“Evils are wrought by want of thought,As well as want of heart.”
“Evils are wrought by want of thought,As well as want of heart.”
“Evils are wrought by want of thought,As well as want of heart.”
“Evils are wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.”
Look at that man stooping down and playing with Dick, our hospital pet. A gentleman? you ask, and I cannot wonder that you do. Every one who sees him says, “But he isn’t one of the privates?” He is; but I imagine there is no onehere more anxious to flourish in shoulder-straps. He has interested me much since I first met him here; he was very sick when he came in, but I did not see him until he was better, and taking his place as one of the orderlies—as our rule is in the hospitals, that convalescents turn into wardmasters and orderlies, before they are fit for active service on the field. His deference to the ladies, and certain little graces of manner, showed birth and breeding; and I said to M. one day, “That man was born a gentleman.” I found that she quite agreed with me, and had been struck by the same thing. And yet there was an air of dissatisfaction at times, and a bitterness of expression which I was at a loss to account for. One morning I had brought some books to the hospital, and on offering them to him, amongst others, he told me that he had so injured his eyes by over-study at college, that he was unable to use them at all at present. A few words more, and I discovered that he was a loyal Virginian, who, on the breaking out of the rebellion, had left family, friends, and a beautiful home, to enlist in our army. All his relations were bitterly opposed to the step; and he told me, with much pain, that when our army was in the neighborhood of his home, he had gone there to see his family, but that they had positively refused to see him, or even to allow him admittance. I could scarcely wonder at his depression after this; but it seemedto me that the consciousness of right, in the step he had taken, should have brought him more content and peace than he seemed to possess. A few afternoons since, he came in, as usual, with his waiter, to carry the supper to the sick men (those unable to leave their beds) in his ward. I noticed, as I arranged the plates for him, that he looked much disturbed, and that his hand trembled.
“King,” said I, “you are hardly strong enough yet to carry that waiter; you should ask one of the other orderlies to do it for you.”
I seemed to have fired a mine. Setting the waiter down upon the table, he burst forth:
“It’s no want of strength, Miss ——, but what would you think if you saw Dr. —— and Dr. —— (naming two of our surgeons) playing wardmaster and orderly in a hospital in the South? My position was just what theirs is, and I chafe at this menial work. My blood boils at playing waiter for the men here; I can’t stand it, and I won’t.”
I looked up in surprise. “What should I think, King, should I see such a dreadful sight as you suggest? I can tell you, very quickly, what I should think. If those gentlemen had, for the sake of their country, nobly given up every private tie as you have done, and, by the fortune of war, had been thrown into a hospital, I should honor and respect them for fulfilling every duty there imposed upon them; and I doubt not that theywould do it most cheerfully, as part of the service their country asks at their hands. I should like to know, also, whether it is less menial for the ladies to turn cooks here, than for the men to turn waiters? I cannot recall that I ever “chafed” at the “menial work,” or that my “blood boiled” at cooking eggs, or boiling farina, unless on a hot summer’s day, when the fire seemed intolerable, but never, I am very sure, from shame at the occupation. We go even further, for we act both cook and waiter. A day never passes that we do not carry to the men what we have made for them, to see if they like it—to know if it suits them—or oftener still, to feed them, because they are unable to feed themselves. Think what a state of fever-heat our blood should be in at this time, after two years of such services!”
“But the case,” said he, “is not a parallel one. Your service, grateful as we all feel for it, is voluntary, this is compulsory.”
“I thought you were a volunteer, King? When you enlisted, did you specify just the kind of work you would do? When your country needed you, did you limit the aid you offered? What matter is it to you whether she asks you to fight for her, or to serve her by ministering to her sick and wounded members, suffering in a common cause from their efforts on her behalf.”
“I never thought of it in that light before.”
“Think of it so now, my man; you will be far happier. That southern blood is a little too hot, and you have failed to perceive that all work is dignified and ennobled by the spirit which you bring to it. Because you are a classical student, and feel that you have talents and acquirements which fit you for something higher, you chafe at this service; but, believe me, the faithful performance of your duties here, will by no means unfit you for a command in the field so soon as your services there shall win for you the promotion you so much desire. So take up your waiter, and don’t let your blood boil too much as you go up stairs, or you may upset my saucers.”
He took my lecture in very good part, and since then we have been excellent friends. I think, since he realized that I preferred talking to him to lecturing him, and liked to enter upon higher themes with him, which he is so well fitted to discuss, that he has become more contented, and has resolved to accept his position. Let us speak to him; notice how his eye brightens and his expression changes, as he speaks.
“Well, King, how are your men to-day?”
