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Complete Prose Works

by Walt Whitman · English · Gutenberg #8813 · 1,424,141 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Complete Prose Works

Author: Walt Whitman


        
Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8813]
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE PROSE WORKS ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team









COMPLETE PROSE WORKS

Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Good Bye My Fancy

By Walt Whitman



CONTENTS

SPECIMEN DAYS

  A Happy Hour's Command
  Answer to an Insisting Friend
  Genealogy--Van Velsor and Whitman
  The Old Whitman and Van Velsor Cemeteries
  The Maternal Homestead
  Two Old Family Interiors
  Paumanok, and my Life on it as Child and Young Man
  My First Reading--Lafayette
  Printing Office--Old Brooklyn
  Growth--Health--Work
  My Passion for Ferries
  Broadway Sights
  Omnibus Jaunts and Drivers
  Plays and Operas too
  Through Eight Years
  Sources of Character--Results--1860
  Opening of the Secession War
  National Uprising and Volunteering
  Contemptuous Feeling
  Battle of Bull Run, July, 1861
  The Stupor Passes--Something Else Begins
  Down at the Front
  After First Fredericksburg
  Back to Washington
  Fifty Hours Left Wounded on the Field
  Hospital Scenes and Persons
  Patent-Office Hospital
  The White House by Moonlight
  An Army Hospital Ward
  A Connecticut Case
  Two Brooklyn Boys
  A Secesh Brave
  The Wounded from Chancellorsville
  A Night Battle over a Week Since
  Unnamed Remains the Bravest Soldier
  Some Specimen Cases
  My Preparations for Visits
  Ambulance Processions
  Bad Wounds--the Young
  The Most Inspiriting of all War's Shows
  Battle of Gettysburg
  A Cavalry Camp
  A New York Soldier
  Home-Made Music
  Abraham Lincoln
  Heated Term
  Soldiers and Talks
  Death of a Wisconsin Officer
  Hospitals Ensemble
  A Silent Night Ramble
  Spiritual Characters among the Soldiers
  Cattle Droves about Washington
  Hospital Perplexity
  Down at the Front
  Paying the Bounties
  Rumors, Changes, Etc.
  Virginia
  Summer of 1864
  A New Army Organization fit for America
  Death of a Hero
  Hospital Scenes--Incidents
  A Yankee Soldier
  Union Prisoners South
  Deserters
  A Glimpse of War's Hell-Scenes
  Gifts--Money--Discrimination
  Items from My Note Books
  A Case from Second Bull Run
  Army Surgeons--Aid Deficiencies
  The Blue Everywhere
  A Model Hospital
  Boys in the Army
  Burial of a Lady Nurse
  Female Nurses for Soldiers
  Southern Escapees
  The Capitol by Gas-Light
  The Inauguration
  Attitude of Foreign Governments During the War
  The Weather--Does it Sympathize with These Times?
  Inauguration Ball
  Scene at the Capitol
  A Yankee Antique
  Wounds and Diseases
  Death of President Lincoln
  Sherman's Army Jubilation--its Sudden Stoppage
  No Good Portrait of Lincoln
  Releas'd Union Prisoners from South
  Death of a Pennsylvania Soldier
  The Armies Returning
  The Grand Review
  Western Soldiers
  A Soldier on Lincoln
  Two Brothers, one South, one North
  Some Sad Cases Yet
  Calhoun's Real Monument
  Hospitals Closing
  Typical Soldiers
  "Convulsiveness"
  Three Years Summ'd up
  The Million Dead, too, Summ'd up
  The Real War will never get in the Books
  An Interregnum Paragraph
  New Themes Enter'd Upon
  Entering a Long Farm-Lane
  To the Spring and Brook
  An Early Summer Reveille
  Birds Migrating at Midnight
  Bumble-Bees
  Cedar-Apples
  Summer Sights and Indolences
  Sundown Perfume--Quail-Notes--the Hermit Thrush
  A July Afternoon by the Pond
  Locusts and Katy-Dids
  The Lesson of a Tree
  Autumn Side-Bits
  The Sky--Days and Nights--Happiness
  Colors--A Contrast
  November 8, '76
  Crows and Crows
  A Winter-Day on the Sea-Beach
  Sea-Shore Fancies
  In Memory of Thomas Paine
  A Two Hours' Ice-Sail
  Spring Overtures--Recreations
  One of the Human Kinks
  An Afternoon Scene
  The Gates Opening
  The Common Earth, the Soil
  Birds and Birds and Birds
  Full-Starr'd Nights
  Mulleins and Mulleins
  Distant Sounds
  A Sun-Bath--Nakedness
  The Oaks and I
  A Quintette
  The First Frost--Mems
  Three Young Men's Deaths
  February Days
  A Meadow Lark
  Sundown Lights
  Thoughts Under an Oak--A Dream
  Clover and Hay Perfume
  An Unknown
  Bird Whistling
  Horse-Mint
  Three of Us
  Death of William Cullen Bryant
  Jaunt up the Hudson
  Happiness and Raspberries
  A Specimen Tramp Family
  Manhattan from the Bay
  Human and Heroic New York
  Hours for the Soul
  Straw-Color'd and other Psyches
  A Night Remembrance
  Wild Flowers
  A Civility Too Long Neglected
  Delaware River--Days and Nights
  Scenes on Ferry and River--Last Winter's Nights
  The First Spring Day on Chestnut Street
  Up the Hudson to Ulster County
  Days at J.B.'s--Turf Fires--Spring Songs
  Meeting a Hermit
  An Ulster County Waterfall
  Walter Dumont and his Medal
  Hudson River Sights
  Two City Areas Certain Hours
  Central Park Walks and Talks
  A Fine Afternoon, 4 to 6
  Departing of the Big Steamers
  Two Hours on the Minnesota
  Mature Summer Days and Night
  Exposition Building--New City Hall--River-Trip
  Swallows on the River
  Begin a Long Jaunt West
  In the Sleeper
  Missouri State
  Lawrence and Topeka, Kansas
  The Prairies--(and an Undeliver'd Speech)
  On to Denver--A Frontier Incident
  An Hour on Kenosha Summit
  An Egotistical "Find"
  New Scenes--New Joys
  Steam-Power, Telegraphs, Etc.
  America's Back-Bone
  The Parks
  Art Features
  Denver Impressions
  I Turn South and then East Again
  Unfulfill'd Wants--the Arkansas River
  A Silent Little Follower--the Coreopsis
  The Prairies and Great Plains in Poetry
  The Spanish Peaks--Evening on the Plains
  America's Characteristic Landscape
  Earth's Most Important Stream
  Prairie Analogies--the Tree Question
  Mississippi Valley Literature
  An Interviewer's Item
  The Women of the West
  The Silent General
  President Hayes's Speeches
  St. Louis Memoranda
  Nights on the Mississippi
  Upon our Own Land
  Edgar Poe's Significance
  Beethoven's Septette
  A Hint of Wild Nature
  Loafing in the Woods
  A Contralto Voice
  Seeing Niagara to Advantage
  Jaunting to Canada
  Sunday with the Insane
  Reminiscence of Elias Hicks
  Grand Native Growth
  A Zollverein between the U. S. and Canada
  The St. Lawrence Line
  The Savage Saguenay
  Capes Eternity and Trinity
  Chicoutimi, and Ha-ha Bay
  The Inhabitants--Good Living
  Cedar-Plums Like--Names
  Death of Thomas Carlyle
  Carlyle from American Points of View
  A Couple of Old Friends--A Coleridge Bit
  A Week's Visit to Boston
  The Boston of To-Day
  My Tribute to Four Poets
  Millet's Pictures--Last Items
  Birds--and a Caution
  Samples of my Common-Place Book
  My Native Sand and Salt Once More
  Hot Weather New York
  "Ouster's Last Rally"
  Some Old Acquaintances--Memories
  A Discovery of Old Age
  A Visit, at the Last, to R. W. Emerson
  Other Concord Notations
  Boston Common--More of Emerson
  An Ossianic Night--Dearest Friends
  Only a New Ferry Boat
  Death of Longfellow
  Starting Newspapers
  The Great Unrest of which We are Part
  By Emerson's Grave
  At Present Writing--Personal
  After Trying a Certain Book
  Final Confessions--Literary Tests
  Nature and Democracy--Morality


COLLECT

ONE OR TWO INDEX ITEMS

DEMOCRATIC VISTAS

ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION

PREFACES TO "LEAVES OF GRASS"

  Preface, 1855, to first issue of "Leaves of Grass"
  Preface, 1872, to "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free"
  Preface, 1876, to L. of G. and "Two Rivulets"

POETRY TO-DAY IN AMERICA--SHAKESPEARE--THE FUTURE

A MEMORANDUM AT A VENTURE

DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

TWO LETTERS

NOTES LEFT OVER

  Nationality (and Yet)
  Emerson's Books (the Shadows of Them)
  Ventures, on an Old Theme
  British Literature
  Darwinism (then Furthermore)
  "Society"
  The Tramp and Strike Questions
  Democracy in the New World
  Foundation Stages--then Others
  General Suffrage, Elections, Etc.
  Who Gets the Plunder?
  Friendship (the Real Article)
  Lacks and Wants Yet
  Rulers Strictly Out of the Masses
  Monuments--the Past and Present
  Little or Nothing New After All
  A Lincoln Reminiscence
  Freedom
  Book-Classes-America's Literature
  Our Real Culmination
  An American Problem
  The Last Collective Compaction

PIECES IN EARLY YOUTH

  Dough Face Song
  Death in the School-Room
  One Wicked Impulse
  The Last Loyalist
  Wild Frank's Return
  The Boy Lover
  The Child and the Profligate
  Lingave's Temptation
  Little Jane
  Dumb Kate
  Talk to an Art Union
  Blood-Money
  Wounded in the House of Friends
  Sailing the Mississippi at Midnight


NOVEMBER BOUGHS

OUR EMINENT VISITORS, Past, Present and Future

THE BIBLE AS POETRY

FATHER TAYLOR (AND ORATORY)

THE SPANISH ELEMENT IN OUR NATIONALITY

WHAT LURKS BEHIND SHAKSPERE'S HISTORICAL PLAYS?

A THOUGHT ON SHAKSPERE

ROBERT BURNS AS POET AND PERSON

A WORD ABOUT TENNYSON

SLANG IN AMERICA

AN INDIAN BUREAU REMINISCENCE

SOME DIARY NOTES AT RANDOM

  Negro Slaves in New York
  Canada Nights
  Country Days and Nights
  Central Park Notes
  Plate Glass Notes

SOME WAR MEMORANDA

  Washington Street Scenes
  The 195th Pennsylvania
  Left-hand Writing by Soldiers
  Central Virginia in '64
  Paying the First Color'd Troops

FIVE THOUSAND POEMS

THE OLD BOWERY

NOTES TO LATE ENGLISH BOOKS

  Preface to Reader in British Islands
  Additional Note, 1887
  Preface to English Edition "Democratic Vistas"

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEW ORLEANS IN 1848

SMALL MEMORANDA

  Attorney General's Office, 1865
  A Glint Inside of Abraham Lincoln's Cabinet Appointments
  Note to a Friend
  Written Impromptu in an Album
  The Place Gratitude fills in a Fine Character

LAST OF THE WAR CASES

ELIAS HICKS, Notes (such as they are)

  George Fox and Shakspere

GOOD-BYE MY FANCY

AN OLD MAN'S REJOINDER

OLD POETS

  Ship Ahoy
  For Queen Victoria's Birthday

AMERICAN NATIONAL LITERATURE

GATHERING THE CORN

A DEATH BOUQUET

SOME LAGGARDS YET

  The Perfect Human Voice
  Shakspere for America
  "Unassailed Renown"
  Inscription for a Little Book on Giordano Bruno
  Splinters
  Health (Old Style)
  Gay-heartedness
  As in a Swoon
  L. of G.
  After the Argument
  For Us Two, Reader Dear


MEMORANDA

  A World's Show
  New York--the Bay--the Old Name
  A Sick Spell
  To be Present Only
  "Intestinal Agitation"
  "Walt Whitman's Last 'Public'"
  Ingersoll's Speech
  Feeling Fairly
  Old Brooklyn Days
  Two Questions
  Preface to a Volume
  An Engineer's Obituary
  Old Actors, Singers, Shows, Etc., in New York
  Some Personal and Old Age Jottings
  Out in the Open Again
  America's Bulk Average
  Last Saved Items

WALT WHITMAN'S LAST




SPECIMEN DAYS




A HAPPY HOUR'S COMMAND

_Down in the Woods, July 2d, 1882_.-If I do it at all I must delay no
longer. Incongruous and full of skips and jumps as is that huddle of
diary-jottings, war-memoranda of 1862-'65, Nature-notes of 1877-'81,
with Western and Canadian observations afterwards, all bundled up and
tied by a big string, the resolution and indeed mandate comes to me this
day, this hour,--(and what a day! What an hour just passing! the luxury
of riant grass and blowing breeze, with all the shows of sun and sky and
perfect temperature, never before so filling me, body and soul),--to
go home, untie the bundle, reel out diary-scraps and memoranda, just as
they are, large or small, one after another, into print-pages,[1]
and let the melange's lackings and wants of connection take care of
themselves. It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of
life's days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but
by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point, too, how we give long
preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and
then, when the actual hour for doing arrives, find ourselves still quite
unprepared, and tumble the thing together, letting hurry and crudeness
tell the story better than fine work. At any rate I obey my happy
hour's command, which seems curiously imperative. May be, if I don't
do anything else, I shall send out the most wayward, spontaneous,
fragmentary book ever printed.


Note:

[1] The pages from 1 to 15 are nearly verbatim an off-hand letter of
mine in January, 1882, to an insisting friend. Following, I give some
gloomy experiences. The war of attempted secession has, of course, been
the distinguishing event of my time. I commenced at the close of 1862,
and continued steadily through '63, '64 and '65, to visit the sick
and wounded of the army, both on the field and in the hospitals in and
around Washington city. From the first I kept little note-books
for impromptu jottings in pencil to refresh my memory of names and
circumstances, and what was specially wanted, &c. In these, I brief'd
cases, persons, sights, occurrences in camp, by the bed-side, and
not seldom by the corpses of the dead. Some were scratch'd down from
narratives I heard and itemized while watching, or waiting, or tending
somebody amid those scenes. I have dozens of such little note-books
left, forming a special history of those years, for myself alone, full
of associations never to be possibly said or sung. I wish I could convey
to the reader the associations that attach to these soil'd and creas'd
livraisons, each composed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to
carry in the pocket, and fasten'd with a pin. I leave them just as I
threw them by after the war, blotch'd here and there with more than one
blood-stain, hurriedly written, sometimes at the clinique, not seldom
amid the excitement of uncertainty, or defeat, or of action, or getting
ready for it, or a march. Most of the pages from 20 to 75 are verbatim
copies of those lurid and blood-smuch'd little notebooks.

Very different are most of the memoranda that follow. Some time after
the war ended I had a paralytic stroke, which prostrated me for several
years. In 1876 I began to get over the worst of it. From this date,
portions of several seasons, especially summers, I spent at a secluded
haunt down in Camden county, New Jersey--Timber creek, quite a little
river (it enters from the great Delaware, twelve miles away)--with
primitive solitudes, winding stream, recluse and woody banks,
sweet-feeding springs, and all the charms that birds, grass,
wild-flowers, rabbits and squirrels, old oaks, walnut trees, &c., can
bring. Through these times, and on these spots, the diary from page 76
onward was mostly written.

The COLLECT afterwards gathers up the odds and ends of whatever pieces
I can now lay hands on, written at various times past, and swoops all
together like fish in a net.

I suppose I publish and leave the whole gathering, first, from that
eternal tendency to perpetuate and preserve which is behind all Nature,
authors included; second, to symbolize two or three specimen interiors,
personal and other, out of the myriads of my time, the middle range of
the Nineteenth century in the New World; a strange, unloosen'd, wondrous
time. But the book is probably without any definite purpose that can be
told in a statement.


ANSWER TO AN INSISTING FRIEND

You ask for items, details of my early life--of genealogy and
parentage, particularly of the women of my ancestry, and of its far-back
Netherlands stock on the maternal side--of the region where I was
born and raised, and my mother and father before me, and theirs before
them--with a word about Brooklyn and New York cities, the times I lived
there as lad and young man. You say you want to get at these details
mainly as the go-befores and embryons of "Leaves of Grass." Very good;
you shall have at least some specimens of them all. I have often thought
of the meaning of such things--that one can only encompass and complete
matters of that kind by 'exploring behind, perhaps very far behind,
themselves directly, and so into their genesis, antecedents, and
cumulative stages. Then as luck would have it, I lately whiled away the
tedium of a week's half-sickness and confinement, by collating these
very items for another (yet unfulfilled, probably abandon'd,) purpose;
and if you will be satisfied with them, authentic in date-occurrence and
fact simply, and told my own way, garrulous-like, here they are. I shall
not hesitate to make extracts, for I catch at anything to save labor;
but those will be the best versions of what I want to convey.


