Part 1

NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE

FROM NOVEMBER, 1861, TO AUGUST, 1863.

“Je viens de faire un ouvrage.” “Comment! un livre?” “Non; pas un livre; je ne suis pas si bête!”

PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1864.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

DEDICATION, v

INTRODUCTION BY BISHOP POTTER, vii

PREFACE, xi

INTRODUCTION, 17

OUR DAILY WORK, 23

A MORNING AT THE HOSPITAL, 38

THE TWO ARMIES, 43

THE CONTRAST, 47

BROWNING, 63

BROWN, 69

DARLINGTON, 75

“LITTLE CORNING,” 93

GAVIN, 105

CHRISTMAS AT THE U. S. A. HOSPITAL, ----, ----, 114

POOR JOSÉ, 128

ROBINSON, 139

THE RETURN TO THE REGIMENT, 157

A VISIT TO THE WARDS, 168

OUR GETTYSBURG MEN, 193

TO THE PRIVATES OF THE Army of the United States; WHOSE DARING IN DANGER; PATIENCE IN PRIVATION; SELF-SACRIFICE IN SUFFERING; AND LOYALTY IN LOVE FOR THEIR COUNTRY, HAVE GIVEN TO THE WORLD A NOBLE EXAMPLE, WORTHY OF ALL IMITATION,

These Notes are affectionately Dedicated,

BY ONE WHOSE PRIVILEGE IT IS TO HAVE BEEN PERMITTED TO MINISTER TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED AMONG THEM, IN ONE OF OUR CITY HOSPITALS.

INTRODUCTION.

These “Notes” need no introduction. They were jotted down, from day to day, as a private journal, and are printed only at the instance of friends. The undersigned greatly mistakes if they are not welcomed as an accession to our literature. On every page they betray a large and elegant culture, and what is better, they manifest a profound sympathy in all that is human, and a keen insight into nature and into man’s heart. Felicities of thought and expression abound, vivid pictures of incidents and life-like sketches of character. They are full of spirit, of wisdom, and of right feeling.

They rise, too, to the level of a great subject. In the conflict which convulses our land, how many souls are stirred--how many hearts made to burn! We cannot envy him or her who can look on such a scene--on the principles involved, and the interests at stake, and yet not feel kindled to a higher life. We can regard but with compassion those who see in this war only blunders to be criticised, absurdities to be ridiculed, crimes to be gloated over, or life and property to be deplored.

If, in the liberty and peace of those who live in this land, and of the millions who are to come after, there be anything precious; if there is anything sacred and venerable in the unity of a great people and in the sovereignty with which they have been charged by solemn compact; if there is any claim upon us as men and as Christians, in behalf of a race that has suffered long and sorely at our hands, and that now, for the first time, seems to behold the light of hope, then is there that at stake which should move every one to sympathy and to help.

Our hearts must bleed as we gaze on the vast suffering; but “we buy our blessings at a price.” Hitherto it has been our great danger that we have had little save sunshine. Prosperity, great and uninterrupted, is perilous for nations as well as individuals. It is amidst thunder-clouds, and storms, that the oak gets strength and deep root; it is while battling in tempestuous seas that the vessel proves and at the same time confirms her capacity. So in this gigantic strife, powers will be elicited, and a trust in God and in grand principles developed, which will be, we trust, our fortress and our high tower hereafter.

It is one of the merits of this writer that, with a heart alive to the wants and wretchedness of the sick and wounded, she joins discernment of the mighty questions involved. She sees, with exquisite relish, the picturesque in character and incident; she has an eye, too, for the deep wealth of affection and generous sympathy that lie embedded in the roughest natures--for the flashes of merriment and drollery which lighten up the darkest scenes--for the delicate tastes and noble sentiments that often possess those whose hands have been hardened by toil, and whose minds (in the judgment of too many) must needs have been debased by habitual contact with vulgar pursuits. Hers is a heart which can feel that which makes all the world akin--which can see that labor does not degrade, but rather elevates those who pursue it in the true spirit; and that nothing can be more preposterous in a land like ours, which is made and glorified by the joint handiwork of God and man, than to decry or despise it. These pages are instinct with faith in God and in our people; with hope for the future; with a charity that never faileth.

A. POTTER.

PHILADELPHIA, February, 1864.

PREFACE.

A literary friend said to me some time since, “One of the greatest evils of this rebellion, is the manner in which it is tainting our literature, science, and arts. If they would only fight it out and confine it to fighting, bad as it is, we might rise from its effects; but this flood of war-literature will so set the mind of the next generation into a military groove, that poetry, refined taste, and love for the beautiful, will be lost in the roar of literary drums and mental musketry.”