“I’ve just been waiting for you, Miss ——; Joe sent me to ask you for two of those hand-splints you received yesterday—for the left hand, please—they are for Jarvis and Wright—those very bad arms, you know.”
“Oh! yes. The splints that came with all those things, yesterday, from the Sanitary Commission. God bless that Sanitary Commission—what should we do without it? Our soldiers here have quite as much reason to be grateful as those in the field. Look at those shelves—all that wine, those jellies, preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as well as these cushions, pads, and splints. They send us, constantly, fresh eggs, butter, lard, and such perishable articles as must be consumed at once. Here, King, take these splints, and then come back, will you, for some pickles I want to send to your men.”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if I can get down again; but Joe is going away on a furlough, to-day, and I am to be wardmaster till his return.”
“Shall your ‘blood boil’ more, or less, King, in your new position?”
Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the stairs? No more fear for him; he is only making himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to see him returned to his regiment. Very tired, are you, of the study of character? I have about a dozen more men here that I should like to show you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, now, quite aware that you feel amply satisfied with your hospital diet to-day.
July, 1863.
It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the last ten days—the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed—the eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions brought but further disturbance of mind—the difficulty of deciding upon the proper course of action—the heavy, wearing anxiety—the slow realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at a distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,—our homes laid waste, and ourselves fugitives—all these things live too freshly in the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that most memorable “Fourth” just passed?—the earnestness with which our cry to heaven went up for success to our arms—the pause of those long morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible suspense—and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightningflashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved. Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him—as a people we had acknowledged the weakness of a human arm—as a people we had poured forth our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us?
Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials, came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base; martyrdom for and with them so attractive,—and yet it was not quite clear to my mind—much as I longed to aid them—what special benefit could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence—so evidently sincere—from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far outstripping the ability.
“Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.”
“We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.”
“Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.”
“We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you, ladies, depend upon that.”
“Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed; “they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.”
I found that this “mince-meat” idea took more firm possession of my mind than almost any other connected with the raid; and one of the greatest reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was the consciousness that it could not now be put into execution.
The afternoon of the “Fourth,” as I entered the hospital, the beaming faces and glad congratulations of the poor fellows, proved how much they had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold front which they had all presented, with the single exception of my “mince-meat” friend. I still recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one man to whom I spoke of our victory. By some strange chance, which I never could explain, he had not heard it.
“Is that so? Is it really so? That’s bully. Let’s do something!” and, nothing else being at hand, he seized his pillow and sent it high into the air.
But now come the sad results, which must follow alike in the wake of victory or defeat. The wounded, where are they? A battle on our own soil, and at so short a distance from us, comparatively speaking, must bring them to us more directly from the field than any we have yet received; and we have been hoping all this week, as they were pouring into the city, that we should have our share.
“Hoping?” Yes, hoping; start not at the term, I have used it deliberately. Once launched upon the sea of hospital life, your views undergo a change, and your one interest becomes to receive, nurse, and watch the worst cases; it is the hospital spirit, and you cannot breathe its air without imbibing the feeling. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday have passed, with only the admittance of a few each day, none badly wounded, and none requiring special care or tending; and to those whose burning zeal makes them eager to pay off some part of their debt of gratitude to men, who, humanly speaking, have turned the enemy from their doors, this is somewhat of a disappointment. We have had, to be sure, the pleasure of several visits from old friends here, who had beenslightly wounded in the fight, and have been returned to other hospitals.
It is Saturday afternoon. I have just seated myself in our room for a moment’s quiet, after a most busy, bustling day,—many sick, and much to do, although not exactly what we had wished for. M. rushes in, on her return from her dinner.
“Sitting quietly, I declare, as if nothing was going on! Do you know what’s at the door?”
“Nothing different from usual, I presume; you needn’t try to excite me; I’ve just taken a seat for a five minutes’ rest.”
“Go and look for yourself, then, if you are so incredulous. Ambulances and stretchers enough, I should think, to suit even your taste.”
As I hurry, half doubting, to the door, I meet one of our surgeons, paper and pencil in hand, talking to one of the wardmasters.
“How many beds in your ward? All ready, did you say? That’s right.”
“Plenty of work for the ladies, Miss ——; I see some pretty bad cases coming in.”
“Just what we wanted, doctor; we have been hoping they would come in our week, and it’s almost over.”
“Time enough, yet, to make them plenty of milk punch, and cold drinks. Some of them, I notice, are much exhausted, and will need stimulating.”