GENEALOGY--VAN VELSOR AND WHITMAN

The later years of the last century found the Van Velsor family, my
mother's side, living on their own farm at Cold Spring, Long Island, New
York State, near the eastern edge of Queen's county, about a mile from
the harbor.[2] My father's side--probably the fifth generation from the
first English arrivals in New England--were at the same time farmers
on their own land--(and a fine domain it was, 500 acres, all good soil,
gently sloping east and south, about one-tenth woods, plenty of grand
old trees,) two or three miles off, at West Hills, Suffolk county. The
Whitman name in the Eastern States, and so branch and South, starts
undoubtedly from one John Whitman, born 1602, in Old England, where he
grew up, married, and his eldest son was born in 1629. He came over in
the "True Love" in 1640 to America, and lived in Weymouth, Mass., which
place became the mother-hive of the New-Englanders of the name; he died
in 1692. His brother, Rev. Zechariah Whitman, also came over in the
"True Love," either at that time or soon after, and lived at Milford,
Conn. A son of this Zechariah, named Joseph, migrated to Huntington,
Long Island, and permanently settled there. Savage's "Genealogical
Dictionary" (vol. iv, p. 524) gets the Whitman family establish'd at
Huntington, per this Joseph, before 1664. It is quite certain that from
that beginning, and from Joseph, the West Hill Whitmans, and all others
in Suffolk county, have since radiated, myself among the number. John
and Zechariah both went to England and back again divers times; they
had large families, and several of their children were born in the old
country. We hear of the father of John and Zechariah, Abijah Whitman,
who goes over into the 1500's, but we know little about him, except that
he also was for some time in America.

These old pedigree-reminiscences come up to me vividly from a visit I
made not long since (in my 63d year) to West Hills, and to the burial
grounds of my ancestry, both sides. I extract from notes of that visit,
written there and then:


Note:

[2] Long Island was settled first on the west end by the Dutch from
Holland, then on the east end by the English--the dividing line of the
two nationalities being a little west of Huntington where my father's
folks lived, and where I was born.


THE OLD WHITMAN AND VAN VELSOR CEMETERIES

_July 29, 1881_.--After more than forty years' absence, (except a brief
visit, to take my father there once more, two years before he died,)
went down Long Island on a week' s jaunt to the place where I was born,
thirty miles from New York city. Rode around the old familiar spots,
viewing and pondering and dwelling long upon them, every-thing coming
back to me. Went to the old Whitman homestead on the upland and took a
view eastward, inclining south, over the broad and beautiful farm lands
of my grandfather (1780,) and my father. There was the new house (1810,)
the big oak a hundred and fifty or two hundred years old; there
the well, the sloping kitchen-garden, and a little way off even the
well-kept remains of the dwelling of my great-grandfather (1750-'60)
still standing, with its mighty timbers and low ceilings. Near by, a
stately grove of tall, vigorous black-walnuts, beautiful, Apollo-like,
the sons or grandsons, no doubt, of black-walnuts during or before 1776.
On the other side of the road spread the famous apple orchard, over
twenty acres, the trees planted by hands long mouldering in the grave
(my uncle Jesse's,) but quite many of them evidently capable of throwing
out their annual blossoms and fruit yet.

I now write these lines seated on an old grave (doubtless of a century
since at least) on the burial hill of the Whitmans of many generations.
Fifty or more graves are quite plainly traceable, and as many more
decay'd out of all form--depress'd mounds, crumbled and broken stones,
cover'd with moss--the gray and sterile hill, the clumps of chestnuts
outside, the silence, just varied by the soughing wind. There is
always the deepest eloquence of sermon or poem in any of these ancient
graveyards of which Long Island has so many; so what must this one have
been to me? My whole family history, with its succession of links,
from the first settlement down to date, told here--three centuries
concentrate on this sterile acre.

The next day, July 30, I devoted to the maternal locality, and if
possible was still more penetrated and impress'd. I write this paragraph
on the burial hul of the Van Velsors, near Cold Spring, the most
significant depository of the dead that could be imagin'd, without the
slightest help from art, but far ahead of it, soil sterile, a mostly
bare plateau-flat of half an acre, the top of a hill, brush and well
grown trees and dense woods bordering all around, very primi-tive,
secluded, no visitors, no road (you cannot drive here, you have to bring
the dead on foot, and follow on foot.) Two or three-score graves quite
plain; as many more almost rubb'd out. My grandfather Cornelius and my
grandmother Amy (Naomi) and numerous relatives nearer or remoter, on
my mother's side, lie buried here. The scene as I stood or sat, the
delicate and wild odor of the woods, a slightly drizzling rain, the
emotional atmosphere of the place, and the inferr'd reminiscences, were
fitting accompaniments.


THE MATERNAL HOMESTEAD

I went down from this ancient grave place eighty or ninety rods to the
site of the Van Velsor homestead, where my mother was born (1795,)
and where every spot had been familiar to me as a child and youth
(1825-'40.) Then stood there a long rambling, dark-gray, shingle-sided
house, with sheds, pens, a great barn, and much open road-space. Now of
all those not a vestige left; all had been pull'd down, erased, and the
plough and harrow pass'd over foundations, road-spaces and everything,
for many summers; fenced in at present, and grain and clover growing
like any other fine fields. Only a big hole from the cellar, with some
little heaps of broken stone, green with grass and weeds, identified
the place. Even the copious old brook and spring seem'd to have mostly
dwindled away. The whole scene, with what it arous'd, memories of
my young days there half a century ago, the vast kitchen and ample
fireplace and the sitting-room adjoining, the plain furniture, the
meals, the house full of merry people, my grandmother Amy's sweet old
face in its Quaker cap, my grandfather "the Major," jovial, red, stout,
with sonorous voice and characteristic physiognomy, with the actual
sights themselves, made the most pronounc'd half-day's experience of my
whole jaunt.

For there with all those wooded, hilly, healthy surroundings, my dearest
mother, Louisa Van Velsor, grew up--(her mother, Amy Williams, of the
Friends' or Quakers' denomination--the Williams family, seven sisters
and one brother--the father and brother sailors, both of whom met their
deaths at sea.) The Van Velsor people were noted for fine horses, which
the men bred and train'd from blooded stock. My mother, as a young
woman, was a daily and daring rider. As to the head of the family
himself, the old race of the Netherlands, so deeply grafted on Manhattan
island and in Kings and Queens counties, never yielded a more mark'd and
full Americanized specimen than Major Cornelius Van Velsor.


TWO OLD FAMILY INTERIORS

Of the domestic and inside life of the middle of Long Island, at and
just before that time, here are two samples:

"The Whitmans, at the beginning of the present century, lived in a long
story-and-a-half farm-house, hugely timber'd, which is still standing.
A great smoke-canopied kitchen, with vast hearth and chimney, form'd one
end of the house. The existence of slavery in New York at that time, and
the possession by the family of some twelve or fifteen slaves, house and
field servants, gave things quite a patriarchial look. The very young
darkies could be seen, a swarm of them, toward sundown, in this kitchen,
squatted in a circle on the floor, eating their supper of Indian pudding
and milk. In the house, and in food and furniture, all was rude, but
substantial. No carpets or stoves were known, and no coffee, and tea or
sugar only for the women. Rousing wood fires gave both warmth and light
on winter nights. Pork, poultry, beef, and all the ordinary vegetables
and grains were plentiful. Cider was the men's common drink, and used at
meals. The clothes were mainly homespun. Journeys were made by both men
and women on horseback. Both sexes labor'd with their own hands-the men
on the farm--the women in the house and around it. Books were scarce.
The annual copy of the almanac was a treat, and was pored over through
the long winter evenings. I must not forget to mention that both these
families were near enough to the sea to behold it from the high places,
and to hear in still hours the roar of the surf; the latter, after
a storm, giving a peculiar sound at night. Then all hands, male and
female, went down frequently on beach and bathing parties, and the men
on practical expeditions for cutting salt hay, and for clamming and
fishing."--_John Burroughs's_ NOTES.

"The ancestors of Walt Whitman, on both the paternal and maternal
sides, kept a good table, sustained the hospitalities, decorums, and an
excellent social reputation in the county, and they were often of mark'd
individuality. If space permitted, I should consider some of the men
worthy special description; and still more some of the women. His
great-grandmother on the paternal side, for instance, was a large
swarthy woman, who lived to a very old age. She smoked tobacco, rode on
horseback like a man, managed the most vicious horse, and, becoming
a widow in later life, went forth every day over her farm-lands,
frequently in the saddle, directing the labor of her slaves, in
language in which, on exciting occasions, oaths were not spared. The
two immediate grandmothers were, in the best sense, superior women. The
maternal one (Amy Williams before marriage) was a Friend, or Quakeress,
of sweet, sensible character, house-wifely proclivities, and deeply
intuitive and spiritual. The other (Hannah Brush,) was an equally noble,
perhaps stronger character, lived to be very old, had quite a family of
sons, was a natural lady, was in early life a school-mistress, and had
great solidity of mind. W. W. himself makes much of the women of his
ancestry."--_The Same_.

Out from these arrieres of persons and scenes, I was born May 31,
1819. And now to dwell awhile on the locality itself--as the successive
growth-stages of my infancy, childhood, youth and manhood were all
pass'd on Long Island, which I sometimes feel as if I had incorporated.
I roam'd, as boy and man, and have lived in nearly all parts, from
Brooklyn to Montauk point.


PAUMANOK, AND MY LIFE ON IT AS CHILD AND YOUNG MAN

Worth fully and particularly investigating indeed this Paumanok, (to
give the spot its aboriginal name[3],) stretching east through Kings,
Queens and Suffolk counties, 120 miles altogether--on the north Long
Island sound, a beautiful, varied and picturesque series of inlets,
"necks" and sea-like expansions, for a hundred miles to Orient point.
On the ocean side the great south bay dotted with countless hummocks,
mostly small, some quite large, occasionally long bars of sand out two
hundred rods to a mile-and-a-half from the shore. While now and then,
as at Rockaway and far east along the Hamptons, the beach makes right
on the island, the sea dashing up without intervention. Several
light-houses on the shores east; a long history of wrecks tragedies,
some even of late years. As a youngster, I was in the atmosphere and
traditions of many of these wrecks--of one or two almost an observer.
Off Hempstead beach for example, was the loss of the ship "Mexico" in
1840, (alluded to in "the Sleepers" in L. of G.) And at Hampton, some
years later, the destruction of the brig "Elizabeth," a fearful affair,
in one of the worst winter gales, where Margaret Fuller went down, with
her husband and child.

Inside the outer bars or beach this south bay is everywhere
comparatively shallow; of cold winters all thick ice on the surface.
As a boy I often went forth with a chum or two, on those frozen fields,
with hand-sled, axe and eel-spear, after messes of eels. We would cut
holes in the ice, sometimes striking quite an eel-bonanza, and filling
our baskets with great, fat, sweet, white-meated fellows. The scenes,
the ice, drawing the hand-sled, cutting holes, spearing the eels, &c.,
were of course just such fun as is dearest to boyhood. The shores of
this bay, winter and summer, and my doings there in early life, are
woven all through L. of G. One sport I was very fond of was to go on
a bay-party in summer to gather sea-gull's eggs. (The gulls lay two or
three eggs, more than half the size of hen's eggs, right on the sand,
and leave the sun's heat to hatch them.)

The eastern end of Long Island, the Peconic bay region, I knew quite
well too--sail'd more than once around Shelter island, and down to
Montauk--spent many an hour on Turtle hill by the old light-house, on
the extreme point, looking out over the ceaseless roll of the Atlantic.
I used to like to go down there and fraternize with the blue-fishers,
or the annual squads of sea-bass takers. Sometimes, along Montauk
peninsula, (it is some 15 miles long, and good grazing,) met the
strange, unkempt, half-barbarous herdsmen, at that time living there
entirely aloof from society or civilization, in charge, on those rich
pasturages, of vast droves of horses, kine or sheep, own'd by farmers
of the eastern towns. Sometimes, too, the few remaining Indians, or
half-breeds, at that period left on Montauk peninsula, but now I believe
altogether extinct.

More in the middle of the island were the spreading Hempstead plains,
then (1830-'40) quite prairie-like, open, uninhabited, rather sterile,
cover'd with kill-calf and huckleberry bushes, yet plenty of fair
pasture for the cattle, mostly milch-cows, who fed there by hundreds,
even thousands, and at evening, (the plains too were own'd by the towns,
and this was the use of them in common,) might be seen taking their way
home, branching off regularly in the right places. I have often been out
on the edges of these plains toward sundown, and can yet recall in
fancy the interminable cow-processions, and hear the music of the tin or
copper bells clanking far or near, and breathe the cool of the sweet and
slightly aromatic evening air, and note the sunset.

Through the same region of the island, but further east, extended wide
central tracts of pine and scrub-oak, (charcoal was largely made here,)
monotonous and sterile. But many a good day or half-day did I have,
wandering through those solitary crossroads, inhaling the peculiar
and wild aroma. Here, and all along the island and its shores, I spent
intervals many years, all seasons, sometimes riding, sometimes boating,
but generally afoot, (I was always then a good walker,) absorbing
fields, shores, marine incidents, characters, the bay-men, farmers,
pilots-always had a plentiful acquaintance with the latter, and with
fishermen--went every summer on sailing trips--always liked the bare
sea-beach, south side, and have some of my happiest hours on it to this
day.

As I write, the whole experience comes back to me after the lapse of
forty and more years--the soothing rustle of the waves, and the saline
smell--boyhood's times, the clam-digging, bare-foot, and with trowsers
roll'd up--hauling down the creek--the perfume of the sedge-meadows--the
hay-boat, and the chowder and fishing excursions;--or, of later years,
little voyages down and out New York bay, in the pilot boats. Those same
later years, also, while living in Brooklyn, (1836-'50) I went regularly
every week in the mild seasons down to Coney Island, at that time a
long, bare unfrequented shore, which I had all to myself, and where I
loved, after bathing, to race up and down the hard sand, and declaim
Homer or Shakspere to the surf and sea gulls by the hour. But I am
getting ahead too rapidly, and must keep more in my traces.



Note:

[3] "Paumanok, (or Paumanake, or Paumanack, the Indian name of Long
Island,) over a hundred miles long; shaped like a fish--plenty of sea
shore, sandy, stormy, uninviting, the horizon boundless, the air too
strong for invalids, the bays a wonderful resort for aquatic birds,
the south-side meadows cover'd with salt hay, the soil of the island
generally tough, but good for the locust-tree, the apple orchard, and
the blackberry, and with numberless springs of the sweetest water in the
world. Years ago, among the bay-men--a strong, wild race, now extinct,
or rather entirely changed--a native of Long Island was called a
_Paumanacker_, or _Creole-'Paumanacker_."--_John Burroughs_.


MY FIRST READING--LAFAYETTE

From 1824 to '28 our family lived in Brooklyn in Front, Cranberry and
Johnson streets. In the latter my father built a nice house for a home,
and afterwards another in Tillary street. We occupied them, one after
the other, but they were mortgaged, and we lost them. I yet remember
Lafayette's visit.[4] Most of these years I went to the public schools.
It must have been about 1829 or '30 that I went with my father and
mother to hear Elias Hicks preach in a ball-room on Brooklyn heights. At
about the same time employ'd as a boy in an office, lawyers', father and
two sons, Clarke's, Fulton street, near Orange. I had a nice desk and
window-nook to myself; Edward C. kindly help'd me at my handwriting
and composition, and, (the signal event of my life up to that time,)
subscribed for me to a big circulating library. For a time I now revel'd
in romance-reading of all kinds; first, the "Arabian Nights," all
the volumes, an amazing treat. Then, with sorties in very many other
directions, took in Walter Scott's novels, one after another, and his
poetry, (and continue to enjoy novels and poetry to this day.)


Note:

[4] "On the visit of General Lafayette to this country, in 1824, he came
over to Brooklyn in state, and rode through the city. The children of
the schools turn'd out to join in the welcome. An edifice for a free
public library for youths was just then commencing, and Lafayette
consented to stop on his way and lay the corner-stone. Numerous children
arriving on the ground, where a huge irregular excavation for the
building was already dug, surrounded with heaps of rough stone, several
gentlemen assisted in lifting the children to safe or convenient
spots to see the ceremony. Among the rest, Lafayette, also helping the
children, took up the five-year-old Walt Whitman, and pressing the child
a moment to his breast, and giving him a kiss, handed him down to a safe
spot in the excavation."--John Burroughs.


