In this volume I shall
beg the reader first to go with Stuart from the great review of his
cavalry, in June, 1863, to the dark morning of May 11, 1864, at Yellow
Tavern. Then the last days will follow.
I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on the
Plains of Culpeper.
It is a pleasure to return to it--for Gettysburg blackened the sunshine
soon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles rang; the great
banner floated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of
Villon? Alas! the strong hours work their will. June, 1863, is long
dead. The cavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are
ploughing. The rusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards.
The old saddles are shabby--and our friends take them away from us. The
old buttons are tarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The
brass bands clash no more; and the bugles are silent. Where are the
drums and the bugles? Do they beat the long roll at the approach of
phantom foes, or sound the cavalry charge in another world? They are
silent to-day, and have long disappeared; but I think I hear them still
in my dreams!
It is in June, 1863, therefore, worthy reader, that I open my volume.
Up to that time I had gone with Jackson's "foot cavalry," marching
slowly and steadily to battle.
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