Here was a practical suggestion—something to be acted upon at once, and far more useful than running to look at them, as they are carried in; so I return quickly, tell M. the doctor’s wish, and all our pitchers are hastily filled with milk punch, iced lemonade, syrup and water, etc., etc. This, of course, occupies some little time; and as we reach the dining-room,—where all are placed who can walk, hobble, or crawl, till they are distributed into the different wards, while those on stretchers are being carried at once to their beds,—I almost start at the rough-looking set we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of. Are they miners or coal-heavers? Black enough and dirty enough for either; and I catch myself repeating over and over, “In poverty, hunger, and dirt,” etc., till I am afraid I shall say it aloud. But what care we for dust and dirt? Set down your pitcher, shake hands, and thank them. Is it not Gettysburg dust and dirt? Is it not the dust and dirt of victory? Have not those torn and bullet-riddled clothes come straight from the field of their fame? And have they not saved us from distress, wretchedness, and ruin? I look at them with reverence; they seem to bring the battle so very near that the tears will rise, as those torn and dirty bandages show at what cost the victory was won. But do not imagine me standing all this time in a fine frenzy, meditating on the results of a battle. These thoughts slip in,between the filling and emptying of our pitchers, and the glad, grateful expressions for the “treat,” as they call it. Poor fellows! they shall have our best, that is very certain.
As I am pouring out the last glass from my pitcher, my eye is caught by a face, on a stretcher, as it is borne past me. It is that of a boy, scarcely more than sixteen, I should think. His thick, black curls, eyes bright and sparkling, (with fever, it must be,) and brilliant color, contrast with his remarkably clean shirt and sheet. What can it mean, amidst this mass of dirt? As my work is done, I follow him into the ward.
“You can’t have been in the Gettysburg fight, my boy, were you?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, rightly, whether you’d call it in it or not; I was in an ambulance, in the rear. I’ve been in one, following the army, since the twenty-first of June; and it seems pretty good to be on a thing that don’t move.”
“But why weren’t you left in a hospital?”
“’Cause I begged so to go on with the rest. The ambulance was going, and I begged them to let me go in it, and I promised to be well for the fight; so they took me; but I got so much worse, I didn’t know when the fight was; it’s the typhoid I’ve got, and my head’s dreadful bad.”
“Your hair is so heavy,” said I; “we’ll takesome of that off and bathe your head, and that will relieve it.”
“Oh! no, ma’am; no, thank you; I don’t want it off.”
“Why not? It would be much cooler, and do you good.”
“Why, I’ll soon be well, and it looks so pretty when it’s fixed!”
The time has come, since then, when I have quite agreed with David; those curls do look very “pretty, when they’re fixed;” and I am glad he pleaded for them so innocently. Let no one ever say that vanity is confined to the breast of woman; the result of close observation has convinced me that it lives and thrives with tenfold greater power in man; and this little proof of it, just uttered with so much simplicity, only confirms a preconceived opinion. I do not, however, confide these views to my new friend, but advising him to keep perfectly still, I say goodbye, for the present, and pass on. As I hurry down the ward, I am struck by the expression of utter contentment and quiet, on a strange face—one of the new men, evidently; as I come up to the bed where he is lying, he seems to me to be actuallypurringwith satisfaction.
“You look as if you were comfortable, my friend,” said I, “even though you are not very clean.”
“Oh! the blessing of this bed. If you couldknow, ma’am, what it was to have been marching twenty miles, whether you could or not, again and again, you’d soon feel what it was to be put on a bed and let to stay there. Like the South, ma’am, I just want ‘to be let alone;’ I don’t the least care whether I’m clean or dirty—I’m lying quiet, and I am happy.”
“Well, after a bath and clean clothes, which they are giving the men as rapidly as possible, you shall lie as still as you please; but I am afraid that must come first.”
“Don’t think, ma’am,” said he, laughing, “that I object to either of those things; they’ve not been too plenty where we were, but I just feel now as if I never wanted to move again.”
“I can easily understand your feeling; enjoy your quiet as long as they will let you, and I will bring you some supper, later.”
I left him and hurried over to our room, where I found M. busily employed, and hastened to take my share in the work. Just at this moment, as we were flying about in every direction, now here, now there, with a pad for one, a basin and sponge to wet wounds for another, cologne for a third, and milk punch for a fourth, I felt Dick (our hospital dog, my faithful friend and ally, a four-footed Vidocq, in his mode of scenting out grievances,) seize my dress in his teeth, pull it hard, and look eagerly up in my face. “What is it, Dick? I amtoo busy to attend to you just now.” Another hard pull, and a beseeching look in his eyes. “Presently, my fine fellow! presently. Gettysburg men must come first.”
