The Only Hero Known To My Childhood

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.

Nowhere In This Country, From Sea To Sea, Does Nature Comfort Us With Such Assurance Of Plenty, Such Rich And Tranquil Beauty As In Those Unsung, Unpainted Hills Of Pennsylvania.

Crime, To The Man Of The Forties, Was An Alien Monstrous Terror.

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. The Sun, The Earth, Love, Friends, Our Very Breath Are Parts Of The Banquet.... Shall We Think Of The Day As A Chance To Come Nearer To Our Host, And To Find Out Something Of Him Who Has Fed Us So Long?

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.