Every Child Was Taught From His Cradle

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.

The Histories Which We Have Of The Great Tragedy Give No Idea Of The General Wretchedness, The Squalid Misery, Which Entered Into Every Individual Life In The Region Given Up To The War. Where The Armies Camped The Destruction Was Absolute.

... I Suppose That The Party Or Sect Which Is To Do Any Work In The World Must Breathe Its Own Peculiar Atmosphere, Speak Its Own Little Patois, And See But One Side Of The Question On Which It Fights.

You Will Find The Poet Who Wrings The Heart Of The World, Or The Foremost Captain Of His Time, Driving A Bargain Or Paring A Potato, Just As You Would Do.

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 . . .