PRINTING OFFICE--OLD BROOKLYN

After about two years went to work in a weekly newspaper and printing
office, to learn the trade. The paper was the "Long Island Patriot,"
owned by S. E. Clements, who was also postmaster. An old printer in
the office, William Hartshorne, a revolutionary character, who had seen
Washington, was a special friend of mine, and I had many a talk with him
about long past times. The apprentices, including myself, boarded with
his grand-daughter. I used occasionally to go out riding with the boss,
who was very kind to us boys; Sundays he took us all to a great old
rough, fortress-looking stone church, on Joralemon street, near where
the Brooklyn city hall now is--(at that time broad fields and country
roads everywhere around.[5]) Afterward I work'd on the "Long Island
Star," Alden Spooner's paper. My father all these years pursuing his
trade as carpenter and builder, with varying fortune. There was a
growing family of children--eight of us--my brother Jesse the oldest,
myself the second, my dear sisters Mary and Hannah Louisa, my brothers
Andrew, George, Thomas Jefferson, and then my youngest brother, Edward,
born 1835, and always badly crippled, as I am myself of late years.


Note:

[5] Of the Brooklyn of that time (1830-40) hardly anything remains,
except the lines of the old streets. The population was then between ten
and twelve thousand. For a mile Fulton street was lined with magnificent
elm trees. The character of the place was thoroughly rural. As a sample
of comparative values, it may be mention'd that twenty-five acres in
what is now the most costly part of the city, bounded by Flatbush and
Fulton avenues, were then bought by Mr Parmentier, a French _emigré_,
for $4000. Who remembers the old places as they were? Who remembers the
old citizens of that time? Among the former were Smith & Wood's, Coe
Downing's, and other public houses at the ferry, the old Ferry itself,
Love lane, the Heights as then, the Wallabout with the wooden bridge,
and the road out beyond Fulton street to the old toll-gate. Among the
latter were the majestic and genial General Jeremiah Johnson, with
others, Gabriel Furman, Rev. E. M. Johnson, Alden Spooner, Mr.
Pierrepont, Mr. Joralemon, Samuel Willoughby, Jonathan Trotter, George
Hall, Cyrus P. Smith, N. B. Morse, John Dikeman, Adrian Hegeman, William
Udall, and old Mr. Duflon, with his military garden.


GROWTH--HEALTH--WORK

I develop'd (1833-4-5) into a healthy, strong youth (grew too fast,
though, was nearly as big as a man at 15 or 16.) Our family at this
period moved back to the country, my dear mother very ill for a long
time, but recover'd. All these years I was down Long Island more or less
every summer, now east, now west, sometimes months at a stretch. At
16, 17, and so on, was fond of debating societies, and had an active
membership with them, off and on, in Brooklyn and one or two country
towns on the island. A most omnivorous novel-reader, these and later
years, devour'd everything I could get. Fond of the theatre, also, in
New York, went whenever I could--sometimes witnessing fine performances.

1836-7, work'd as compositor in printing offices in New York city. Then,
when little more than 18, and for a while afterwards, went to teaching
country schools down in Queens and Suffolk counties, Long Island, and
"boarded round." (This latter I consider one of my best experiences and
deepest lessons in human nature behind the scenes and in the masses.)
In '39, '40, I started and publish'd a weekly paper in my native town,
Huntington. Then returning to New York city and Brooklyn, work'd on as
printer and writer, mostly prose, but an occasional shy at "poetry".


MY PASSION FOR FERRIES

Living in Brooklyn or New York city from this time forward, my life,
then, and still more the following years, was curiously identified with
Fulton ferry, already becoming the greatest of its sort in the world
for general importance, volume, variety, rapidity, and picturesqueness.
Almost daily, later, ('50 to '60,) I cross'd on the boats, often up
in the pilot-houses where I could get a full sweep, absorbing
shows, accompaniments, surroundings. What oceanic currents, eddies,
underneath--the great tides of humanity also, with ever-shifting
movements. Indeed, I have always had a passion for ferries; to me they
afford inimitable, streaming, never-failing, living poems. The river
and bay scenery, all about New York island, any time of a fine day--the
hurrying, splashing sea-tides--the changing panorama of steamers, all
sizes, often a string of big ones outward bound to distant ports--the
myriads of white-sail'd schooners, sloops, skiffs, and the marvellously
beautiful yachts--the majestic sound boats as they rounded the Battery
and came along towards 5, afternoon, eastward bound--the prospect off
towards Staten Island, or down the Narrows, or the other way up the
Hudson--what refreshment of spirit such sights and experiences gave me
years ago (and many a time since.) My old pilot friends, the Balsirs,
Johnny Cole, Ira Smith, William White, and my young ferry friend, Tom
Gere--how well I remember them all.


BROADWAY SIGHTS

Besides Fulton ferry, off and on for years, I knew and frequented
Broadway--that noted avenue of New York's crowded and mixed humanity,
and of so many notables. Here I saw, during those times, Andrew Jackson,
Webster, Clay, Seward, Martin Van Buren, filibuster Walker, Kossuth,
Fitz Greene Halleck, Bryant, the Prince of Wales, Charles Dickens, the
first Japanese ambassadors, and lots of other celebrities of the time.
Always something novel or inspiriting; yet mostly to me the hurrying and
vast amplitude of those never-ending human currents. I remember seeing
James Fenimore Cooper in a court-room in Chambers street, back of the
city hall, where he was carrying on a law case--(I think it was a charge
of libel he had brought against some one.) I also remember seeing Edgar
A. Poe, and having a short interview with him, (it must have been in
1845 or '6,) in his office, second story of a corner building, (Duane
or Pearl street.) He was editor and owner or part owner of "the Broadway
Journal." The visit was about a piece of mine he had publish'd. Poe was
very cordial, in a quiet way, appear'd well in person, dress, &c. I
have a distinct and pleasing remembrance of his looks, voice, manner and
matter; very kindly and human, but subdued, perhaps a little jaded. For
another of my reminiscences, here on the west side, just below Houston
street, I once saw (it must have been about 1832, of a sharp, bright
January day) a bent, feeble but stout-built very old man, bearded,
swathed in rich furs, with a great ermine cap on his head, led and
assisted, almost carried, down the steps of his high front stoop (a
dozen friends and servants, emulous, carefully holding, guiding him) and
then lifted and tuck'd in a gorgeous sleigh, envelop'd in other furs,
for a ride. The sleigh was drawn by as fine a team of horses as I ever
saw. (You needn't think all the best animals are brought up nowadays;
never was such horseflesh as fifty years ago on Long Island, or south,
or in New York city; folks look'd for spirit and mettle in a nag, not
tame speed merely.) Well, I, a boy of perhaps 13 or 14, stopp'd and
gazed long at the spectacle of that fur-swathed old man, surrounded by
friends and servants, and the careful seating of him in the sleigh. I
remember the spirited, champing horses, the driver with his whip, and a
fellow-driver by his side, for extra prudence. The old man, the subject
of so much attention, I can almost see now. It was John Jacob Astor.

The years 1846, '47, and there along, see me still in New York City,
working as writer and printer, having my usual good health, and a good
time generally.


OMNIBUS JAUNTS AND DRIVERS

One phase of those days must by no means go unrecorded--namely, the
Broadway omnibuses, with their drivers.

The vehicles still (I write this paragraph in 1881) give a portion
of the character of Broadway--the Fifth avenue, Madison avenue, and
Twenty-third street lines yet running. But the flush days of the old
Broadway stages, characteristic and copious, are over. The Yellow-birds,
the Red-birds, the original Broadway, the Fourth avenue, the
Knickerbocker, and a dozen others of twenty or thirty years ago, are all
gone. And the men specially identified with them, and giving vitality
and meaning to them--the drivers--a strange, natural, quick-eyed and
wondrous race--(not only Rabelais and Cervantes would have gloated upon
them, but Homer and Shakspere would)--how well I remember them, and
must here give a word about them. How many hours, forenoons and
afternoons--how many exhilarating night-times I have had--perhaps June
or July, in cooler air-riding the whole length of Broadway, listening
to some yarn, (and the most vivid yarns ever spun, and the rarest
mimicry)--or perhaps I declaiming some stormy passage from Julius Caesar
or Richard, (you could roar as loudly as you chose in that heavy, dense,
uninterrupted street-bass.) Yes, I knew all the drivers then, Broadway
Jack, Dressmaker, Balky Bill, George Storms, Old Elephant, his brother
Young Elephant (who came afterward,) Tippy, Pop Rice, Big Frank,
Yellow Joe, Pete Callahan, Patsey Dee, and dozens more; for there were
hundreds. They had immense qualities, largely animal--eating, drinking;
women--great personal pride, in their way--perhaps a few slouches here
and there, but I should have trusted the general run of them, in their
simple good-will and honor, under all circumstances. Not only for
comradeship, and sometimes affection--great studies I found them also.
(I suppose the critics will laugh heartily, but the influence of those
Broadway omnibus jaunts and drivers and declamations and escapades
undoubtedly enter'd into the gestation of "Leaves of Grass.")


PLAYS AND OPERAS TOO

And certain actors and singers, had a good deal to do with the business.
All through these years, off and on, I frequented the old Park, the
Bowery, Broadway and Chatham-square theatres, and the Italian operas
at Chambers-street, Astor-place or the Battery--many seasons was on
the free list, writing for papers even as quite a youth. The old Park
theatre--what names, reminiscences, the words bring back! Placide,
Clarke, Mrs. Vernon, Fisher, Clara F., Mrs. Wood, Mrs. Seguin,
Ellen Tree, Hackett, the younger Kean, Macready, Mrs. Richardson,
Rice--singers, tragedians, comedians. What perfect acting! Henry Placide
in "Napoleon's Old Guard" or "Grandfather Whitehead,"--or "the Provoked
Husband" of Gibber, with Fanny Kemble as Lady Townley--or Sheridan
Knowles in his own "Virginius"--or inimitable Power in "Born to Good
Luck." These, and many more, the years of youth and onward. Fanny
Kemble--name to conjure up great mimic scenes withal--perhaps the
greatest. I remember well her rendering of Bianca in "Fazio," and
Marianna in "the Wife." Nothing finer did ever stage exhibit--the
veterans of all nations said so, and my boyish heart and head felt it in
every minute cell. The lady was just matured, strong, better than merely
beautiful, born from the footlights, had had three years' practice in
London and through the British towns, and then she came to give America
that young maturity and roseate power in all their noon, or rather
forenoon, flush. It was my good luck to see her nearly every night she
play'd at the old Park--certainly in all her principal characters. I
heard, these years, well render'd, all the Italian and other operas
in vogue, "Sonnambula," "the Puritans," "Der Freischutz," "Huguenots,"
"Fille d'Regiment," "Faust," "Etoile du Nord," "Poliuto," and others.
Verdi's "Ernani," "Rigoletto," and "Trovatore," with Donnizetti's
"Lucia" or "Favorita" or "Lucrezia," and Auber's "Massaniello," or
Rossini's "William Tell" and "Gazza Ladra," were among my special
enjoyments. I heard Alboni every time she sang in New York and
vicinity--also Grisi, the tenor Mario, and the baritone Badiali, the
finest in the world.

This musical passion follow'd my theatrical one. As a boy or young man
I had seen, (reading them carefully the day beforehand,) quite all
Shakspere's acting dramas, play'd wonderfully well. Even yet I cannot
conceive anything finer than old Booth in "Richard Third," or "Lear,"
(I don't know which was best,) or Iago, (or Pescara, or Sir Giles
Overreach, to go outside of Shakspere)--or Tom Hamblin in "Macbeth"--or
old Clarke, either as the ghost in "Hamlet," or as Prospero in "the
Tempest," with Mrs. Austin as Ariel, and Peter Richings as Caliban. Then
other dramas, and fine players in them, Forrest as Metamora or Damon or
Brutus--John R. Scott as Tom Cringle or Rolla--or Charlotte Cushman's
Lady Gay Spanker in "London Assurance." Then of some years later, at
Castle Garden, Battery, I yet recall the splendid seasons of the Havana
musical troupe under Maretzek--the fine band, the cool sea-breezes,
the unsurpass'd vocalism--Steffan'one, Bosio, Truffi, Marini in "Marino
Faliero," "Don Pasquale," or "Favorita." No better playing or singing
ever in New York. It was here too I afterward heard Jenny Lind. (The
Battery--its past associations--what tales those old trees and walks and
sea-walls could tell!)


THROUGH EIGHT YEARS.

In 1848, '49, I was occupied as editor of the "daily Eagle" newspaper,
in Brooklyn. The latter year went off on a leisurely journey and working
expedition (my brother Jeff with me) through all the middle States, and
down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. Lived awhile in New Orleans, and
work'd there on the editorial staff of "daily Crescent" newspaper. After
a time plodded back northward, up the Mississippi, and around to, and by
way of the great lakes, Michigan, Huron, and Erie, to Niagara falls and
lower Canada, finally returning through central New York and down the
Hudson; traveling altogether probably 8,000 miles this trip, to and fro.
'51, '53, occupied in house-building in Brooklyn. (For a little of
the first part of that time in printing a daily and weekly paper,
"the Freeman.") '55, lost my dear father this year by death. Commenced
putting "Leaves of Grass" to press for good, at the job printing office
of my friends, the brothers Rome, in Brooklyn, after many MS. doings
and undoings--(I had great trouble in leaving out the stock "poetical"
touches, but succeeded at last.) I am now (1856-'7) passing through my
37th year.


SOURCES OF CHARACTER--RESULTS--1860

To sum up the foregoing from the outset (and, of course, far, far more
unrecorded,) I estimate three leading sources and formative stamps to
my own character, now solidified for good or bad, and its subsequent
literary and other outgrowth--the maternal nativity-stock brought
hither from far-away Netherlands, for one, (doubtless the best)--the
subterranean tenacity and central bony structure (obstinacy, wilfulness)
which I get from my paternal English elements, for another--and the
combination of my Long Island birth-spot, sea-shores, childhood's
scenes, absorptions, with teeming Brooklyn and New York--with, I
suppose, my experiences afterward in the secession outbreak, for the
third.

For, in 1862, startled by news that my brother George, an officer in
the 51st New York volunteers, had been seriously wounded (first
Fredericksburg battle, December 13th,) I hurriedly went down to the
field of war in Virginia. But I must go back a little.


OPENING OF THE SECESSION WAR

News of the attack on fort Sumter and _the flag_ at Charleston harbor,
S. C., was receiv'd in New York city late at night (13th April, 1861,)
and was immediately sent out in extras of the newspapers. I had been to
the opera in Fourteenth street that night, and after the performance was
walking down Broadway toward twelve o'clock, on my way to Brooklyn,
when I heard in the distance the loud cries of the newsboys, who came
presently tearing and yelling up the street, rushing from side to side
even more furiously than usual. I bought an extra and cross'd to the
Metropolitan hotel (Niblo's) where the great lamps were still brightly
blazing, and, with a crowd of others, who gather'd impromptu, read the
news, which was evidently authentic. For the benefit of some who had no
papers, one of us read the telegram aloud, while all listen'd silently
and attentively. No remark was made by any of the crowd, which had
increas'd to thirty or forty, but all stood a minute or two, I remember,
before they dispers'd. I can almost see them there now, under the lamps
at midnight again.


NATIONAL UPRISING AND VOLUNTEERING

I have said somewhere that the three Presidentiads preceding 1861 show'd
how the weakness and wickedness of rulers are just as eligible here in
America under republican, as in Europe under dynastic influences. But
what can I say of that prompt and splendid wrestling with secession
slavery, the arch-enemy personified, the instant he unmistakably show'd
his face? The volcanic upheaval of the nation, after that firing on
the flag at Charleston, proved for certain something which had been
previously in great doubt, and at once substantially settled the
question of disunion. In my judgment it will remain as the grandest and
most encouraging spectacle yet vouchsafed in any age, old or new,
to political progress and democracy. It was not for what came to the
surface merely--though that was important--but what it indicated
below, which was of eternal importance. Down in the abysms of New World
humanity there had form'd and harden'd a primal hardpan of national
Union will, determin'd and in the majority, refusing to be tamper'd with
or argued against, confronting all emergencies, and capable at any time
of bursting all surface bonds, and breaking out like an earthquake. It
is, indeed, the best lesson of the century, or of America, and it is
a mighty privilege to have been part of it. (Two great spectacles,
immortal proofs of democracy, unequall'd in all the history of the past,
are furnish'd by the secession war--one at the beginning, the other at
its close. Those are, the general, voluntary, arm'd upheaval, and the
peaceful and harmonious disbanding of the armies in the summer of 1865.)


CONTEMPTUOUS FEELING

Even after the bombardment of Sumter, however, the gravity of the
revolt, and the power and will of the slave States for a strong and
continued military resistance to national authority, were not at all
realized at the North, except by a few. Nine-tenths of the people of
the free States look'd upon the rebellion, as started in South Carolina,
from a feeling one-half of contempt, and the other half composed of
anger and incredulity. It was not thought it would be join'd in by
Virginia, North Carolina, or Georgia. A great and cautious national
official predicted that it would blow over "in sixty days," and folks
generally believ'd the prediction. I remember talking about it on a
Fulton ferry-boat with the Brooklyn mayor, who said he only "hoped the
Southern fire-eaters would commit some overt act of resistance, as they
would then be at once so effectually squelch'd, we would never hear of
secession again--but he was afraid they never would have the pluck to
really do anything."