“And did you imagine,” said I, “that such a rebellion could be carried on without affecting and injuring every nerve and fibre of the whole country? Do you not see that it is a moral Pyæmia--a poisoning of the veins of the entire nation? And although we trust the disease may be arrested ere it destroy national existence, still the system suffers throughout; and the result must be vapid volumes, paltry pictures, and silly statements of so-called science. But granting that it is to be deplored--that the military mind should take the place of the literary one, I must break a lance with you on the question whether, in so doing, ‘poetry, refined taste, and love for the beautiful’ must of necessity be lost. I will not grant it. At the opening of the war I thought, with you, that the finer feelings of our nature were exclusively the property of the higher classes; but two years’ experience in a military hospital, where men appear mentally as well as physically in “undress uniform,” has shown me the utter fallacy of such a theory; and now I do not hesitate to affirm that I have seen there as much unwritten poetry, tender feeling, aye, and love for the beautiful, as I have ever witnessed among the same number of people gathered together at any time, or in any place.”

Sickly sentimentality, whether shown in words or actions, for “our poor, suffering soldiers,” is certainly a thing to be much deprecated; but, on the other hand, is not a hard, gregarious view of them to be equally avoided?

I do not ask to raise them to _more_, but not to sink them to _less_ than men. Our army is no “Corporation without a soul;” it is a mass of units--a collection of beating hearts, throbbing pulses, and straining nerves, which ask and need our love and sympathy, and surely they should not ask in vain.

I have anticipated your question, dear reader, “Why bore us with your conversation with your friend?” Simply because that conversation has led to the further bore of this volume. These notes were jotted down as the incidents occurred; they are a simple statement of facts simply stated. The only object of collecting them at present is that, as my friend’s feeling appears to be a general one, it seemed possible that these instances might prove, in some small degree, the converse of the proposition; and, although at any other time quite unworthy of publication, the intense and absorbing desire, at present, to obtain particulars of even the most trifling circumstances connected with the war, has led me to hope that they may not be wholly without interest.

In conclusion, I must regret the necessity of any mention of self; but the nature of the subject requires this, and without it, very frequently the point to be established would be lost. I have omitted many incidents from this very objection, but it would be unjust to the cause which I have at heart to do more, and I must therefore trust that the reader will believe me, when I say that any such allusion arises from necessity, not taste.

AUGUST, 1863.

FLORIAN.--A soldier, didst thou say, Horatio? What! Is’t from the ranks you mean? Faugh!

HORATIO.--Marry, I did! A soldier and a man; and, being a soldier, all the manlier, maybe.

We “Faugh!” and turn our precious noses to the wind, As breath from ranks, perforce must be rank breath; But, mark, my lord, God made the ranks, and more, God died for those same ranks, as well as men of rank.

OLD PLAY.

NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE.

INTRODUCTION.

Life in a hospital! When and where? Now and here. Now, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three; here, in this good city of Philadelphia, whose generous outpouring of her sons, for the cause, nearest all our hearts, can only be matched by the loving tenderness with which she receives and cherishes them, on their return, maimed and mutilated, to their homes amongst us. Every one, who knows anything of the subject at the present moment, is well aware, that no matter where it may be situated, whether opened at the first need, or the creation of yesterday, still “our Hospital” will be, to the speaker, the most perfect in arrangement, discipline, and ventilation; the medical staff connected with it the most efficient, skilful and faithful; the corps of subordinates the most competent, systematic and thorough. Such is human nature, and we all find the weakness a pardonable one.

How natural it seems to be here! How naturally we accept this strange daily life! And yet, how unnatural it would have seemed two years ago, could we have lifted but one little corner of that mystic veil, which so blessedly prevents even a glimpse of the coming hour; how unnatural, I say, would it have seemed to us, to be standing, as we are at the present moment, in a little domain of our own, consecrated exclusively to us; turning to all sorts of utterly unwonted avocations; any and every sort of service which may bring comfort or aid to those who were strangers to us, till this very day, and after a few to-morrows, will, in all probability, be strangers to us forevermore.

And yet, how glad we are to do it, and they to have it done. “Stop there, my friend,” you say. “‘And they to have it done.’ Is that so? Are the men quite as glad to have it done, as you to do it?” Ah, you have heard that cry. I too have heard it, and will tell you frankly, and as far as possible, impartially, my own conclusion, after careful examination of that point:

“Women are not needed in these hospitals.”

“Depend upon it, ladies are a bore here.”

