The sun, the earth, love, friends, our very breath are parts of the banquet.
From Rebecca Harding Davis
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.
War may be an armed angel with a mission, but she has the personal habits of the slums.
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.
You were only truly patriotic if you had a laborer for a grandfather and were glad of it.
Our young people have come to look upon war as a kind of beneficent deity, which not only adds to the national honor but uplifts a nation and develops patriotism and courage.
Reform is born of need, not pity.
I went to Concord, a young woman from the backwoods, firm in belief that Emerson was the first of living men. He was the modern Moses who had talked with God apart and could interpret Him to us.
Sitting by the chimney corner as we grow old, the commonest things around us take on live meanings and hint at the difference between these driving times and the calm, slow moving days when we were young.
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.
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