I remember, too, that a couple of companies of the Thirteenth Brooklyn,
who rendezvou'd at the city armory, and started thence as thirty days'
men, were all provided with pieces of rope, conspicuously tied to their
musket-barrels, with which to bring back each man a prisoner from the
audacious South, to be led in a noose, on our men's early and triumphant
return!


BATTLE OF BULL RUN, JULY, 1861

All this sort of feeling was destin'd to be arrested and revers'd by a
terrible shock--the battle of first Bull Run--certainly, as we now know
it, one of the most singular fights on record. (All battles, and their
results, are far more matters of accident than is generally thought; but
this was throughout a casualty, a chance. Each side supposed it had won,
till the last moment. One had, in point of fact, just the same right
to be routed as the other. By a fiction, or series of fictions, the
national forces at the last moment exploded in a panic and fled from the
field.) The defeated troops commenced pouring into Washington over the
Long Bridge at daylight on Monday, 22d--day drizzling all through with
rain. The Saturday and Sunday of the battle (20th, 21st,) had been
parch'd and hot to an extreme--the dust, the grime and smoke, in layers,
sweated in, follow'd by other layers again sweated in, absorb'd by those
excited souls--their clothes all saturated with the clay-powder filling
the air--stirr'd up everywhere on the dry roads and trodden fields by
the regiments, swarming wagons, artillery, &c.--all the men with this
coating of murk and sweat and rain, now recoiling back, pouring over the
Long Bridge--a horrible march of twenty miles, returning to Washington
baffed, humiliated, panic-struck. Where are the vaunts, and the proud
boasts with which you went forth? Where are your banners, and your bands
of music, and your ropes to bring back your prisoners? Well, there isn't
a band playing--and there isn't a flag but clings ashamed and lank to
its staff.

The sun rises, but shines not. The men appear, at first sparsely and
shame-faced enough, then thicker, in the streets of Washington--appear
in Pennsylvania avenue, and on the steps and basement entrances. They
come along in disorderly mobs, some in squads, stragglers, companies.
Occasionally, a rare regiment, in perfect order, with its officers (some
gaps, dead, the true braves,) marching in silence, with lowering faces,
stern, weary to sinking, all black and dirty, but every man with his
musket, and stepping alive; but these are the exceptions. Sidewalks
of Pennsylvania avenue, Fourteenth street, &c., crowded, jamm'd with
citizens, darkies, clerks, everybody, lookers-on; women in the windows,
curious expressions from faces, as those swarms of dirt-cover'd return'd
soldiers there (will they never end?) move by; but nothing said, no
comments; (half our lookers-on secesh of the most venomous kind--they
say nothing; but the devil snickers in their faces.) During the
forenoon Washington gets all over motley with these defeated
soldiers--queer-looking objects, strange eyes and faces, drench'd (the
steady rain drizzles on all day) and fearfully worn, hungry, haggard,
blister'd in the feet. Good people (but not over-many of them either,)
hurry up something for their grub. They put wash-kettles on the fire,
for soup, for coffee. They set tables on the side-walks--wagon-loads
of bread are purchas'd, swiftly cut in stout chunks. Here are two aged
ladies, beautiful, the first in the city for culture and charm, they
stand with store of eating and drink at an improvis'd table of rough
plank, and give food, and have the store replenished from their house
every half-hour all that day; and there in the rain they stand, active,
silent, white-hair'd, and give food, though the tears stream down their
cheeks, almost without intermission, the whole time. Amid the deep
excitement, crowds and motion, and desperate eagerness, it seems strange
to see many, very many, of the soldiers sleeping--in the midst of all,
sleeping sound. They drop down anywhere, on the steps of houses, up
close by the basements or fences, on the sidewalk, aside on some vacant
lot, and deeply sleep. A poor 17 or 18 year old boy lies there, on the
stoop of a grand house; he sleeps so calmly, so profoundly. Some clutch
their muskets firmly even in sleep. Some in squads; comrades, brothers,
close together--and on them, as they lay, sulkily drips the rain.

As afternoon pass'd, and evening came, the streets, the bar-rooms, knots
everywhere, listeners, questioners, terrible yarns, bugaboo, mask'd
batteries, our regiment all cut up, &c.--stories and story-tellers,
windy, bragging, vain centres of street-crowds. Resolution, manliness,
seem to have abandon'd Washington. The principal hotel, Willard's, is
full of shoulder-straps--thick, crush'd, creeping with shoulder-straps.
(I see them, and must have a word with them. There you are,
shoulder-straps!--but where are your companies? where are your men?
Incompetents! never tell me of chances of battle, of getting stray'd,
and the like. I think this is your work, this retreat, after all. Sneak,
blow, put on airs there in Willard's sumptuous parlors and bar-rooms, or
anywhere--no explanation shall save you. Bull Run is your work; had you
been half or one-tenth worthy your men, this would never have happen'd.)

Meantime, in Washington, among the great persons and their entourage, a
mixture of awful consternation, uncertainty, rage, shame, helplessness,
and stupefying disappointment. The worst is not only imminent, but
already here. In a few hours--perhaps before the next meal--the secesh
generals, with their victorious hordes, will be upon us. The dream of
humanity, the vaunted Union we thought so strong, so impregnable--lo!
it seems already smash'd like a china plate. One bitter, bitter
hour--perhaps proud America will never again know such an hour. She must
pack and fly--no time to spare. Those white palaces--the dome-crown'd
capitol there on the hill, so stately over the trees--shall they be
left--or destroy'd first? For it is certain that the talk among certain
of the magnates and officers and clerks and officials everywhere, for
twenty-four hours in and around Washington after Bull Run, was loud
and undisguised for yielding out and out, and substituting the southern
rule, and Lincoln promptly abdicating and departing. If the secesh
officers and forces had immediately follow'd, and by a bold Napoleonic
movement had enter'd Washington the first day, (or even the second,)
they could have had things their own way, and a powerful faction north
to back them. One of our returning colonels express'd in public that
night, amid a swarm of officers and gentlemen in a crowded room, the
opinion that it was useless to fight, that the southerners had made
their title clear, and that the best course for the national government
to pursue was to desist from any further attempt at stopping them, and
admit them again to the lead, on the best terms they were willing to
grant. Not a voice was rais'd against this judgment, amid that large
crowd of officers and gentlemen. (The fact is, the hour was one of the
three or four of those crises we had then and afterward, during the
fluctuations of four years, when human eyes appear'd at least just as
likely to see the last breath of the Union as to see it continue.)


THE STUPOR PASSES--SOMETHING ELSE BEGINS

But the hour, the day, the night pass'd, and whatever returns, an
hour, a day, a night like that can never again return. The President,
recovering himself, begins that very night--sternly, rapidly sets about
the task of reorganizing his forces, and placing himself in positions
for future and surer work. If there were nothing else of Abraham Lincoln
for history to stamp him with, it is enough to send him with his wreath
to the memory of all future time, that he endured that hour, that day,
bitterer than gall--indeed a crucifixion day--that it did not conquer
him--that he unflinchingly stemm'd it, and resolv'd to lift himself and
the Union out of it.

Then the great New York papers at once appear'd, (commencing that
evening, and following it up the next morning, and incessantly through
many days afterwards,) with leaders that rang out over the land with
the loudest, most reverberating ring of clearest bugles, full
of encouragement, hope, inspiration, unfaltering defiance; Those
magnificent editorials! they never flagg'd for a fortnight. The "Herald"
commenced them--I remember the articles well. The "Tribune" was equally
cogent and inspiriting--and the "Times," "Evening Post," and other
principal papers, were not a whit behind. They came in good time,
for they were needed. For in the humiliation of Bull Run, the popular
feeling north, from its extreme of superciliousness, recoil'd to the
depth of gloom and apprehension.

(Of all the days of the war, there are two especially I can never
forget. Those were the day following the news, in New York and Brooklyn,
of that first Bull Run defeat, and the day of Abraham Lincoln's death.
I was home in Brooklyn on both occasions. The day of the murder we heard
the news very early in the morning. Mother prepared breakfast--and
other meals afterward--as usual; but not a mouthful was eaten all day by
either of us. We each drank half a cup of coffee; that was all. Little
was said. We got every newspaper morning and evening, and the frequent
extras of that period, and pass'd them silently to each other.)


DOWN AT THE FRONT

FALMOUTH, VA., _opposite Fredericksburgh, December 21, 1862_.--Begin my
visits among the camp hospitals in the army of the Potomac. Spend a
good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the
Rappahannock, used as a hospital since the battle--seems to have
receiv'd only the worst cases. Out doors, at the foot of a tree, within
ten yards of the front of the house, I notice a heap of amputated feet,
legs, arms, hands, &c., a full load for a one-horse cart. Several dead
bodies lie near, each cover'd with its brown woolen blanket. In the
door-yard, towards the river, are fresh graves, mostly of officers,
their names on pieces of arrel-staves or broken boards, stuck in the
dirt. (Most of these bodies were subsequently taken up and transported
north to their friends.) The large mansion is quite crowded upstairs
and down, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but I have
no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds pretty bad, some
frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and bloody. Some of
the wounded are rebel soldiers and officers, prisoners. One, a
Mississippian, a captain, hit badly in leg, I talk'd with some time; he
ask'd me for papers, which I gave him. (I saw him three months afterward
in Washington, with his leg amputated, doing well.) I went through the
rooms, downstairs and up. Some of the men were dying. I had nothing to
give at that visit, but wrote a few letters to folks home, mothers, &c.
Also talk'd to three or four, who seem'd most susceptible to it, and
needing it.


AFTER FIRST FREDERICKSBURG

_December 23 to 31_.--The results of the late battle are exhibited
everywhere about here in thousands of cases, (hundreds die every day,)
in the camp, brigade, and division hospitals. These are merely tents,
and sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if
their blankets are spread on layers of pine or hemlock twigs, or small
leaves. No cots; seldom even a mattress. It is pretty cold. The ground
is frozen hard, and there is occasional snow. I go around from one case
to another. I do not see that I do much good to these wounded and dying;
but I cannot leave them. Once in a while some youngster holds on to me
convulsively, and I do what I can for him; at any rate, stop with him
and sit near him for hours, if he wishes it.

Besides the hospitals, I also go occasionally on long tours through the
camps, talking with the men, &c. Sometimes at night among the groups
around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. These are
curious shows, full of characters and groups. I soon get acquainted
anywhere in camp, with officers or men, and am always well used.
Sometimes I go down on picket with the regiments I know best. As to
rations, the army here at present seems to be tolerably well supplied,
and the men have enough, such as it is, mainly salt pork and hard tack.
Most of the regiments lodge in the flimsy little shelter-tents. A few
have built themselves huts of logs and mud, with fire-places.


BACK TO WASHINGTON

_January, '63_.--Left camp at Falmouth, with some wounded, a few days
since, and came here by Aquia creek railroad, and so on government
steamer up the Potomac. Many wounded were with us on the cars and boat.
The cars were just common platform ones. The railroad journey of ten or
twelve miles was made mostly before sunrise. The soldiers guarding the
road came out from their tents or shebangs of bushes with rumpled hair
and half-awake look. Those on duty were walking their posts, some on
banks over us, others down far below the level of the track. I saw
large cavalry camps off the road. At Aquia creek landing were numbers
of wounded going north. While I waited some three hours, I went around
among them. Several wanted word sent home to parents, brothers, wives,
&c., which I did for them, (by mail the next day from Washington.) On
the boat I had my hands full. One poor fellow died going up.

I am now remaining in and around Washington, daily visiting the
hospitals. Am much in Patent-office, Eighth street, H street,
Armory-square, and others. Am now able to do a little good, having
money, (as almoner of others home,) and getting experience. To-day,
Sunday afternoon and till nine in the evening, visited Campbell
hospital; attended specially to one case in ward I, very sick with
pleurisy and typhoid fever, young man, farmer's son, D. F. Russell,
company E, 60th New York, downhearted and feeble; a long time before he
would take any interest; wrote a letter home to his mother, in Malone,
Franklin county, N. Y., at his request; gave him some fruit and one
or two other gifts; envelop'd and directed his letter, &c. Then went
thoroughly through ward 6, observ'd every case in the ward, without, I
think, missing one; gave perhaps from twenty to thirty persons, each one
some little gift, such as oranges, apples, sweet crackers, figs, &c.

_Thursday, Jan. 21._--Devoted the main part of the day to Armory-square
hospital; went pretty thoroughly through wards F, G, H, and I; some
fifty cases in each ward. In ward F supplied the men throughout with
writing paper and stamp'd envelope each; distributed in small portions,
to proper subjects, a large jar of first-rate preserv'd berries, which
had been donated to me by a lady--her own cooking. Found several cases
I thought good subjects for small sums of money, which I furnish'd. (The
wounded men often come up broke, and it helps their spirits to have
even the small sum I give them.) My paper and envelopes all gone, but
distributed a good lot of amusing reading matter; also, as I thought
judicious, tobacco, oranges, apples, &c. Interesting cases in ward I;
Charles Miller, bed 19, company D, 53d Pennsylvania, is only 16 years
of age, very bright, courageous boy, left leg amputated below the knee;
next bed to him, another young lad very sick; gave each appropriate
gifts. In the bed above, also, amputation of the left leg; gave him a
little jar of raspberries; bed J, this ward, gave a small sum; also to
a soldier on crutches, sitting on his bed near.... (I am more and more
surprised at the very great proportion of youngsters from fifteen to
twenty-one in the army. I afterwards found a still greater proportion
among the southerners.)

Evening, same day, went to see D. F. R., before alluded to; found him
remarkably changed for the better; up and dress'd--quite a triumph; he
afterwards got well, and went back to his regiment.

Distributed in the wards a quantity of note-paper, and forty or fifty
stamp'd envelopes, of which I had recruited my stock, and the men were
much in need.


FIFTY HOURS LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD

Here is a case of a soldier I found among the crowded cots in the
Patent-office. He likes to have some one to talk to, and we will listen
to him. He got badly hit in his leg and side at Fredericksburgh that
eventful Saturday, 13th of December. He lay the succeeding two days and
nights helpless on the field, between the city and those grim terraces
of batteries; his company and regiment had been compell'd to leave him
to his fate. To make matters worse, it happen'd he lay with his head
slightly down hill, and could not help himself. At the end of some fifty
hours he was brought off, with other wounded, under a flag of truce. I
ask him how the rebels treated him as he lay during those two days and
nights within reach of them--whether they came to him--whether they
abused him? He answers that several of the rebels, soldiers and
others, came to him at one time and another. A couple of them, who
were together, spoke roughly and sarcastically, but nothing worse. One
middle-aged man, however, who seem'd to be moving around the field,
among the dead and wounded, for benevolent purposes, came to him in
a way he will never forget; treated our soldier kindly, bound up his
wounds, cheer'd him, gave him a couple of biscuits and a drink of
whiskey and water; asked him if he could eat some beef. This good
secesh, however, did not change our soldier's position, for it might
have caused the blood to burst from the wounds, clotted and stagnated.
Our soldier is from Pennsylvania; has had a pretty severe time; the
wounds proved to be bad ones. But he retains a good heart, and is at
present on the gain. (It is not uncommon for the men to remain on the
field this way, one, two, or even four or five days.)


HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS

_Letter Writing_.--When eligible, I encourage the men to write, and
myself, when called upon, write all sorts of letters for them (including
love letters, very tender ones.) Almost as I reel off these memoranda, I
write for a new patient to his wife. M. de F., of the 17th Connecticut,
company H, has just come up (February 17th) from Windmill point, and is
received in ward H, Armory-square. He is an intelligent looking man, has
a foreign accent, black-eyed and hair'd, a Hebraic appearance. Wants a
telegraphic message sent to his wife, New Canaan, Conn. I agree to send
the message--but to make things sure I also sit down and write the wife
a letter, and despatch it to the post-office immediately, as he fears
she will come on, and he does not wish her to, as he will surely get
well.

_Saturday, January 30th._--Afternoon, visited Campbell hospital. Scene
of cleaning up the ward, and giving the men all clean clothes--through
the ward (6) the patients dressing or being dress'd--the naked upper
half of the bodies--the good-humor and fun--the shirts, drawers, sheets
of beds, &c., and the general fixing up for Sunday. Gave J. L. 50 cents.