“The men are victimized.”

All these and many similar remarks have I heard, and they have led me earnestly to look at the question in all its bearings. The petty jealousy of man and his work; the narrowness and littleness of mind which bristles with indignant anger at the suggestion of man’s superiority, are all unworthy of the great cause we have at heart. But one question is before us. Are the facts so, or are they not? If, after every effort honestly to get at the truth, it shall appear that there really is no need of woman and her work; that these enormous collections of suffering and dying human beings, massed together by this ruthless rebellion, with its wretched results, actually and positively, may be carried on better, more practically, more systematically, without her aid and co-operation, then let her promptly and decidedly retire; let her do it without anger, without clamor, without bitterness; she is not needed. If this be so, let her turn into some other channel the love and tenderness which she longs to lavish on those who are giving their heart’s blood to defend and protect her.

If this be so, I say; but if on the other hand it shall appear that her presence is not productive of disorder; not distasteful to the men; that she is not only sanctioned, but welcomed by the authorities in charge, then let her go “right onward,” unmindful of coldness, calumny, or comment from the world outside, strong in the consciousness of singleness of aim and purity of purpose. And, more than this, if the Dread Day may show, that through her kneeling at the bedside of one sinning soul, through her teaching of

“truths, not ‘her’s,’ indeed, But set within ‘his’ reach by means of ‘her,’”

the dark Door of Death has been changed into the White Gate of Life Everlasting, shall it not then be granted that women were needed?

This is not the time or place to enter upon the great question of woman’s mission. She has her work, and the time is coming when she shall be permitted to do it. God, in His own marvellous way, is, even now, causing the dawn of that blessed day to break, when, rising above prejudice and party spirit, she shall be allowed to take her true place, and be, in the highest sense of the word, a “Sister” to the suffering and the sorrowful; to assert and claim her “rights,” the only rights of which a woman may justly be proud.

“What are Woman’s Rights?”

“The right to wake when others sleep; The right to watch, the right to weep; The right to comfort in distress, The right to soothe, the right to bless; The right the widow’s heart to cheer, The right to dry the orphan’s tear; The right to feed and clothe the poor, The right to teach them to endure.

“The right when other friends have flown, And left the sufferer all alone, To kneel that dying couch beside, And meekly point to Him who died; The right a happy home to make In any clime, for Jesu’s sake; Rights such as these, are all we crave, Until our last--a quiet grave.”

Anxious, as I have said, to discover whether our presence in the hospital was really acceptable or not, I have closely watched the countenances of the men on the entrance of the lady visitors. I speak not now of myself, for I am merely one, and a most insignificant one, among many; but I can truly say, that at all such times I have never, but once, seen other than an expression of pleasure, and the warm greeting is apparently most sincere. The one instance to which I allude, is certainly no argument against the presence of ladies; it extended to every one who approached his bedside, and was produced by intense physical anguish, acting on a highly nervous organization. I merely name it now, because it is, as I have said, the sole instance in which we were not welcomed and urged to stay. And yet, the very words, in that suffering, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched,” proved that it was no dislike to us personally, but merely that terrible state, too well known to any one of a very nervous temperament, when even the stirring of the air by the bedside seems a pain. Subsequent events, which I have noted elsewhere, show this to have been the case.

At the time of the visit of the Surgeon-General of the United States to inspect the hospitals, it was rumored, though wholly without foundation, that his object was to change the organization and remove the ladies. The burst of feeling with which this rumor was received was more than gratifying, it was convincing, and proved that if the men were “victimized” they were quite unconscious of it. Only a day or two since, as I was sitting by one of our sick men, M. passed with some preparation in her hand, which she had just made. He turned to me, and pointing to her, said, “I don’t think all our angels are in heaven, do you?”

The same feeling, though not always expressed in the same words, seems to be entertained by one and all. “Tell me,” said I to one the other day, “if I am in your way?”

“In our way!” said he, “is the green grass in our way?”

“No, for you walk over it, and I have no wish to be trampled on.”

He looked disappointed. “I didn’t mean that, Miss, I meant its presence always cools and refreshes us, and I thought you’d understand.”

“I did quite understand, and thank you,” I said, sorry that I had pained him by rejecting the well-meant expression of feeling.

Any one who seriously desires to ascertain the truth, (and to such only do I address myself) will believe that these instances are not recorded for the sake of retailing compliments, but as proofs of a far deeper feeling, which, there can be little doubt, does exist in the hearts of the men amongst whom we are appointed to minister.

OUR DAILY WORK.

AUGUST, 1862.

