and now the pale moon looked down on the battlefield where some of the bravest souls of the South had poured out their blood in vain. Lee had accomplished nothing, and one of his great corps was panting and bleeding. It was not shattered or even shaken. The iron fibre would stand any thing almost. But the sombre result remained--Longstreet had attacked and had been repulsed. What course would Lee now pursue? Would he retire? Retire? The army of Northern Virginia lose heart at a mere rebuff? Lee’s veteran army give up the great invasion, after a mere repulse? Troops and commander alike shrunk from the very thought. One more trial of arms--something--an attack somewhere--not _a retreat_! That was the spirit of the army on the night of the second of July. A flanking movement to draw the enemy out of their works, or a second attack remained. Lee determined to attack. Longstreet and Ewell had accomplished nothing by assailing the right and left of the enemy. Lee resolved now to throw a column against its centre--to split the stubborn obstacle, and pour into the gap with the whole army, when all would be over. That was hazardous, you will say perhaps to-day, reader. And you have this immense argument to advance, that it failed. Ah! these arguments _after the event_! they are so fatal, and so very easy. Right or wrong, Lee resolved to make the attack; and on the third of July he carried out his resolution. If the writer of the South shrinks from describing the bloody repulse of Longstreet, much more gloomy is the task of painting that last charge at Gettysburg. It is one of those scenes which Lee’s old soldiers approach with repugnance. That thunder of the guns which comes back to memory seems to issue, hollow and lugubrious, from a thousand tombs. Let us pass over that tragedy rapidly. It must be touched on in these memoirs--but I leave it soon. It is the third of July, 1863. Lee’s line of battle, stretching along the crest of Seminary Ridge, awaits the signal for a new conflict with a carelessness as great as on the preceding day. The infantry are laughing, jesting, cooking their rations, and smoking their pipes. The ragged cannoneers, with flashing eyes, smiling lips, and faces blackened with powder, are standing in groups, or lying down around the pieces of artillery. Near the centre of the line a gray-headed officer, in plain uniform, and entirely unattended, has dismounted, and is reconnoitring the Federal position through a pair of field-glasses.