_Wednesday, February 4th._--Visited Armory-square hospital, went pretty
thoroughly through wards E and D. Supplied paper and envelopes to all
who wish'd--as usual, found plenty of men who needed those articles.
Wrote letters. Saw and talk'd with two or three members of the Brooklyn
14th regt. A poor fellow in ward D, with a fearful wound in a fearful
condition, was having some loose splinters of bone taken from the
neighborhood of the wound. The operation was long, and one of great
pain--yet, after it was well commenced, the soldier bore it in silence.
He sat up, propp'd--was much wasted--had lain a long time quiet in one
position (not for days only but weeks,) a bloodless, brown-skinn'd face,
with eyes full of determination--belong'd to a New York regiment. There
was an unusual cluster of surgeons, medical cadets, nurses, &c., around
his bed--I thought the whole thing was done with tenderness, and done
well. In one case, the wife sat by the side of her husband, his sickness
typhoid fever, pretty bad. In another, by the side of her son, a
mother--she told me she had seven children, and this was the youngest.
(A fine, kind, healthy, gentle mother, good-looking, not very old, with
a cap on her head, and dress'd like home--what a charm it gave to the
whole ward.) I liked the woman nurse in ward E--I noticed how she sat
a long time by a poor fellow who just had, that morning, in addition to
his other sickness, bad hemorrhage--she gently assisted him, reliev'd
him of the blood, holding a cloth to his mouth, as he coughed it up--he
was so weak he could only just turn his head over on the pillow.

One young New York man, with a bright, handsome face, had been lying
several months from a most disagreeable wound, receiv'd at Bull Run. A
bullet had shot him right through the bladder, hitting him front, low in
the belly, and coming out back. He had suffer'd much--the water came out
of the wound, by slow but steady quantities, for many weeks--so that
he lay almost constantly in a sort of puddle--and there were other
disagreeable circumstances. He was of good heart, however. At present
comparatively comfortable, had a bad throat, was delighted with a stick
of horehound candy I gave him, with one or two other trifles.


PATENT-OFFICE HOSPITAL

_February 23._--I must not let the great hospital at the Patent-office
pass away without some mention. A few weeks ago the vast area of the
second story of that noblest of Washington buildings was crowded close
with rows of sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers. They were placed in
three very large apartments. I went there many times. It was a strange,
solemn, and, with all its features of suffering and death, a sort
of fascinating sight. I go sometimes at night to soothe and relieve
particular cases. Two of the immense apartments are fill'd with high and
ponderous glass cases, crowded with models in miniature of every kind of
utensil, machine or invention, it ever enter'd into the mind of man to
conceive; and with curiosities and foreign presents. Between these cases
are lateral openings, perhaps eight feet wide and quite deep, and in
these were placed the sick, besides a great long double row of them
up and down through the middle of the hall. Many of them were very bad
cases, wounds and amputations. Then there was a gallery running above
the hall in which there were beds also. It was, indeed, a curious scene,
especially at night when lit up. The glass cases, the beds, the forms
lying there, the gallery above, and the marble pavement under
foot--the suffering, and the fortitude to bear it in various
degrees--occasionally, from some, the groan that could not be
repress'd--sometimes a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and glassy
eye, the nurse by his side, the doctor also there, but no friend, no
relative--such were the sights but lately in the Patent-office. (The
wounded have since been removed from there, and it is now vacant again.)


THE WHITE HOUSE BY MOONLIGHT

_February 24th._--A spell of fine soft weather. I wander about a good
deal, sometimes at night under the moon. Tonight took a long look at
the President's house. The white portico--the palace-like, tall,
round columns, spotless as snow--the walls also--the tender and
soft moonlight, flooding the pale marble, and making peculiar faint
languishing shades, not shadows--everywhere a soft transparent
hazy, thin, blue moon-lace, hanging in the air--the brilliant and
extra-plentiful clusters of gas, on and around the façade, columns,
portico, &c.--everything so white, so marbly pure and dazzling, yet
soft--the White House of future poems, and of dreams and dramas, there
in the soft and copious moon--the gorgeous front, in the trees, under
the lustrous flooding moon, full of realty, full of illusion--the forms
of the trees, leafless, silent, in trunk and myriad--angles of branches,
under the stars and sky--the White House of the land, and of beauty and
night--sentries at the gates, and by the portico, silent, pacing there
in blue overcoats--stopping you not at all, but eyeing you with sharp
eyes, whichever way you move.


AN ARMY HOSPITAL WARD

Let me specialize a visit I made to the collection of barrack-like
one-story edifices, Campbell hospital, out on the flats, at the end
of the then horse railway route, on Seventh street. There is a long
building appropriated to each ward. Let us go into ward 6. It contains,
to-day, I should judge, eighty or a hundred patients, half sick, half
wounded. The edifice is nothing but boards, well whitewash'd inside, and
the usual slender-framed iron bedsteads, narrow and plain. You walk down
the central passage, with a row on either side, their feet towards you,
and their heads to the wall. There are fires in large stoves, and the
prevailing white of the walls is reliev'd by some ornaments, stars,
circles, &c., made of evergreens. The view of the whole edifice and
occupants can be taken at once, for there is no partition. You may hear
groans or other sounds of unendurable suffering from two or three of
the cots, but in the main there is quiet--almost a painful absence of
demonstration; but the pallid face, the dull'd eye, and the moisture
of the lip, are demonstration enough. Most of these sick or hurt are
evidently young fellows from the country, farmers' sons, and such like.
Look at the fine large frames, the bright and broad countenances, and
the many yet lingering proofs of strong constitution and physique. Look
at the patient and mute manner of our American wounded as they lie in
such a sad collection; representatives from all New England, and from
New York, and New Jersey, and Pennsylvania--indeed from all the States
and all the cities--largely from the west. Most of them are entirely
without friends or acquaintances here--no familiar face, and hardly a
word of judicious sympathy or cheer, through their sometimes long and
tedious sickness, or the pangs of aggravated wounds.


A CONNECTICUT CASE

This young man in bed 25 is H. D. B. of the 27th Connecticut, company
B. His folks live at Northford, near New Haven. Though not more than
twenty-one, or thereabouts, he has knock'd much around the world, on sea
and land, and has seen some fighting on both. When I first saw him he
was very sick, with no appetite. He declined offers of money--said
he did not need anything. As I was quite anxious to do something,
he confess'd that he had a hankering for a good home-made rice
pudding--thought he could relish it better than anything. At this
time his stomach was very weak. (The doctor, whom I consulted, said
nourishment would do him more good than anything; but things in the
hospital, though better than usual, revolted him.) I soon procured B.
his rice pudding. A Washington lady, (Mrs. O'C.), hearing his wish,
made the pudding herself, and I took it up to him the next day. He
subsequently told me he lived upon it for three or four days. This B. is
a good sample of the American eastern young man--the typical Yankee.
I took a fancy to him, and gave him a nice pipe for a keepsake. He
receiv'd afterwards a box of things from home, and nothing would do but
I must take dinner with him, which I did, and a very good one it was.


TWO BROOKLYN BOYS

Here in this same ward are two young men from Brooklyn, members of the
51st New York. I had known both the two as young lads at home, so they
seem near to me. One of them, J. L., lies there with an amputated
arm, the stump healing pretty well. (I saw him lying on the ground at
Fredericksburgh last December, all bloody, just after the arm was taken
off. He was very phlegmatic about it, munching away at a cracker in the
remaining hand--made no fuss.) He will recover, and thinks and talks yet
of meeting Johnny Rebs.


A SECESH BRAVE

The grand soldiers are not comprised in those of one side, any more
than the other. Here is a sample of an unknown southerner, a lad
of seventeen. At the War department, a few days ago, I witness'd a
presentation of captured flags to the Secretary. Among others a soldier
named Gant, of the 104th Ohio volunteers, presented a rebel battle-flag,
which one of the officers stated to me was borne to the mouth of our
cannon and planted there by a boy but seventeen years of age, who
actually endeavor'd to stop the muzzle of the gun with fence-rails. He
was kill'd in the effort, and the flag-staff was sever'd by a shot from
one of our men.


THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE

_May '63_.--As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from
Hooker's command from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the
first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to
come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to
see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of
Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last
night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The
pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf
and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them;
at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches light up the
spectacle. All around--on the wharf, on the ground, out on side
places--the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c., with bloody rags
bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are few, and at
night few outsiders also--only a few hard-work'd transportation men
and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow
callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently
wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the ambulances are
now arriving in clusters, and one after another is call'd to back up
and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men
generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans
that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally a scream of pain as they
lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are
expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days.
Quite often they arrive at the rate of 1000 a day.


A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE

_May 12_.--There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville,
(second Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Saturday, Saturday
night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a
glimpse of--(a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea--of which a few
suggestions are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting had
been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter part,
was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in
the morning. That afternoon (Saturday) an attack sudden and strong by
Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the southern army, and
broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that
position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate push, drove
the secesh forces back, restored his original lines, and resumed his
plans. This night scrimmage was very exciting, and afforded countless
strange and fearful pictures. The fighting had been general both at
Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh. (We hear of some poor
fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part. I think not of it. I
think of the fierce bravery, the general rule.) One corps, the 6th,
Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and bloody battles in thirty-six hours,
retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself,
fighting with the sternest desperation under all circumstances, getting
over the Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over.
It lost many, many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance.

But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday
morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the
woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at
times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself,
the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees--yet there the
battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions
to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of
cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood
oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool
grass. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded,
unable to move, are consumed--quite large spaces are swept over, burning
the dead also--some of the men have their hair and beards singed--some,
burns on their faces and hands--others holes burnt in their clothing.
The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke,
and the immense roar--the musketry so general, the light nearly bright
enough for each side to see the other--the crashing, tramping of
men--the yelling--close quarters--we hear the secesh yells--our men
cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight--hand to hand
conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they
often charge upon us--a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer
greater poems on--and still the woods on fire--still many are not only
scorch'd--too many, unable to move, are burned to death.

Then the camps of the wounded--O heavens, what scene is this?--is this
indeed _humanity_--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.
There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from 200
to 300 poor fellows--the groans and screams--the odor of blood,
mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees--that
slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see
them--cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is
shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg--both are amputated--there
lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off--some bullets
through the breast--some indescribably horrid wounds in the face
or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out--some in the
abdomen--some mere boys--many rebels, badly hurt--they take their
regular turns with the rest, just the same as any--the surgeons use
them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded--such a fragment, a
reflection afar off of the bloody scene--while all over the clear, large
moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods,
that scene of flitting souls--amid the crack and crash and yelling
sounds--the impalpable perfume of the woods--and yet the pungent,
stifling smoke--the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at
intervals so placid--the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there,
those buoyant upper oceans--a few large placid stars beyond, coming
silently and languidly out, and then disappearing--the melancholy,
draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields,
and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or
land--both parties now in force--masses--no fancy battle, no semi-play,
but fierce and savage demons fighting there--courage and scorn of death
the rule, exceptions almost none.

What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little
squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal
purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many conflicts in
the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods--the
writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and
pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls and threats and
awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the officers'
orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd in human
hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash of the naked
sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and
clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its
radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic
of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the
second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly
order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what
moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm--to save, (and it did save,)
the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the
field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but death has mark'd him--soon he
falls.)


UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story? Of
many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown
heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who tells?
No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of
all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library,
norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or
west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers.
Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives them.
Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds,
thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving
his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass
and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats, flits from the
scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less,
far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent
round him--the eyes glaze in death----none recks--perhaps the
burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded
spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth,
unburied and unknown.


SOME SPECIMEN CASES

_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came
over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend or
acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the
sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom
when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could
live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual
observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all
naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his
cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and
the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object,
face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some
frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.
(Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit
by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and
evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with
profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while
he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd
his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to
gaze easier--one long, clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd
back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken
boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.

_W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y._--His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at
the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before
brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help
as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced,
rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a
great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W.,
of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The
doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his
side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk
much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady
above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of tobacco.)

J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I
gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man
adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I
offer'd it--refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was
very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was
evidently very grateful, but said little.

J.T.L., of company F, 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is
very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has
gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three
toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New
England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated
singed cat, who was better than she look'd.

Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something
pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of
horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses
are excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs.
Wright--a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital,
Alexandria--she is a perfect nurse.)

In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine--sick with
dysentery and typhoid fever--pretty critical case--I talk with him
often--he thinks he will die--looks like it indeed. I write a letter for
him home to East Livermore, Maine--I let him talk to me a little,
but not much, advise him to keep very quiet--do most of the talking
myself--stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand--talk
to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner--talk about his
furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel.

Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the
foot--poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed
with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes--I give him
a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted
in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little
breakfast. I write two letters for him.

Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore,
2d U. S. artillery--shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite
rational--from hips down paralyzed--he will surely die. I speak a very
few words to him every day and evening--he answers pleasantly--wants
nothing--(he told me soon after he came about his home affairs,
his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his
condition.) He died soon after she came.


MY PREPARATIONS FOR VISITS

In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the simple matter of
personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I
succeeded and help'd more than by medical nursing, or delicacies,
or gifts of money, or anything else. During the war I possess'd the
perfection of physical health. My habit, when practicable, was to
prepare for starting out on one of those daily or nightly tours of from
a couple to four or five hours, by fortifying myself with previous rest,
the bath, clean clothes, a good meal, and as cheerful an appearance as
possible.


AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS

_June 23, Sundown._--As I sit writing this paragraph I see a train of
about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, fill'd with
wounded, passing up Fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to
Columbian, Carver, and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the men
come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these long,
sad processions. Through the past winter, while our army lay opposite
Fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of frequent
occurrence along Seventh street, passing slowly up from the steamboat
wharf, with loads from Aquia creek.


BAD WOUNDS--THE YOUNG

The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is
generally supposed--I should say nine-tenths are native-born. Among
the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio,
Indiana, and Illinois men. As usual, there are all sorts of wounds. Some
of the men fearfully burnt from the explosions of artillery caissons.
One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was
perhaps worse than usual. Amputations are going on--the attendants are
dressing wounds. As you pass by, you must be on your guard where
you look. I saw the other day a gentlemen, a visitor apparently from
curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment to look at an
awful wound they were probing. He turn'd pale, and in a moment more he
had fainted away and fallen to the floor.


THE MOST INSPIRITING OF ALL WAR'S SHOWS

_June 29._--Just before sundown this evening a very large cavalry force
went by--a fine sight. The men evidently had seen service. First came a
mounted band of sixteen bugles, drums and cymbals, playing wild martial
tunes--made my heart jump. Then the principal officers, then company
after company, with their officers at their heads, making of course the
main part of the cavalcade; then a long train of men with led horses,
lots of mounted negroes with special horses--and a long string of
baggage-wagons, each drawn by four horses--and then a motley rear guard.

It was a pronouncedly warlike and gay show; the sabres clank'd, the men
look'd young and healthy and strong; the electric tramping of so many
horses on the hard road, and the gallant bearing, fine seat, and bright
faced appearance of a thousand and more handsome young American men,
were so good to see. An hour later another troop went by, smaller in
numbers, perhaps three hundred men. They too look'd like serviceable
men, campaigners used to field and fight.

_July 3_.--This forenoon, for more than an hour, again long strings
of cavalry, several regiments, very fine men and horses, four or five
abreast. I saw them in Fourteenth street, coming in town from north.
Several hundred extra horses, some of the mares with colts, trotting
along. (Appear'd to be a number of prisoners too.) How inspiriting
always the cavalry regiments. Our men are generally well mounted, feel
good, are young, gay on the saddle, their blankets in a roll behind
them, their sabres clanking at their sides. This noise and movement
and the tramp of many horses' hoofs has a curious effect upon one. The
bugles play--presently you hear them afar off, deaden'd, mix'd with
other noises. Then just as they had all pass'd, a string of ambulances
commenc'd from the other way, moving up Fourteenth street north, slowly
wending along, bearing a large lot of wounded to the hospitals.


BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG

_July 4th_.--The weather to-day, upon the whole, is very fine, warm,
but from a smart rain last night, fresh enough, and no dust, which is
a great relief for this city. I saw the parade about noon, Pennsylvania
avenue, from Fifteenth street down toward the capitol. There were three
regiments of infantry, (I suppose the ones doing patrol duty here,) two
or three societies of Odd Fellows, a lot of children in barouches, and
a squad of policemen. (A useless imposition upon the soldiers--they have
work enough on their backs without piling the like of this.)

As I went down the Avenue, saw a big flaring placard on the bulletin
board of a newspaper office, announcing "Glorious Victory for the Union
Army!" Meade had fought Lee at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, yesterday and
day before, and repuls'd him most signally, taken 3,000 prisoners, &c.
(I afterwards saw Meade's despatch, very modest, and a sort of order of
the day from the President himself, quite religious, giving thanks to
the Supreme, and calling on the people to do the same.)

I walk'd on to Armory hospital--took along with me several bottles of
blackberry and cherry syrup, good and strong, but innocent. Went through
several of the wards, announc'd to the soldiers the news from Meade,
and gave them all a good drink of the syrups with ice water, quite
refreshing--prepar'd it all myself, and serv'd it around. Meanwhile the
Washington bells are ringing their sun-down peals for Fourth of July,
and the usual fusilades of boys' pistols, crackers, and guns.


