Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column; and the whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia. They had come back after a great march and a great battle. The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna; the battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank of the Potomac. Thus nothing had been gained, and nothing lost. But alas! the South had counted on a great and decisive victory. When Lee failed to snatch that from the bloody heights of Gettysburg--when, for want of ammunition, and to guard his communications, he returned to the Potomac--then the people began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson, the cause was lost. Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From that day dated the decadence of the Southern arms. At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated--and stopped. At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of defeat, and the shadow of death. What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs, is Lee and his paladins--officers and privates of the old army of Northern Virginia--fighting on to the end, true in defeat as in victory, in the dark days as in the bright--closing up the thin ranks, and standing by the colors to the last. That picture may be gloomy--but it will be sublime, too. BOOK II. THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS. I. UNDER “STUART’S OAK.” Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established his headquarters at “The Bower,” an old mansion on the Opequon. The family at the ancient hall were Stuart’s cherished friends, and our appearance now, with the red flag floating and the bugle sounding a gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed with enthusiasm and rejoicing. All at the “Bower,” loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love him always. His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive grounds, beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It was a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw the old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away, around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined with immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the blue of the summer sky. Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old “Bower,” and good days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and the incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief space in this paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!