He wags his tail furiously, and still pulls my dress. Does he mean that he wants me for one of them? Perhaps so. “Come, Dick, I’ll go with you.” He starts off delighted, leads me to the ward where those worst wounded have been placed, travels the whole length of it to the upper corner, where lies a man apparently badly wounded, and crying like a child. I had seen him brought in on a stretcher, but in the confusion had not noticed where he had been taken. Dick halted, as we arrived at the bed, looked at me, as much as to say, “There, isn’t that a case requiring attention?” and then, as though quite satisfied to resign him into my hands, trotted quietly off.
I stood a moment to take an observation—to make a sort of moral diagnosis before beginning my attack—to find out whether the man needed direct or indirect sympathy. Very often, to a severely wounded man—not of a nervous temperament, but suffering intensely,—a kind word, showing that you appreciate and enter into that suffering, falls on the burning wound with a soothing, cooling power, as beneficial, for the instant, as a more visible application; on the wound, I say, for the answer is, after a few minutes’ conversation,not, “Thank you, I feel better able to bear the pain, now;” but, “Thank you, my arm doesn’t burn as much as it did—my limb isn’t so painful—my head feels cooler, now.” But, on the other hand, who that has suffered from unstrung nerves does not know that what is most needed in such a case, is to divert the mind from itself—to present suddenly some other image powerful enough to efface from it the impressions of its own wretched self—to enable it to rouse itself and rise above the weakness it is ashamed of, but has no power to conquer? Any allusion to the suffering itself, in such a case, only adds fuel to the flame.
I had time to draw my own conclusions, and soon decided that Dick’s protegé belonged to this latter class. He did not notice my approach; I therefore stood watching him for a little while. His arm and hand, from which the bandage had partially slipped, were terribly swollen; the wound was in the wrist, (or rather, as I afterwards found, the ball had entered the palm of his hand and had come out at his wrist,) and appeared to be, as it subsequently proved, a very severe one.
My boast that I could make a pretty good conjecture what State a man came from by looking at him, did not avail me here. I was utterly at fault. His fair, Saxon face, so far as I could judge of it as he lay sobbing on his pillow, had something feminine—almost childlike—in the innocence andgentleness of its expression; and my first thought was one which has constantly recurred on closer acquaintance, “How utterly unfit for a soldier!” He wanted the quick, nervous energy of the New Englander, who, even when badly wounded, rarely fails to betray his origin; he had none of the rough off-hand dash of our Western brothers, and could never have had it, even in health; nor yet the stolidity of our Pennsylvania Germans. No! it was clear that I must wait till he chose to enlighten me as to his home. After a few minutes’ study, I was convinced that his tears were not from the pain of his wound; there was no contraction of the brow, no tension of the muscles, no quivering of the frame; he seemed simply very weary, very languid, like a tired child, and I resolved to act accordingly.
“I have been so busy with our defenders, this afternoon,” said I, “that I have had no time to come and thank you.”
He started, raised his tear-stained face, and said, with a wondering air, “To thank me? For what?”
“For what?” said I; “haven’t you been keeping the rebels away from us? Don’t you know that if it hadn’t been for you and many like you, we might at this moment have been flying from our homes, and General Lee and his men occupying our city? You don’t seem to know how grateful we are to you—we feel as though we could never do enoughfor our brave Gettysburg men to return what they have done for us.”
This seemed quite a novel idea, and the tears were stopped to muse upon it.
“We tried to do our duty, ma’am, I know that.”
“I know it too, and I think I could make a pretty good guess what corps you belong to. Suppose I try. Wasn’t it the Second Corps? You look to me like one of General Hancock’s men; you know they were praised in the papers for their bravery. Am I right?”
The poor tired face brightened instantly. The random shot had hit the mark.
“Yes, Second Corps. Did you know by my cap?”
“Your cap? You don’t wear your cap in bed, do you? I haven’t seen your cap; I guessed by that wound—it must have been made where there was pretty hard fighting, and I knew the Second Corps had done their share of that.”
But this was dangerous ground, as I felt the moment the allusion to his wound was made; the sympathy was too direct, and his eyes filled at once. Seeing my mistake, I plunged off rapidly on another tack.
“Did you notice my assistant orderly who came in with me just now? He had been over to see you before, for he came and told me you wanted me.”
“I wanted you! No, ma’am; that’s a mistake; no one’s been near me since they bathed me, and gave me clean clothes—I know there hasn’t, for I watched them running all about; but none came to me, and I want so much to have my arm dressed.” And the ready tears once more began to flow.
“There is no mistake. I told you that my assistant orderly came to me in the ladies’ room, and told me that you needed me. Think again—who has been here since you were brought in?”
“Not a single soul, ma’am,—indeed, not a thing, but a dog, standing looking in my face, and wagging his tail, as if he was pitying me.”