A CAVALRY CAMP

I am writing this, nearly sundown, watching a cavalry company (acting
Signal service,) just come in through a shower, making their night's
camp ready on some broad, vacant ground, a sort of hill, in full view
opposite my window. There are the men in their yellow-striped jackets.
All are dismounted; the freed horses stand with drooping heads and wet
sides; they are to be led off presently in groups, to water. The little
wall-tents and shelter tents spring up quickly. I see the fires already
blazing, and pots and kettles over them. Some among the men are driving
in tent-poles, wielding their axes with strong, slow blows. I see great
huddles of horses, bundles of hay, groups of men (some with unbuckled
sabres yet on their sides,) a few officers, piles of wood, the flames
of the fires, saddles, harness, &c. The smoke streams upward, additional
men arrive and dismount--some drive in stakes, and tie their horses to
them; some go with buckets for water, some are chopping wood, and so on.

_July 6th_.--A steady rain, dark and thick and warm. A train of six-mule
wagons has just pass'd bearing pontoons, great square-end flatboats, and
the heavy planking for overlaying them. We hear that the Potomac above
here is flooded, and are wondering whether Lee will be able to get back
across again, or whether Meade will indeed break him to pieces. The
cavalry camp on the hill is a ceaseless field of observation for me.
This forenoon there stand the horses, tether'd together, dripping,
steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping
also. The fires are half quench'd.

_July 10th_.--Still the camp opposite--perhaps fifty or sixty tents.
Some of the men are cleaning their sabres (pleasant to-day,) some
brushing boots, some laying off, reading, writing--some cooking, some
sleeping. On long temporary cross-sticks back of the tents are cavalry
accoutrements--blankets and overcoats are hung out to air--there are the
squads of horses tether'd, feeding, continually stamping and whisking
their tails to keep off flies. I sit long in my third story window and
look at the scene--a hundred little things going on--peculiar objects
connected with the camp that could not be described, any one of them
justly, without much minute drawing and coloring in words.


A NEW YORK SOLDIER

This afternoon, July 22d, I have spent a long time with Oscar F. Wilber,
company G, 154th New York, low with chronic diarrhoea, and a bad
wound also. He asked me to read him a chapter in the New Testament.
I complied, and ask'd him what I should read. He said, "Make your
own choice." I open'd at the close of one of the first books of the
evangelists, and read the chapters describing the latter hours of
Christ, and the scenes at the crucifixion. The poor, wasted young man
ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ rose again. I
read very slowly, for Oscar was feeble. It pleased him very much, yet
the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. I said,
"Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet, may-be, it is the
same thing." He said, "It is my chief reliance." He talk'd of death, and
said he did not fear it. I said, "Why, Oscar, don't you think you will
get well?" He said, "I may, but it is not probable." He spoke calmly
of his condition. The wound was very bad, it discharg'd much. Then the
diarrhoea had prostrated him, and I felt that he was even then the same
as dying. He behaved very manly and affectionate. The kiss I gave him
as I was about leaving he return'd fourfold. He gave me his mother's
address, Mrs. Sally D. Wilber, Alleghany pest-office, Cattaraugus
county, N. Y. I had several such interviews with him. He died a few days
after the one just described.


HOME-MADE MUSIC

_August 8th_.--To-night, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a
wounded soldier in Armory-square, I was attracted by some pleasant
singing in an adjoining ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and
entering the ward where the music was, I walk'd halfway down and took a
seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. R., badly wounded in the
hand at Chancellorsville, and who has suffer'd much, but at that moment
in the evening was wide awake and comparatively easy. He had turn'd
over on his left side to get a better view of the singers, but the
mosquito-curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed the sight. I stept
round and loop'd them all up, so that he had a clear show, and then sat
down again by him, and look'd and listen'd. The principal singer was a
young lady-nurse of one of the wards, accompanying on a melodeon, and
join'd by the lady-nurses of other wards. They sat there, making a
charming group, with their handsome, healthy faces, and standing up
a little behind them were some ten or fifteen of the convalescent
soldiers, young men, nurses, &c., with books in their hands, singing.
Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the
New York opera house take a hand in, yet I am not sure but I receiv'd as
much pleasure under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from
the best Italian compositions, express'd by world-famous performers.
The men lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, (some badly
wounded--some never to rise thence,) the cots themselves, with their
drapery of white curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper
parts of the ward; then the silence of the men, and the attitudes they
took--the whole was a sight to look around upon again and again. And
there sweetly rose those voices up to the high, whitewash'd wooden roof,
and pleasantly the roof sent it all back again. They sang very well,
mostly quaint old songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here,
for instance:

    My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a pilgrim stranger,
    Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger;
    For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
    And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.
    We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
    Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
    For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
    And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.


ABRAHAM LINCOLN

_August 12th_.--I see the President almost every day, as I happen to
live where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never
sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a
healthy location some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers' home,
a United States military establishment. I saw him this morning about 8
1/2 coming in to business, riding on Vermont avenue, near L street. He
always has a company of twenty-five or thirty cavalry, with sabres drawn
and held upright over their shoulders. They say this guard was against
his personal wish, but he let his counselors have their way. The party
makes no great show in uniform or horses. Mr. Lincoln on the saddle
generally rides a good-sized, easy-going gray horse, is dress'd in plain
black, somewhat rusty and dusty, wears a black stiff hat, and looks
about as ordinary in attire, &c., as the commonest man. A lieutenant,
with yellow straps, rides at his left, and following behind, two by
two, come the cavalry men, in their yellow-striped jackets. They are
generally going at a slow trot, as that is the pace set them by the one
they wait upon. The sabres and accoutrements clank, and the entirely
unornamental _cortège_ as it trots towards Lafayette square arouses
no sensation, only some curious stranger stops and gazes. I see very
plainly ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S dark brown face, with the deep-cut lines, the
eyes, always to me with a deep latent sadness in the expression. We
have got so that we exchange bows, and very cordial ones. Sometimes
the President goes and comes in an open barouche. The cavalry always
accompany him, with drawn sabres. Often I notice as he goes out
evenings--and sometimes in the morning, when he returns early--he turns
off and halts at the large and handsome residence of the Secretary of
War, on K street, and holds conference there. If in his barouche, I can
see from my window he does not alight, but sits in his vehicle, and Mr.
Stanton comes out to attend him. Sometimes one of his sons, a boy of ten
or twelve, accompanies him, riding at his right on a pony. Earlier in
the summer I occasionally saw the President and his wife, toward the
latter part of the afternoon, out in a barouche, on a pleasure ride
through the city. Mrs. Lincoln was dress'd in complete black, with a
long crape veil. The equipage is of the plainest kind, only two horses,
and they nothing extra. They pass'd me once very close, and I saw the
President in the face fully, as they were moving slowly, and his look,
though abstracted, happen'd to be directed steadily in my eye. He bow'd
and smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I
have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has caught the deep,
though subtle and indirect expression of this man's face. There is
something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or three
centuries ago is needed.


HEATED TERM

There has lately been much suffering here from heat; we have had it upon
us now eleven days. I go around with an umbrella and a fan. I saw two
cases of sun-stroke yesterday, one in Pennsylvania avenue, and another
in Seventh street. The City railroad company loses some horses every
day. Yet Washington is having a livelier August, and is probably putting
in a more energetic and satisfactory summer, than ever before during its
existence. There is probably more human electricity, more population to
make it, more business, more light-heartedness, than ever before.
The armies that swiftly circumambiated from Fredericksburgh--march'd,
struggled, fought, had out their mighty clinch and hurl at
Gettysburg--wheel'd, circumambiated again, return'd to their ways,
touching us not, either at their going or coming. And Washington feels
that she has pass'd the worst; perhaps feels that she is henceforth
mistress. So here she sits with her surrounding hills spotted with guns,
and is conscious of a character and identity different from what it
was five or six short weeks ago, and very considerably pleasanter and
prouder.


SOLDIERS AND TALKS

Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, you meet everywhere about the city,
often superb-looking men, though invalids dress'd in worn uniforms, and
carrying canes or crutches. I often have talks with them, occasionally
quite long and interesting. One, for instance, will have been all
through the peninsula under McClellan--narrates to me the fights, the
marches, the strange, quick changes of that eventful campaign, and
gives glimpses of many things untold in any official reports or books or
journals. These, indeed, are the things that are genuine and precious.
The man was there, has been out two years, has been through a dozen
fights, the superfluous flesh of talking is long work'd off him, and he
gives me little but the hard meat and sinew. I find it refreshing, these
hardy, bright, intuitive, American young men, (experienc'd soldiers with
all their youth.) The vocal play and significance moves one more than
books. Then there hangs something majestic about a man who has borne his
part in battles, especially if he is very quiet regarding it when you
desire him to unbosom. I am continually lost at the absence of blowing
and blowers among these old-young American militaires. I have found some
man or other who has been in every battle since the war began, and have
talk'd with them about each one in every part of the United States, and
many of the engagements on the rivers and harbors too. I find men
here from every State in the Union, without exception. (There are more
Southerners, especially border State men, in the Union army than is
generally supposed. [A]) I now doubt whether one can get a fair idea
of what this war practically is, or what genuine America is, and her
character, without some such experience as this I am having.


DEATH OF A WISCONSIN OFFICER

Another characteristic scene of that dark and bloody 1863, from notes of
my visit to Armory-square hospital, one hot but pleasant summer day. In
ward H we approach the cot of a young lieutenant of one of the Wisconsin
regiments. Tread the bare board floor lightly here, for the pain and
panting of death are in this cot. I saw the lieutenant when he was first
brought here from Chancellorsville, and have been with him occasionally
from day to day and night to night. He had been getting along pretty
well till night before last, when a sudden hemorrhage that could not be
stopt came upon him, and to-day it still continues at intervals. Notice
that water-pail by the side of the bed, with a quantity of blood and
bloody pieces of muslin, nearly full; that tells the story. The poor
young man is struggling painfully for breath, his great dark eyes with
a glaze already upon them, and the choking faint but audible in his
throat. An attendant sits by him, and will not leave him till the last;
yet little or nothing can be done. He will die here in an hour or two,
without the presence of kith or kin. Meantime the ordinary chat and
business of[6] the ward a little way off goes on indifferently. Some
of the inmates are laughing and joking, others are playing checkers or
cards, others are reading, &c.

I have noticed through most of the hospitals that as long as there
is any chance for a man, no matter how bad he may be, the surgeon and
nurses work hard, sometimes with curious tenacity, for his life, doing
everything, and keeping somebody by him to execute the doctor's orders,
and minister to him every minute night and day. See that screen there.
As you advance through the dusk of early candle-light, a nurse will step
forth on tip-toe, and silently but imperiously forbid you to make any
noise, or perhaps to come near at all. Some soldier's life is flickering
there, suspended between recovery and death. Perhaps at this moment the
exhausted frame has just fallen into a light sleep that a step might
shake. You must retire. The neighboring patients must move in their
stocking feet. I have been several times struck with such mark'd
efforts--everything bent to save a life from the very grip of the
destroyer. But when that grip is once firmly fix'd, leaving no hope or
chance at all, the surgeon abandons the patient. If it is a case
where stimulus is any relief, the nurse gives milk-punch or brandy, or
whatever is wanted, _ad libitum_. There is no fuss made. Not a bit
of sentimentalism or whining have I seen about a single death-bed in
hospital or on the field, but generally impassive indifference. All is
over, as far as any efforts can avail; it is useless to expend emotions
or labors. While there is a prospect they strive hard--at least most
surgeons do; but death certain and evident, they yield the field.


Note:

[6]MR. GARFIELD (_In the House of Representatives, April 15,'79_.) "Do
gentlemen know that (leaving out all the border States) there were fifty
regiments and seven companies of white men in our army fighting for the
Union from the States that went into rebellion? Do they know that from
the single State of Kentucky more Union soldiers fought under our flag
than Napoleon took into the battle of Waterloo? more than Wellington
took with all the allied armies against Napoleon? Do they remember that
186,000 color'd men fought under our flag against the rebellion and for
the Union, and that of that number 90,000 were from the States which
went into rebellion?"


HOSPITALS ENSEMBLE

_Aug., Sept., and Oct., '63._--I am in the habit of going to all, and
to Fairfax seminary, Alexandria, and over Long bridge to the great
Convalescent camp. The journals publish a regular directory of them--a
long list. As a specimen of almost any one of the larger of these
hospitals, fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of ground,
on which are group'd ten or twelve very large wooden barracks, with,
perhaps, a dozen or twenty, and sometimes more than that number, small
buildings, capable altogether of accommodating from five hundred to a
thousand or fifteen hundred persons. Sometimes these wooden barracks or
wards, each of them perhaps from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet
long, are rang'd in a straight row, evenly fronting the street; others
are plann'd so as to form an immense V; and others again are ranged
around a hollow square. They make altogether a huge cluster, with the
additional tents, extra wards for contagious diseases, guard-houses,
sutler's stores, chaplain's house; in the middle will probably be an
edifice devoted to the offices of the surgeon in charge and the ward
surgeons, principal attaches, clerks, &c. The wards are either letter'd
alphabetically, ward G, ward K, or else numerically, 1, 2, 3, &c. Each
has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. Of course, there is, in the
aggregate, quite a muster of employes, and over all the surgeon in
charge. Here in Washington, when these army hospitals are all fill'd,
(as they have been already several times,) they contain a population
more numerous in itself than the whole of the Washington of ten or
fifteen years ago. Within sight of the capitol, as I write, are some
thirty or forty such collections, at times holding from fifty to seventy
thousand men. Looking from any eminence and studying the topography in
my rambles, I use them as landmarks. Through the rich August verdure
of the trees, see that white group of buildings off yonder in the
outskirts; then another cluster half a mile to the left of the first;
then another a mile to the right, and another a mile beyond, and still
another between us and the first. Indeed, we can hardly look in any
direction but these clusters are dotting the landscape and environs.
That little town, as you might suppose it, off there on the brow of a
hill, is indeed a town, but of wounds, sickness, and death. It is Finley
hospital, northeast of the city, on Kendall green, as it used to be
call'd. That other is Campbell hospital. Both are large establishments.
I have known these two alone to have from two thousand to twenty-five
hundred inmates. Then there is Carver hospital, larger still, a wall'd
and military city regularly laid out, and guarded by squads of sentries.
Again, off east, Lincoln hospital, a still larger one; and half a mile
further Emory hospital. Still sweeping the eye around down the river
toward Alexandria, we see, to the right, the locality where the
Convalescent camp stands, with its five, eight, or sometimes ten
thousand inmates. Even all these are but a portion. The Harewood, Mount
Pleasant, Armory-square, Judiciary hospitals, are some of the rest, and
all large collections.


A SILENT NIGHT RAMBLE

_October 20th_.--To-night, after leaving the hospital at 10 o'clock, (I
had been on self-imposed duty some five hours, pretty closely confined,)
I wander'd a long time around Washington. The night was sweet, very
clear, sufficiently cool, a voluptuous halfmoon, slightly golden, the
space near it of a transparent blue-gray tinge. I walk'd up Pennsylvania
avenue, and then to Seventh street, and a long while around the
Patent-office. Somehow it look'd rebukefully strong, majestic, there in
the delicate moonlight. The sky, the planets, the constellations all
so bright, so calm, so expressively silent, so soothing, after those
hospital scenes. I wander'd to and fro till the moist moon set, long
after midnight.


SPIRITUAL CHARACTERS AMONG THE SOLDIERS

Every now and then, in hospital or camp, there are beings I
meet--specimens of unworldliness, disinterestedness, and animal purity
and heroism--perhaps some unconscious Indianian, or from Ohio or
Tennessee--on whose birth the calmness of heaven seems to have
descended, and whose gradual growing up, whatever the circumstances of
work-life or change, or hardship, or small or no education that attended
it, the power of a strange spiritual sweetness, fibre and inward health,
have also attended. Something veil'd and abstracted is often a part of
the manners of these beings. I have met them, I say, not seldom in the
army, in camp, and in the hospitals. The Western regiments contain many
of them. They are often young men, obeying the events and occasions
about them, marching, soldiering, righting, foraging, cooking, working
on farms or at some trade before the war--unaware of their own nature,
(as to that, who is aware of his own nature?) their companions only
understanding that they are different from the rest, more silent,
"something odd about them," and apt to go off and meditate and muse in
solitude.


