I suppose not many make the pilgrimage of America; land in New England with the Puritans or sail up the James River with the Cavaliers, linger reflectively at Mt. Vernon, consider Boston Harbor and the tax on tea, pause at Bunker Hill, and so on—or visit Sumter, where the Stars and Stripes were hauled down by the South, and then make the tour of the war which followed. It would be worth while—to think a little at Gettysburg and think again in Georgia, walking perchance to the sea after General Sherman. No such pilgrimage would be complete without riding the great mother river of America, and it occurred to me that a fitting place in which to end a pilgrimage, as far as the South is concerned, might be Vicksburg, with its vast National Cemetery of the dead of the Civil War. It is one of the most remarkable war shrines in any land. But, more than that, it is a solemn reminder of all the brothers’ blood that can be shed out of pride and vainglory of heart, and an obstinate refusal on the part of one section of a nation to follow the guiding star of the whole. Vicksburg is a beautiful city, built on a steep cliff, continually in sight of the broad, brown, passive streams of the Delta and the strips of forest which break up the waters. Above it all are the beautiful lawns and terraces of the National Cemetery rising from the Mississippi shore, and the dead lie in view, as it were, of the broad loveliness of the river. Sixteen thousand Americans hallow the soil. They are mostly of Grant’s army, but over and above there is another burying ground with many of his enemies. No vulgar notice warns you not to pick the flowers. Pick them if you will. But poems and prayers are scattered everywhere, and still as you go you pause and read, and pause and read again— On Fame’s eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead. Tiny cubes of white marble give the soldiers’ numbers and names and regiments. It reminds one now somehow of the great cemeteries of France. The mighty troop, the flashing blade, The bugle’s stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din, the shout, are past, says the next notice board. And yet, are they past? Are they not always going on—as long as the cause for which the soldiers fought remains? They fought for unity. They fought also for freedom. They had to do what fanatical old John Brown set out to do at Harper’s Ferry, try to release the land from that which was abominable in the sight of the Lord. They strove to do it by righteous force. They were martyrs on the altar of their country. And there is no doubt their country loved them for their devotion. No land honors more its heroic dead than does America. It is no mean thing to have died for America. The smoke still rises to heaven where her men were slain, and it will rise until their cause is completely vindicated.