You ask me, dear C., the usual question, when our work at the hospital is mentioned, “What can the ladies find to do all day?” I might give you the stereotyped answer, “We receive and register the donations, give out and oversee the clothing, make either delicacies or drinks for the men who are ill, read to them, write for them, and try to make ourselves generally useful.” This is the ordinary answer, but I think it would be more agreeable to you to come and see for yourself; one day is a pretty good specimen of every day, at least at present, so don your bonnet and jump into the cars with me. What do you say? That the sun is too scorching and the air too heavy for exertion? You think so here, but come with me, and you will soon forget weather and self in more important affairs; at least, so I find it. You agree? Well, then, here we are; why don’t you acknowledge the guard’s salute as we enter? Shall we pause for a moment in the wards, before we begin our work? I think we had better do so, for in these days, when we once enter our room, there is no escape, while the light lasts. There are several cases here which I should like to point out to you as we pass along, though we cannot give much time to them to-day. Do you see the man bending over that geranium plant in the window? I think I have never seen a more real, true, deep love of flowers in any one than in him. You see how lovingly he leans over that bush, as though each leaf were a special pet and darling. I have often, this summer, brought him a few roses--as much, I believe, for my own pleasure as his--that I might watch his delight. He would sit often for nearly an hour looking at them, holding them in his hands and lingering over them, it seemed, with a feeling too deep for words.

I never could tell whether it was pure love of the flowers themselves, or whether they brought home, with all its memories, before him; and as he is very reserved, I content myself with giving the enjoyment without being too critical as to its cause.

But while I am talking, I see that your eyes are wandering to that bed, where one of our sickest men is lying. He is an Irishman, and far gone in consumption, poor fellow! He has interested me much by his air of silent, weary suffering, and from his loneliness; he seems to have no friends anywhere, and is very grateful for the least service rendered him. And yet he has a good deal of drollery about him, and when his pain will let him, often amuses the men with his dry remarks. The other day, as I passed him, his hard, hollow cough was followed by such a deep, heavy sigh, that I stopped at once, saying, “What can I do for you, Jones? Is there nothing that you want?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing; sure, and what I want, is what you can’t give.”

“Tell me what it is; perhaps I may be able to help you.”

“Sure, and it’s lonely I am, so very lonely; and it’s some one to love that I’m wanting.”

“Ah,” said I, “you were right to say I couldn’t help you, for unfortunately wives are not provided by Government.”

Here his Irish humor gained the ascendant, and with a merry twinkle in his eye, so mournful but a moment before, he said, “But I’m thinking that’s jist what you ladies is here for, to supply what isn’t provided by Government.”

“Exactly,” said I, much amused; “but I do not find wives among the list of luxuries on our diet-table. Jones, look at the man at your side, the man opposite to you, and the man directly in front of you; ask each one of those three what is their greatest trouble at this moment, and I happen to know exactly what they will tell you.

“The one at your side is wearying for a letter from his far distant home, which will not come, and dreading that even on its arrival, it will only tell him of sickness and suffering among those dearest to him, and which, lying here, he has no power to relieve; the man opposite to you has just read me a letter from his wife, telling him that she and the children were almost starving; she has hurt her right arm, and can no longer work, scarcely hold the pen to write that letter, and he will send no pay,--charging him with it, as though the poor fellow could help it.”

“‘God knows,’ he says, ‘every cent I ever earned was at her service and the weans;’ (he is a Scotchman, as I knew, when I heard him say that) ‘but the pay don’t come, and I lie here thinking all night, till I sometimes feel I must pray very hard or I shall cut my throat.’

“I have been trying to comfort him with the assurance that he will be paid before long, and have been telling him how many difficulties there are in the way of prompt payment in the army, and that the men must try to be patient, and believe that the Government has a hard task, far harder than they know, to meet all the requirements which this sad state of things necessarily causes.

“The man directly in front of you, unable as you know to rise from his bed, has just heard of his wife’s death, here in the city, and does not know who will see to her funeral, nor who will take care of his little ones; now, may not some things be worse than loneliness?”

“Faith, an’ its truth you’re spakin’; a sight worse are such things than all this pain and cough; and I’ll think of that same, when the other thought comes, when my breath’s so short, and the pain’s so bad, that longing to have an old woman to say, ‘Is it sufferin’ ye are, Jones, dear?’ and I’m just the sort to fret, if she was wantin’, and I lyin’ here, not able to help her. Thank you, ma’am, I see it’s far best as it is.” And I left poor Jones, convinced that there were circumstances in which an “old woman” was better “in posse,” than “in esse.”