These are some of the men for whom waiting women wept--the ones who never
came back. They belonged to Ewell's Corps, who attacked the Federal lines
so gallantly on May 18th. There may be some who will turn from this
picture with a shudder of horror, but it is no morbid curiosity that will
cause them to study it closely. If pictures such as this were familiar
everywhere there would soon be an end of war. We can realize money by
seeing it expressed in figures; we can realize distances by miles, but
some things in their true meaning can only be grasped and impressions
formed with the seeing eye. Visualizing only this small item of the awful
cost--the cost beside which money cuts no figure--an idea can be gained of
what war is. Here is a sermon in the cause of universal peace. The
handsome lad lying with outstretched arms and clinched fingers is a mute
plea. Death has not disfigured him--he lies in an attitude of relaxation
and composure. Perhaps in some Southern home this same face is pictured in
the old family album, alert and full of life and hope, and here is the
end. Does there not come to the mind the insistent question, "Why?" The
Federal soldiers standing in the picture are not thinking of all this, it
may be true, but had they meditated in the way that some may, as they gaze
at this record of death, it would be worth their while. One of the men is
apparently holding a sprig of blossoms in his hand. It is a strange note
here.
[Illustration: IN ONE LONG BURIAL TRENCH