In these sweet solitudes the morning passes quickly, and in the afternoon we go to the cemetery, which is about three miles from the town, to witness the decoration of the soldiers’ graves--for it is Memorial Day--the one day set apart in every year now and for all time for people to come to do honour to the dead who fell in the lost cause; nay, for the dead who fell on either side. Streams of people crowd the highways and byways, all flowing in one direction, and all mass together at the wide-open gates of the cemetery. The ground is kept by sundry mutilated remnants of the war; some with one arm, some with one leg, but none have the right complement of limbs, while some are mere mutilated crippled specimens of humanity, with bent bodies and limbs twisted out of their natural form. We wonder how they have had courage to crawl so far towards the end of their days, and to bear themselves cheerfully too. But the great God who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb” has not forgotten them. He sends them an invisible support and comforter we know not of; He lays His blessed hand upon their heart-strings and makes a music in their lives, grander and sweeter than is the blare of victorious trumpets to the conqueror’s ear. They live their lives out in this city of the dead, and through the sunny days or evening shadows, sleeping or waking, are always there surrounded by their silent brotherhood, who wait for them in the great beyond. They lie here under the green sod with upturned faces and hands crossed upon their breasts. “After life’s fitful fever they sleep well.” We arrive an hour before the ceremonial commences, and walk about the pretty grave-garden and read the names upon the monuments, and listen to anecdotes of those who rest below. The old soldiers seem to love to talk of their dead comrades, to fight their battles over again. They tell us how this one, “such a fine, handsome young fellow,” rode always into battle whistling a merry tune as he dashed into the thick of it; and how this one with the spirit of the ancient Puritans uplifted his voice to the glory of God as he brandished his sword and rushed to the front.