“But a dog! Exactly; he’s my assistant orderly; he came over to me, pulled my dress, and wouldn’t rest till I came to see after you. I am surprised you speak so slightingly of poor Dick.”
Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I entered at large upon Dick’s merits; his fondness for the men—his greater fondness, occasionally, for their dinners—his having made way with three lunches just prepared for men who were starting—(the result, probably, of having heard the old story that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) our finding him one day on our table with his head in a pitcher of lemonade, and how I had tried to explain to him that such was not the best way of proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but I feared without much effect—in short, I made along story out of nothing, till the wardmaster arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor’s orders were that the new cases should all take something to eat before he examined their wounds. My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in listening to Dick’s varied talents, and allowed me to give him his supper very quietly, as I found he was really too much exhausted even to raise his uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure of seeing him smile for goodbye, and having given him rather more time than I could spare, hurried away, with a promise of seeing him the next day (Sunday), for they were too ill not to be watched.
But oh! for a little more daylight! It is getting so dark, and yet I must stop and make acquaintance with each new face—or rather, I long to do so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear blue eyes, over there—just what the French call “les yeux de velours!”—I cannot surely pass them without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. What a contrast their owner presents to poor Stillwell, my tearful friend, whom I have just left. A sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light hair, and something very winning in his open, frank expression, which attracts you to him at once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look on the bright side of everything.
“You don’t look as though you were suffering much; I hope you’re not badly wounded.”
What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends his hand to me at once!
“Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; it’s pretty painful, but I guess I’ll be all right in a few days.”
How little could I imagine, from his words, what I found out a few days later, that I was standing at that moment by one of the very worst wounds that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told me that he considered it a most critical case, and that, had the shot gone one half inch further, it must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that Dick and I between us, had discovered the two most severely wounded men in the whole hospital. For many weeks after that they were dangerously ill, requiring close and careful watching every hour, but rewarding us in the end with the hope of perfect recovery.
“I am glad to hear it,” said I, in answer to his too sanguine view of his wound, “for you don’t look as if you had seen much sickness, and maybe you wouldn’t bear it very well.”
“I’ve never been a day in bed in my life before this, and I hardly know what to make of it. I’m an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in the open air, and I couldn’t stand being shut up here at all; it’s as bad as the Libby prison.”
Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison!
“Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever, have you?”
“Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in here.”
“Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow, to see how you all are.”
“Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending his hand, he said “good-night.”
So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious Gettysburg fight.
The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately massed in our midst, are scattered; some—too few, alas!—returned, cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of thewar) discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy—as I raise his head to give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear.
“What is that, Henry?”
“What is that, do you ask, Miss ——? That is only some of our poor Gettysburg boysgoing home;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by.
Time has gone on; new faces, new forms, have filled the places of the old ones, and still our labors, our hopes, our Prayers, continue for our dear and bleeding country; still continues, also, our abiding faith and trust in the ultimate triumph of the right; and, leaving the event in Higher Hands, fearlessly we abide the issue.
THE END.
[1]Let me say here, once for all, that the term “we” is not used as the petty affectation of authorship, but is formed by the Lady Visitor with whom I am associated,—the “M.” of these pages—whose untiring self-sacrifice, and whole-souled devotion to the cause, can only be appreciated by those whose pleasure it is to be connected with her in this work.[2]This was, of course, before the Government appointment of our present faithful and efficient Chaplain, whose earnest and self-denying labors render any such service quite needless.[3]This was, of course, written before the establishment of the “Soldiers’ Home,” at the corner of Crown and Race streets.
[1]Let me say here, once for all, that the term “we” is not used as the petty affectation of authorship, but is formed by the Lady Visitor with whom I am associated,—the “M.” of these pages—whose untiring self-sacrifice, and whole-souled devotion to the cause, can only be appreciated by those whose pleasure it is to be connected with her in this work.
[1]Let me say here, once for all, that the term “we” is not used as the petty affectation of authorship, but is formed by the Lady Visitor with whom I am associated,—the “M.” of these pages—whose untiring self-sacrifice, and whole-souled devotion to the cause, can only be appreciated by those whose pleasure it is to be connected with her in this work.
[2]This was, of course, before the Government appointment of our present faithful and efficient Chaplain, whose earnest and self-denying labors render any such service quite needless.
[2]This was, of course, before the Government appointment of our present faithful and efficient Chaplain, whose earnest and self-denying labors render any such service quite needless.
[3]This was, of course, written before the establishment of the “Soldiers’ Home,” at the corner of Crown and Race streets.
[3]This was, of course, written before the establishment of the “Soldiers’ Home,” at the corner of Crown and Race streets.