CATTLE DROVES ABOUT WASHINGTON

Among other sights are immense droves of cattle with their drivers,
passing through the streets of the city. Some of the men have a way
of leading the cattle by a peculiar call, a wild, pensive hoot, quite
musical, prolong'd, indescribable, sounding something between the cooing
of a pigeon and the hoot of an owl. I like to stand and look at the
sight of one of these immense droves--a little way off--(as the dust
is great.) There are always men on horseback, cracking their whips
and shouting--the cattle low--some obstinate ox or steer attempts to
escape--then a lively scene--the mounted men, always excellent riders
and on good horses, dash after the recusant, and wheel and turn--a
dozen mounted drovers, their great slouch'd, broad-brim'd hats, very
picturesque--another dozen on foot--everybody cover'd with dust--long
goads in their hands--an immense drove of perhaps 1000 cattle--the
shouting, hooting, movement, &c.


HOSPITAL PERPLEXITY

To add to other troubles, amid the confusion of this great army of sick,
it is almost impossible for a stranger to find any friend or relative,
unless he has the patient's specific address to start upon. Besides the
directory printed in the newspapers here, there are one or two general
directories of the hospitals kept at provost's head-quarters, but they
are nothing like complete; they are never up to date, and, as things
are, with the daily streams of coming and going and changing, cannot
be. I have known cases, for instance such as a farmer coming here from
northern New York to find a wounded brother, faithfully hunting round
for a week, and then compell'd to leave and go home without getting any
trace of him. When he got home he found a letter from the brother giving
the right address.


DOWN AT THE FRONT

CULPEPPER, VA., _Feb. '64._--Here I am FRONT pretty well down toward the
extreme front. Three or four days ago General S., who is now in chief
command, (I believe Meade is absent, sick,) moved a strong force
southward from camp as if intending business. They went to the Rapidan;
there has since been some manoeuvering and a little fighting, but
nothing of consequence. The telegraphic accounts given Monday morning
last, make entirely too much of it, I should say. What General S.
intended we here know not, but we trust in that competent commander. We
were somewhat excited, (but not so very much either,) on Sunday, during
the day and night, as orders were sent out to pack up and harness, and
be ready to evacuate, to fall back towards Washington. But I was very
sleepy and went to bed. Some tremendous shouts arousing me during the
night, I went forth and found it was from the men above mention'd, who
were returning. I talk'd with some of the men; as usual I found them
full of gayety, endurance, and many fine little outshows, the signs of
the most excellent good manliness of the world. It was a curious
sight to see those shadowy columns moving through the night. I stood
unobserv'd in the darkness and watch'd them long. The mud was very
deep. The men had their usual burdens, overcoats, knapsacks, guns and
blankets. Along and along they filed by me, with often a laugh, a song,
a cheerful word, but never once a murmur. It may have been odd, but I
never before so realized the majesty and reality of the American people
_en masse_. It fell upon me like a great awe. The strong ranks moved
neither fast nor slow. They had march'd seven or eight miles already
through the slipping unctuous mud. The brave First corps stopt here.
The equally brave Third corps moved on to Brandy station. The famous
Brooklyn 14th are here, guarding the town. You see their red legs
actively moving everywhere. Then they have a theatre of their own here.
They give musical performances, nearly everything done capitally. Of
course the audience is a jam. It is good sport to attend one of these
entertainments of the 14th. I like to look around at the soldiers, and
the general collection in front of the curtain, more than the scene on
the stage.


PAYING THE BOUNTIES

One of the things to note here now is the arrival of the paymaster with
his strong box, and the payment of bounties to veterans re-enlisting.
Major H. is here to-day, with a small mountain of greenbacks, rejoicing
the hearts of the 2d division of the First corps. In the midst of a
rickety shanty, behind a little table, sit the major and clerk Eldridge,
with the rolls before them, and much moneys. A re-enlisted man gets in
cash about $200 down, (and heavy instalments following, as the pay-days
arrive, one after another.) The show of the men crowding around is quite
exhilarating; I like to stand and look. They feel elated, their pockets
full, and the ensuing furlough, the visit home. It is a scene of
sparkling eyes and flush'd cheeks. The soldier has many gloomy and harsh
experiences, and this makes up for some of them. Major H. is order'd to
pay first all the re-enlisted men of the First corps their bounties and
back pay, and then the rest. You hear the peculiar sound of the rustling
of the new and crisp greenbacks by the hour, through the nimble fingers
of the major and my friend clerk E.


RUMORS, CHANGES, ETC.

About the excitement of Sunday, and the orders to be ready to start,
I have heard since that the said orders came from some cautious minor
commander, and that the high principalities knew not and thought not of
any such move; which is likely. The rumor and fear here intimated a long
circuit by Lee, and flank attack on our right. But I cast my eyes at the
mud, which was then at its deepest and palmiest condition, and retired
composedly to rest. Still it is about time for Culpepper to have a
change. Authorities have chased each other here like clouds in a stormy
sky. Before the first Bull Run this was the rendezvous and camp of
instruction of the secession troops. I am stopping at the house of a
lady who has witness'd all the eventful changes of the war, along this
route of contending armies. She is a widow, with a family of young
children, and lives here with her sister in a large handsome house. A
number of army officers board with them.


VIRGINIA

Dilapidated, fenceless, and trodden with war as Virginia is, wherever
I move across her surface, I find myself rous'd to surprise and
admiration. What capacity for products, improvements, human life,
nourishment and expansion. Everywhere that I have been in the Old
Dominion, (the subtle mockery of that title now!) such thoughts have
fill'd me. The soil is yet far above the average of any of the northern
States. And how full of breadth the scenery, everywhere distant
mountains, everywhere convenient rivers. Even yet prodigal in forest
woods, and surely eligible for all the fruits, orchards, and flowers.
The skies and atmosphere most luscious, as I feel certain, from more
than a year's residence in the State, and movements hither and yon. I
should say very healthy, as a general thing. Then a rich and elastic
quality, by night and by day. The sun rejoices in his strength, dazzling
and burning, and yet, to me, never unpleasantly weakening. It is not the
panting tropical heat, but invigorates. The north tempers it. The nights
are often unsurpassable. Last evening (Feb. 8,) I saw the first of the
new moon, the outlined old moon clear along with it; the sky and air
so clear, such transparent hues of color, it seem'd to me I had never
really seen the new moon before. It was the thinnest cut crescent
possible. It hung delicate just above the sulky shadow of the Blue
mountains. Ah, if it might prove an omen and good prophecy for this
unhappy State.


SUMMER OF 1864

I am back again in Washington, on my regular daily and nightly rounds.
Of course there are many specialties. Dotting a ward here and there are
always cases of poor fellows, long-suffering under obstinate wounds,
or weak and dishearten'd from typhoid fever, or the like; mark'd cases,
needing special and sympathetic nourishment. These I sit down and either
talk to, or silently cheer them up. They always like it hugely, (and so
do I.) Each case has its peculiarities, and needs some new adaptation. I
have learnt to thus conform--learnt a good deal of hospital wisdom.
Some of the poor young chaps, away from home for the first time in their
lives, hunger and thirst for affection; this is sometimes the only thing
that will reach their condition. The men like to have a pencil, and
something to write in. I have given them cheap pocket-diaries, and
almanacs for 1864, interleav'd with blank paper. For reading I generally
have some old pictorial magazines or story papers--they are always
acceptable. Also the morning or evening papers of the day. The best
books I do not give, but lend to read through the wards, and then take
them to others, and so on; they are very punctual about returning the
books. In these wards, or on the field, as I thus continue to go round,
I have come to adapt myself to each emergency, after its kind or call,
however trivial, however solemn, every one justified and made real
under its circumstances--not only visits and cheering talk and little
gifts--not only washing and dressing wounds, (I have some cases where
the patient is unwilling any one should do this but me)--but passages
from the Bible, expounding them, prayer at the bedside, explanations of
doctrine, &c. (I think I see my friends smiling at this confession, but
I was never more in earnest in my life.) In camp and everywhere, I was
in the habit of reading or giving recitations to the men. They were very
fond of it, and liked declamatory poetical pieces. We would gather in
a large group by ourselves, after supper, and spend the time in such
readings, or in talking, and occasionally by an amusing game called the
game of twenty questions.


A NEW ARMY ORGANIZATION FIT FOR AMERICA

It is plain to me out of the events of the war, north and south, and out
of all considerations, that the current military theory, practice, rules
and organization, (adopted from Europe from the feudal institutes, with,
of course, the "modern improvements," largely from the French,) though
tacitly follow'd, and believ'd in by the officers generally, are not at
all consonant with the United States, nor our people, nor our days. What
it will be I know not--but I know that as entire an abnegation of the
present military system, and the naval too, and a building up from
radically different root-bases and centres appropriate to us, must
eventually result, as that our political system has resulted and become
establish'd, different from feudal Europe, and built up on itself from
original, perennial, democratic premises. We have undoubtedly in the
United States the greatest military power--an exhaustless, intelligent,
brave and reliable rank and file--in the world, any land, perhaps all
lands. The problem is to organize this in the manner fully appropriate
to it, to the principles of the republic, and to get the best service
out of it. In the present struggle, as already seen and review'd,
probably three-fourths of the losses, men, lives, &c., have been sheer
superfluity, extravagance, waste.


DEATH OF A HERO

I wonder if I could ever convey to another--to you, for instance, reader
dear--the tender and terrible realities of such cases, (many, many
happen'd,) as the one I am now going to mention. Stewart C. Glover,
company E, 5th Wisconsin--was wounded May 5, in one of those fierce
tussles of the Wilderness-died May 21--aged about 20. He was a small
and beardless young man--a splendid soldier--in fact almost an ideal
American, of his age. He had serv'd nearly three years, and would have
been entitled to his discharge in a few days. He was in Hancock's corps.
The fighting had about ceas'd for the day, and the general commanding
the brigade rode by and call'd for volunteers to bring in the wounded.
Glover responded among the first--went out gayly--but while in the act
of bearing in a wounded sergeant to our lines, was shot in the knee by
a rebel sharpshooter; consequence, amputation and death. He had resided
with his father, John Glover, an aged and feeble man, in Batavia,
Genesee county, N. Y., but was at school in Wisconsin, after the war
broke out, and there enlisted--soon took to soldier-life, liked it,
was very manly, was belov'd by officers and comrades. He kept a little
diary, like so many of the soldiers. On the day of his death he wrote
the following in it, _to-day the doctor says I must die--all is over
with me--ah, so young to die_. On another blank leaf he pencill'd to his
brother, _dear brother Thomas, I have been brave but wicked--pray for
me._


HOSPITAL SCENES--INCIDENTS

It is Sunday afternoon, middle of summer, hot and oppressive, and very
silent through the ward. I am taking care of a critical case, now lying
in a half lethargy. Near where I sit is a suffering rebel, from the
8th Louisiana; his name is Irving. He has been here a long time, badly
wounded, and lately had his leg amputated; it is not doing very well.
Right opposite me is a sick soldier-boy, laid down with his clothes on,
sleeping, looking much wasted, his pallid face on his arm. I see by the
yellow trimming on his jacket that he is a cavalry boy. I step softly
over and find by his card that he is named William Cone, of the 1st
Maine cavalry, and his folks live in Skowhegan.

_Ice Cream Treat_.--One hot day toward the middle of June, I gave the
inmates of Carver hospital a general ice cream treat, purchasing a large
quantity, and, under convoy of the doctor or head nurse, going
around personally through the wards to see to its distribution. _An
Incident_.--In one of the rights before Atlanta, a rebel soldier, of
large size, evidently a young man, was mortally wounded top of the head,
so that the brains partially exuded. He lived three days, lying on
his back on the spot where he first dropt. He dug with his heel in the
ground during that time a hole big enough to put in a couple of
ordinary knapsacks. He just lay there in the open air, and with little
intermission kept his heel going night and day. Some of our soldiers
then moved him to a house, but he died in a few minutes.

_Another_.--After the battles at Columbia, Tennessee, where we repuls'd
about a score of vehement rebel charges, they left a great many wounded
on the ground, mostly within our range. Whenever any of these wounded
attempted to move away by any means, generally by crawling off, our men
without exception brought them down by a bullet. They let none crawl
away, no matter what his condition.


A YANKEE SOLDIER

As I turn'd off the Avenue one cool October evening into Thirteenth
street, a soldier with knapsack and overcoat stood at the corner
inquiring his way. I found he wanted to go part of the road in my
direction, so we walk'd on together. We soon fell into conversation. He
was small and not very young, and a tough little fellow, as I judged in
the evening light, catching glimpses by the lamps we pass'd. His answers
were short, but clear. His name was Charles Carroll; he belong'd to
one of the Massachusetts regiments, and was born in or near Lynn. His
parents were living, but were very old. There were four sons, and all
had enlisted. Two had died of starvation and misery in the prison at
Andersonville, and one had been kill'd in the west. He only was left.
He was now going home, and by the way he talk'd I inferr'd that his time
was nearly out. He made great calculations on being with his parents to
comfort them the rest of their days.


UNION PRISONERS SOUTH

Michael Stansbury, 48 years of age, a seafaring man, a southerner by
birth and raising, formerly captain of U. S. light ship Long Shoal,
station'd at Long Shoal point, Pamlico sound--though a southerner, a
firm Union man--was captur'd Feb. 17, 1863, and has been nearly two
years in the Confederate prisons; was at one time order'd releas'd by
Governor Vance, but a rebel officer re-arrested him; then sent on to
Richmond for exchange--but instead of being exchanged was sent down
(as a southern citizen, not a soldier,) to Salisbury, N. C., where he
remain'd until lately, when he escap'd among the exchang'd by assuming
the name of a dead soldier, and coming up via Wilmington with the rest.
Was about sixteen months in Salisbury.

Subsequent to October, '64, there were about 11,000 Union prisoners in
the stockade; about 100 of them southern unionists, 200 U. S. deserters.
During the past winter 1500 of the prisoners, to save their lives,
join'd the confederacy, on condition of being assign'd merely to guard
duty. Out of the 11,000 not more than 2500 came out; 500 of these were
pitiable, helpless wretches--the rest were in a condition to travel.
There were often 60 dead bodies to be buried in the morning; the daily
average would be about 40. The regular food was a meal of corn, the cob
and husk ground together, and sometimes once a week a ration of sorghum
molasses. A diminutive ration of meat might possibly come once a month,
not oftener. In the stockade, containing the 11,000 men, there was a
partial show of tents, not enough for 2000. A large proportion of the
men lived in holes in the ground, in the utmost wretchedness. Some froze
to death, others had their hands and feet frozen. The rebel guards would
occasionally, and on the least pretence, fire into the prison from mere
demonism and wantonness. All the horrors that can be named, starvation,
lassitude, filth, vermin, despair, swift loss of self-respect, idiocy,
insanity, and frequent murder, were there. Stansbury has a wife and
child living in Newbern--has written to them from here--is in the U. S.
light-house employ still--(had been home to Newbern to see his family,
and on his return to the ship was captured in his boat.) Has seen men
brought there to Salisbury as hearty as you ever see in your life--in
a few weeks completely dead gone, much of it from thinking on their
condition--hope all gone. Has himself a hard, sad, strangely deaden'd
kind of look, as of one chill' d for years in the cold and dark, where
his good manly nature had no room to exercise itself.


DESERTERS

_Oct. 24_.--Saw a large squad of our own deserters (over 300) surrounded
with a cordon of arm'd guards, marching along Pennsylvania avenue. The
most motley collection I ever saw, all sorts of rig, all sorts of hats
and caps, many fine-looking young fellows, some of them shame-faced,
some sickly, most of them dirty, shirts very dirty and long worn, &c.
They tramp'd along without order, a huge huddling mass, not in ranks. I
saw some of the spectators laughing, but I felt like anything else but
laughing. These deserters are far more numerous than would be thought.
Almost every day I see squads of them, sometimes two or three at a time,
with a small guard; sometimes ten or twelve, under a larger one. (I
hear that desertions from the army now in the field have often averaged
10,000 a month. One of the commonest sights in Washington is a squad of
deserters.)


A GLIMPSE OF WAR'S HELL-SCENES

In one of the late movements of our troops in the valley, (near
Upperville, I think,) a strong force of Moseby's mounted guerillas
attack'd a train of wounded, and the guard of cavalry convoying them.
The ambulances contain'd about 60 wounded, quite a number of them
officers of rank. The rebels were in strength, and the capture of
the train and its partial guard after a short snap was effectually
accomplish'd. No sooner had our men surrender'd, the rebels instantly
commenced robbing the train and murdering their prisoners, even the
wounded. Here is the scene, or a sample of it, ten minutes after.
Among the wounded officers in the ambulances were one, a lieutenant of
regulars, and another of higher rank. These two were dragg'd out on
the ground on their backs, and were now surrounded by the guerillas,
a demoniac crowd, each member of which was stabbing them in different
parts of their bodies. One of the officers had his feet pinn'd firmly
to the ground by bayonets stuck through them and thrust into the ground.
These two officers, as afterwards found on examination, had receiv'd
about twenty such thrusts, some of them through the mouth, face, &c. The
wounded had all been dragg'd (to give a better chance also for plunder,)
out of their wagons; some had been effectually dispatch'd, and their
bodies were lying there lifeless and bloody. Others, not yet dead,
but horribly mutilated, were moaning or groaning. Of our men who
surrender'd, most had been thus maim'd or slaughter'd.

