by Anthony Esolen
One of the ironies of our faith must surely be that saints have fought not only for God but also, at times, against one another, and we hope that God in his mercy will forgive us our short-sightedness and ineptitude and, as the poet Herbert says, "make up our defects with His sweet art."
It is the deep middle of the night, in the Shenandoah Valley. The year is 1862, and a young Confederate private huddled in his blanket wakes to a strange sound. It is not an owl or a nighthawk, but the General himself, Th . . .
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