message from their loved ones. They died in barns, in bushes, in
ditches, the buzzards of the summer heat the only attendants on their
obsequies. No one but the infinite God who knows everything, knows the
ten thousandth part of the length, and breadth, and depth, and height
of anguish of the Northern and Southern battlefields. Why did these
fathers leave their children and go to the front, and why did these
young men, postponing the marriage-day, start out into the
probabilities of never coming back? For the country they died. Life
for life. Blood for blood. Substitution!

But we need not go so far. What is that monument in Greenwood? It is
to the doctors who fell in the Southern epidemics. Why go? Were there
not enough sick to be attended in these Northern latitudes? Oh, yes;
but the doctor puts a few medical books in his valise, and some vials
of medicine, and leaves his patients here in the hands of other
physicians, and takes the rail-train. Before he gets to the infected
regions he passes crowded rail-trains, regular and extra, taking the
flying and affrighted populations. He arrives in a city over which a
great horror is brooding. He goes from couch to couch, feeling of
pulse and studying symptoms, and prescribing day after day, night
after night, until a fellow-physician says: "Doctor, you had better go
home and rest; you look miserable." But he can not rest while so many
are suffering. On and on, until some morning finds him in a delirium,
in which he talks of home, and then rises and says he must go and look
after those patients. He is told to lie down; but he fights his
attendants until he falls back, and is weaker and weaker, and dies for
people with whom he had no kinship, and far away from his own family,
and is hastily put away in a stranger's tomb, and only the fifth part
of a newspaper line tells us of his sacrifice--his name just mentioned
among five. Yet he has touched the furthest height of sublimity in