Sitting By The Chimney Corner As We

One Sees That Dead, Vacant Look Steal Over The Rarest, Finest Of Women's Faces . . . In The Very Midst, It May Be, Of Their Warmest Summer's Day; And Then One Can Guess At The Secret Of Intolerable Solitude That Lies Hid Beneath The Delicate Laces . . .

We Don't Often Look Into These Unpleasant Details Of Our Great Struggle. We All Prefer To Think That Every Man Who Wore The Blue Or Gray Was A Philip Sidney At Heart.

It Has Happened To Me To Meet Many Of The Men Of My Day Whom The World Agreed To Call Great.

For, After All, Put It As We May To Ourselves, We Are All Of Us From Birth To Death Guests At A Table Which We Did Not Spread.

I Have Never Seen An Adequate Description Anywhere Of The Amazement, The Uncomprehending Horror Of The Bulk Of The American People Which Preceded The Firing Of That Gun At Sumter. Politicians Or Far-sighted Leaders On Both Sides Knew What Was Coming. And It Is They Who Have Written Histories Of The War. But To The Easy-going Millions, Busied With Their Farms Or Shops, The Onrushing Disaster Was As Inexplicable As An Earthquake. Their Protest Arose From Sea To Sea Like The Clamor Of A Gigantic Hive Of Frightened Bees.