there is something beautifully pathetic in the picture of the north and the south clasped in each other's arms and shedding a torrent of hot tears down each other's backs as it is done in a play, but do you believe that the aged mothers on either side have learned to love the foe with much violence yet? do you believe that the crippled veteran, north or south, now passionately loves the adversary who robbed him of his glorious youth, made him a feeble ruin, and mowed down his comrades with swift death? do you believe that either warrior is so fickle that he has entirely deserted the cause for which he fought? even the victor cannot ask that.