Perhaps it is not well to open too frequently the deep wells of past sorrow that we may drink the bitter draughts which memory offers. Still, we would not forget the past--our glorious past--with all its terrible trials, its untold sufferings, its unwritten history. The Christian never forgets the dying groans on Calvary that gave to him his soul’s salvation; neither can an American citizen forget the great price paid for the life and liberty of this nation. Next to love of God is love of country. It is not my object to awaken any morbid feelings of sentimental sorrow, or to open again the deep wounds which time has healed. Neither do I wish to serve up to an unhealthy imagination a dish of fearful horrors from which a healthy organization must turn away. I would only ask you to look at the shadows a little while, that the life and light of peace and plenty which now fill our land may by contrast impress upon your hearts a picture more beautiful than any artist could place on canvas. Shadows always make the light more beautiful. In the fall of 1862 I found myself in Cape Girardeau, where hospitals were being improvised for the immediate use of the sick and dying then being brought in from the swamps by the returning regiments and up the rivers in closely crowded hospital boats. These hospitals were mere sheds filled with cots as thick as they could stand, with scarcely room for one person to pass between them. Pneumonia, typhoid, and camp fevers, and that fearful scourge of the southern swamps and rivers, chronic diarrhea, occupied every bed. A surgeon once said to me, “There is nothing else there: here I see pneumonia, and there fever, and on that cot another disease, and I see nothing else! You had better stay away; the air is full of contagion, and contagion and sympathy do not go well together.” One day a woman passed through these uncomfortable, illy-ventilated, hot, unclean, infected, wretched rooms, and she saw something else there. A hand reached out and clutched her dress. One caught her shawl and kissed it, another her hand, and pressed it to his fevered cheek; another in wild delirium, cried, “I want to go home! I want to go home! Lady! Lady! Take me in your chariot, take me away!” This was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of the South, who had left family and friends forever; obeying his country’s call, he enlisted under the stars and stripes because he could not be a traitor. He was therefore disowned, and was now dying among strangers with his mother and sisters not twenty miles away; and they knew that he was dying and would not come to him. Father, forgive them, they knew not what they did.