your tribulation. Show your
soldier that his unflinching courage, his undying fortitude, are your
crown of rejoicing. Incite him to enthusiasm by your inspiration. Make
a mock of your discomforts. Be unwearying in details of the little
interests of home. Fill your letters with kittens and canaries, with
baby's shoes, and Johnny's sled, and the old cloak which you have
turned into a handsome gown. Keep him posted in all the
village-gossip, the lectures, the courtings, the sleigh-rides, and the
singing schools. Bring out the good points of the world in strong
relief. Tell every piquant and pleasant and funny story you call think
of. Show him that you clearly apprehend that all this warfare means
peace, and that a dastardly peace would pave the way for speedy,
incessant, and more appalling warfare. Help him to bear his burdens by
showing him how elastic you are under yours. Hearten him, enliven him,
tone him up to the true hero-pitch. Hush your plaintive Miserere,
accept the nation's pain for penance, and commission every Northern
breeze to bear a Te Deum laudamus.

It fell to me once to read the record of a young life laid early on our
country's altar. I saw noble words traced by the still hand,--words of
duty and honor and love and trust that thrilled my heart and brought
back once more the virtue of the Golden Age,--nay, rather revealed the
virgin gold of this; but through all his letters and his life shone,
half concealed, yet wholly revealed, a silver thread of light, woven in
by a woman's hand. Rest and courage and hope, patience in the
weariness of disease, strength that nerved his arm for shock and onset,
and for the last grand that laid his young head low,--all flowed in
upon him through the tones of one brave, sweet voice far off. A
gentle, fragile, soft-eyed woman, what could such a delicate flower do
against the "thunder-storm of battle"? What DID she do? Poured her
own great heart and own high spirit into the patriot's heart and soul,
and so did all. Now as she goes to fro and in her daily life, soft-eyed
still and serene, she seems to me no longer a beautiful girl, but a
saint wrapped around already with the radiance of immortality.

Under God, the only question, as to whether war shall be conducted to a
shameful or an honorable close, is not of men or money or material
resource. In these our superiority is unquestioned. As Wellington
phrased it, there is hard pounding; but we shall pound t