I am not sure I can do better than to give an unstudied story of the unseen side of that golden shield of theirs — no silver side, alas!
but dark, dull iron.
The Ohio, at Louisville, behind you, southward across Kentucky and Tennessee, you look upon a region in the rear of the army of the Cumberland, a breadth of three hundred and eight miles to the spurs of the mountains.
That area, once so lovely, is dappled with those shadows strange and sad — the hospitals of the Federal army.
At Chattanooga, at Bridgeport, at Stevenson, at Cowan, at Decherd, at Murfreesboroa, at Nashville, strown all along the way, are flocks of tents sacred to mercy and the soldiers' sake.
I wish I could bring you near enough to see them, that I could lift aside a fold in ward A here, or ward B there; that you may see the pale rows, each man upon his little couch, the white sheet setting close to the poor, thin limbs like the drapery of the grave.
It would wonderfully magnify, I think, the work you are do