It was an old burying ground and many men whom the South loved were buried there. The deepest passion of the ancient city’s soul was her love for her dead. One of the men led the other to where lay the eloquent Hayne, whose silver tongue had brought the great Webster up to his greatest effort. The other was Senator Wilson, Webster’s successor in the Senate. They looked at the graves grown over with weeds, for men had gone rabbit hunting in the shelled districts, and owls filled the offices. The two men were silent, nor could they find words fit for the scene. Their thought was of the great statesman, loved of all men, yet whose doctrines had brought such woe and destruction upon his city. And now the weeds were covering the grave of the apostle of secession and the owls and the bats inhabited the city of his love. With bared heads, in silence they paused while the tears welled into their eyes, then the senator said to his companion, in a broken voice: “There is a way that seemeth right unto man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” The other answered: “If I had the power of a great painter, I would paint this scene—this ruined city under the heel of the conqueror, this temple defiled by vandals, and I would inscribe it: ‘The successor of Webster at the tomb of Robert Y. Hayne.’” * * * * * There was a band of soldiers that heard the ringing words of Henry Ward Beecher when the old flag was raised again on the walls of Fort Sumter, and shouted with the rest when he charged the war upon a proud and impatient aristocracy. These remembered that one was buried in St. Phillips graveyard, the proudest, most dashing of them all. So when there was a respite from duty they turned into the Western Cemetery and were seen by the simple grave of Carolina’s hero. Not a tuft of grass seemed misplaced about it. “The arch-enemy!” one cried. “Damn—” but he stopped suddenly, like the boys of Dunvegan who must needs go over the hill out of sight of the moss-covered manse and the little red church in under the oaks before they could have heart to swear. “John Caldwell Calhoun,” another read. “It’s a wonder some of the boys haven’t torn him out of there.” “The old snook was a slick talker, but he had more sentiment than sense. None of those crazy loons down in here could see that it was too late in the day for slaves.” It was heartlessly said, yet he, too, had omitted his usual profane word, like the little boy who drops the stolen apple when he sees his mother’s grave. “Some night someone is going to mistake his grave for hidden treasure and open things up a bit, don’t you think?” the second remarked, with a glance they all understood.