nce. The South has nothing to
take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its
central hills--a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a
name dear to me above the names of men, that of a brave and simple man
who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New
England--from Plymouth Rock all the way--would I exchange the heritage
he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shall
send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name
with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that
memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the
cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged
by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the
omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand, and that
human slavery was swept forever from American soil--the American Union
saved from the wreck of war.

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every
foot of the soil about the city in which I live is sacred as a
battleground of the Republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to
you by the blood of your brothers, who died for your victory, and doubly
hallowed to us by the blood of those who died hopeless, but undaunted,
in defeat--sacred soil to all of us, rich with memories that make us
purer and stronger and better, silent but stanch witnesses in its red
desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless
glory of American arms--speaking in eloquent witness in its white peace
and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American states and the
imperishable brotherhood of the American people.

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the
prejudices of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has
died in the hearts of the conquered? ("No! No!") Will she transmit this
prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts, which never felt
the generous ardor of conflict, it may perpetuate itself? ("No! No!")
Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight
from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she
make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the
couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his
lips with praise and glorifying his path to the grave; will she make
this vision on which the last s