At this instant a force of our cavalry, who had been following the
train at some interval, charged suddenly upon the secesh captors, who
proceeded at once to make the best escape they could. Most of them got
away, but we gobbled two officers and seventeen men, in the very acts
just described. The sight was one which admitted of little discussion,
as may be imagined. The seventeen captur'd men and two officers were put
under guard for the night, but it was decided there and then that they
should die. The next morning the two officers were taken in the
town, separate places, put in the centre of the street, and shot. The
seventeen men were taken to an open ground, a little one side. They
were placed in a hollow square, half-encompass'd by two of our cavalry
regiments, one of which regiments had three days before found the bloody
corpses of three of their men hamstrung and hung up by the heels to
limbs of trees by Moseby's guerillas, and the other had not long before
had twelve men, after surrendering, shot and then hung by the neck to
limbs of trees, and jeering inscriptions pinn'd to the breast of one of
the corpses, who had been a sergeant. Those three, and those twelve, had
been found, I say, by these environing regiments. Now, with revolvers,
they form'd the grim cordon of the seventeen prisoners. The latter were
placed in the midst of the hollow square, unfasten'd, and the ironical
remark made to them that they were now to be given "a chance for
themselves." A few ran for it. But what use? From every side the deadly
pills came. In a few minutes the seventeen corpses strew'd the hollow
square. I was curious to know whether some of the Union soldiers, some
few, (some one or two at least of the youngsters,) did not abstain from
shooting on the helpless men. Not one. There was no exultation, very
little said, almost nothing, yet every man there contributed his shot.

Multiply the above by scores, aye hundreds--verify it in all the forms
that different circumstances, individuals, places, could afford--light
it with every lurid passion, the wolf's, the lion's lapping thirst for
blood--the passionate, boiling volcanoes of human revenge for comrades,
brothers slain--with the light of burning farms, and heaps of smutting,
smouldering black embers--and in the human heart everywhere black, worse
embers--and you have an inkling of this war.


GIFTS--MONEY--DISCRIMINATION

As a very large proportion of the wounded came up from the front without
a cent of money in their pockets, I soon discover'd that it was about
the best thing I could do to raise their spirits, and show them that
somebody cared for them, and practically felt a fatherly or brotherly
interest in them, to give them small sums in such cases, using tact and
discretion about it. I am regularly supplied with funds for this purpose
by good women and men in Boston, Salem, Providence, Brooklyn, and
New York. I provide myself with a quantity of bright new ten-cent and
five-cent bills, and, when I think it incumbent, I give 25 or 30
cents, or perhaps 50 cents, and occasionally a still larger sum to some
particular case. As I have started this subject, I take opportunity to
ventilate the financial question. My supplies, altogether voluntary,
mostly confidential, often seeming quite Providential, were numerous
and varied. For instance, there were two distant and wealthy ladies,
sisters, who sent regularly, for two years, quite heavy sums, enjoining
that their names should be kept secret. The same delicacy was indeed a
frequent condition. From several I had _carte blanche_. Many were entire
strangers. From these sources, during from two to three years, in the
manner described, in the hospitals, I bestowed, as almoner for others,
many, many thousands of dollars. I learn'd one thing conclusively--that
beneath all the ostensible greed and heartlessness of our times there
is no end to the generous benevolence of men and women in the United
States, when once sure of their object. Another thing became clear to
me--while _cash_ is not amiss to bring up the rear, tact and magnetic
sympathy and unction are, and ever will be, sovereign still.


ITEMS FROM MY NOTE BOOKS

Some of the half-eras'd, and not over-legible when made, memoranda of
things wanted by one patient or another, will convey quite a fair idea.
D. S. G., bed 52, wants a good book; has a sore, weak throat; would like
some horehound candy; is from New Jersey, 28th regiment. C. H. L., 145th
Pennsylvania, lies in bed 6, with jaundice and erysipelas; also wounded;
stomach easily nauseated; bring him some oranges, also a little tart
jelly; hearty, full-blooded young fellow--(he got better in a few days,
and is now home on a furlough.) J. H. G., bed 24, wants an undershirt,
drawers, and socks; has not had a change for quite a while; is evidently
a neat, clean boy from New England--(I supplied him; also with a comb,
tooth-brush, and some soap and towels; I noticed afterward he was the
cleanest of the whole ward.) Mrs. G., lady-nurse, ward F, wants a bottle
of brandy--has two patients imperatively requiring stimulus--low with
wounds and exhaustion. (I supplied her with a bottle of first-rate
brandy from the Christian commission rooms.)


A CASE FROM SECOND BULL RUN

Well, Poor John Mahay is dead. He died yesterday. His was a painful and
long-lingering case (see p. 24 _ante_.) I have been with him at times
for the past fifteen months. He belonged to company A, 101st New York,
and was shot through the lower region of the abdomen at second Bull Run,
August, '62. One scene at his bedside will suffice for the agonies of
nearly two years. The bladder had been perforated by a bullet going
entirely through him. Not long since I sat a good part of the morning by
his bedside, ward E, Armory square. The water ran out of his eyes from
the intense pain, and the muscles of his face were distorted, but he
utter'd nothing except a low groan now and then. Hot moist cloths were
applied, and reliev'd him somewhat. Poor Mahay, a mere boy in age, but
old in misfortune. He never knew the love of parents, was placed in
infancy in one of the New York charitable institutions, and subsequently
bound out to a tyrannical master in Sullivan county, (the scars of whose
cowhide and club remain'd yet on his back.) His wound here was a most
disagreeable one, for he was a gentle, cleanly, and affectionate boy.
He found friends in his hospital life, and, indeed, was a universal
favorite. He had quite a funeral ceremony.


ARMY SURGEONS--AID DEFICIENCIES

I must bear my most emphatic testimony to the zeal, manliness, and
professional spirit and capacity, generally prevailing among the
surgeons, many of them young men, in the hospitals and the army. I will
not say much about the exceptions, for they are few; (but I have met
some of those few, and very incompetent and airish they were.) I never
ceas'd to find the best men, and the hardest and most disinterested
workers, among the surgeons in the hospitals. They are full of genius,
too. I have seen many hundreds of them and this is my testimony. There
are, however, serious deficiencies, wastes, sad want of system, in the
commissions, contributions, and in all the voluntary, and a great part
of the governmental nursing, edibles, medicines, stores, &c. (I do not
say surgical attendance, because the surgeons cannot do more than human
endurance permits.) Whatever puffing accounts there may be in the papers
of the North, this is the actual fact. No thorough previous preparation,
no system, no foresight, no genius. Always plenty of stores, no doubt,
but never where they are needed, and never the proper application.
Of all harrowing experiences, none is greater than that of the days
following a heavy battle. Scores, hundreds of the noblest men on earth,
uncomplaining, lie helpless, mangled, faint, alone, and so bleed to
death, or die from exhaustion, either actually untouch'd at all, or
merely the laying of them down and leaving them, when there ought to be
means provided to save them.


THE BLUE EVERYWHERE

This city, its suburbs, the capitol, the front of the White House, the
places of amusement, the Avenue, and all the main streets, swarm with
soldiers this winter, more than ever before. Some are out from the
hospitals, some from the neighboring camps, &c. One source or another,
they pour plenteously, and make, I should say, the mark'd feature in the
human movement and costume-appearance of our national city. Their blue
pants and overcoats are everywhere. The clump of crutches is heard up
the stairs of the paymasters' offices, and there are characteristic
groups around the doors of the same, often waiting long and wearily
in the cold. Toward the latter part of the afternoon, you see the
furlough'd men, sometimes singly, sometimes in small squads, making
their way to the Baltimore depot. At all times, except early in the
morning, the patrol detachments are moving around, especially during the
earlier hours of evening, examining passes, and arresting all soldiers
without them. They do not question the one-legged, or men badly disabled
or main'd, but all others are stopt. They also go around evenings
through the auditoriums of the theatres, and make officers and all show
their passes, or other authority, for being there.


A MODEL HOSPITAL

_Sunday, January 29th, 1865_.--Have been in Armory-square this
afternoon. The wards are very comfortable, new floors and plaster walls,
and models of neatness. I am not sure but this is a model hospital after
all, in important respects. I found several sad cases of old lingering
wounds. One Delaware soldier, William H. Millis, from Bridgeville, whom
I had been with after the battles of the Wilderness, last May, where he
receiv'd a very bad wound in the chest, with another in the left arm,
and whose case was serious (pneumonia had set in) all last June and
July, I now find well enough to do light duty. For three weeks at the
time mention'd he just hovered between life and death.


BOYS IN THE ARMY

As I walk'd home about sunset, I saw in Fourteenth street a very young
soldier, thinly clad, standing near the house I was about to enter. I
stopt a moment in front of the door and call'd him to me. I knew that an
old Tennessee regiment, and also an Indiana regiment, were temporarily
stopping in new barracks, near Fourteenth street. This boy I found
belonged to the Tennessee regiment. But I could hardly believe he
carried a musket. He was but 15 years old, yet had been twelve months a
soldier, and had borne his part in several battles, even historic
ones. I ask'd him if he did not suffer from the cold, and if he had
no overcoat. No, he did not suffer from cold, and had no overcoat, but
could draw one whenever he wish'd. His father was dead, and his mother
living in some part of East Tennessee; all the men were from that
part of the country. The next forenoon I saw the Tennessee and Indiana
regiments marching down the Avenue. My boy was with the former, stepping
along with the rest. There were many other boys no older. I stood and
watch'd them as they tramp'd along with slow, strong, heavy, regular
steps. There did not appear to be a man over 30 years of age, and a
large proportion were from 15 to perhaps 22 or 23. They had all the look
of veterans, worn, stain'd, impassive, and a certain unbent, lounging
gait, carrying in addition to their regular arms and knapsacks,
frequently a frying-pan, broom, &c. They were all of pleasant
physiognomy; no refinement, nor blanch'd with intellect, but as my eye
pick'd them, moving along, rank by rank, there did not seem to be a
single repulsive, brutal or markedly stupid face among them.


BURIAL OF A LADY NURSE

Here is an incident just occurr'd in one of the hospitals. A lady named
Miss or Mrs. Billings, who has long been a practical friend of soldiers,
and nurse in the army, and had become attached to it in a way that no
one can realize but him or her who has had experience, was taken sick,
early this winter, linger'd some time, and finally died in the hospital.
It was her request that she should be buried among the soldiers, and
after the military method. This request was fully carried out. Her
coffin was carried to the grave by soldiers, with the usual escort,
buried, and a salute fired over the grave. This was at Annapolis a few
days since.


FEMALE NURSES FOR SOLDIERS

There are many women in one position or another, among the hospitals,
mostly as nurses here in Washington, and among the military stations;
quite a number of them young ladies acting as volunteers. They are a
help in certain ways, and deserve to be mention'd with respect. Then
it remains to be distinctly said that few or no young ladies, under the
irresistible conventions of society, answer the practical requirements
of nurses for soldiers. Middle-aged or healthy and good condition'd
elderly women, mothers of children, are always best. Many of the wounded
must be handled. A hundred things which cannot be gainsay'd, must occur
and must be done. The presence of a good middle-aged or elderly woman,
the magnetic touch of hands, the expressive features of the mother, the
silent soothing of her presence, her words, her knowledge and privileges
arrived at only through having had children, are precious and final
qualifications. It is a natural faculty that is required; it is not
merely having a genteel young woman at a table in a ward. One of the
finest nurses I met was a red-faced illiterate old Irish woman; I have
seen her take the poor wasted naked boys so tenderly up in her arms.
There are plenty of excellent clean old black women that would make
tip-top nurses.


SOUTHERN ESCAPEES

_Feb. 23, '65_.--I saw a large procession of young men from the rebel
army, (deserters they are call'd, but the usual meaning of the word does
not apply to them,) passing the Avenue to-day. There were nearly 200,
come up yesterday by boat from James river. I stood and watch'd them
as they shuffled along, in a slow, tired, worn sort of way; a large
proportion of light-hair'd, blonde, light gray-eyed young men among
them. Their costumes had a dirt-stain'd uniformity; most had been
originally gray; some had articles of our uniform, pants on one, vest
or coat on another; I think they were mostly Georgia and North Carolina
boys. They excited little or no attention. As I stood quite close to
them, several good looking enough youths, (but O what a tale of misery
their appearance told,) nodded or just spoke to me, without doubt
divining pity and fatherliness out of my face, for my heart was full
enough of it. Several of the couples trudg'd along with their arms about
each other, some probably brothers, as if they were afraid they might
somehow get separated. They nearly all look'd what one might call
simple, yet intelligent, too. Some had pieces of old carpet, some
blankets, and others old bags around their shoulders. Some of them here
and there had fine faces, still it was a procession of misery. The two
hundred had with them about half a dozen arm'd guards. Along this week
I saw some such procession, more or less in numbers, every day, as they
were brought up by the boat. The government does what it can for them,
and sends them north and west.

_Feb. 27_.--Some three or four hundred more escapees from the
confederate army came up on the boat. As the day has been very pleasant
indeed, (after a long spell of bad weather,) I have been wandering
around a good deal, without any other object than to be out-doors and
enjoy it; have met these escaped men in all directions. Their apparel is
the same ragged, long-worn motley as before described. I talk'd with a
number of the men. Some are quite bright and stylish, for all their poor
clothes--walking with an air, wearing their old head-coverings on one
side, quite saucily. I find the old, unquestionable proofs, as all
along the past four years, of the unscrupulous tyranny exercised by the
secession government in conscripting the common people by absolute force
everywhere, and paying no attention whatever to the men's time being
up--keeping them in military service just the same. One gigantic young
fellow, a Georgian, at least six feet three inches high, broad-sized in
proportion, attired in the dirtiest, drab, well smear'd rags, tied
with strings, his trousers at the knees all strips and streamers, was
complacently standing eating some bread and meat. He appear'd contented
enough. Then a few minutes after I saw him slowly walking along. It was
plain he did not take anything to heart.

_Feb. 28._--As I pass'd the military headquarters of the city, not far
from the President's house, I stopt to interview some of the crowd of
escapees who were lounging there. In appearance they were the same as
previously mention'd. Two of them, one about 17, and the other perhaps
25 or '6, I talk'd with some time. They were from North Carolina, born
and rais'd there, and had folks there. The elder had been in the rebel
service four years. He was first conscripted for two years. He was then
kept arbitrarily in the ranks. This is the case with a large proportion
of the secession army. There was nothing downcast in these young
men's manners; the younger had been soldiering about a year; he was
conscripted; there were six brothers (all the boys of the family) in
the army, part of them as conscripts, part as volunteers; three had been
kill'd; one had escaped about four months ago, and now this one had got
away; he was a pleasant and well-talking lad, with the peculiar North
Carolina idiom (not at all disagreeable to my ears.) He and the elder
one were of the same company, and escaped together--and wish'd to remain
together. They thought of getting transportation away to Missouri, and
working there; but were not sure it was judicious. I advised them rather
to go to some of the directly northern States, and get farm work for the
present. The younger had made six dollars on the boat, with some tobacco
he brought; he had three and a half left. The elder had nothing; I
gave him a trifle. Soon after, met John Wormley, 9th Alabama, a West
Tennessee rais' d boy, parents both dead--had the look of one for a long
time on short allowance--said very little--chew'd tobacco at a fearful
rate, spitting in proportion--large clear dark-brown eyes, very
fine--didn't know what to make of me--told me at last he wanted much
to get some clean underclothes, and a pair of decent pants. Didn't care
about coat or hat fixings. Wanted a chance to wash himself well, and
put on the underclothes. I had the very great pleasure of helping him to
accomplish all those wholesome designs.

_March 1st_.--Plenty more butternut or clay-color'd escapees every
day. About 160 came in to-day, a large portion South Carolinians. They
generally take the oath of allegiance, and are sent north, west, or
extreme south-west if they wish. Several of them told me that the
desertions in their army, of men going home, leave or no leave, are far
more numerous than their desertions to our side. I saw a very forlorn
looking squad of about a hundred, late this afternoon, on their way to
the Baltimore depot.


THE CAPITOL BY GAS-LIGHT

To-night I have been wandering awhile in the capitol, which is all lit
up. The illuminated rotunda looks fine. I like to stand aside and look a
long, long while, up at the dome; it comforts me somehow. The House and
Senate were both in session till very late. I look'd in upon them, but
only a few moments; they were hard at work on tax and appropriation
bills. I wander'd through the long and rich corridors and apartments
under the Senate; an old habit of mine, former winters, and now more
satisfaction than ever. Not many persons down there, occasionally a
flitting figure in the distance.


THE INAUGURATION

_March 4th._--The President very quietly rode down to the capitol in his
own carriage, by himself, on a sharp trot, about noon, either because
he wish'd to be on hand to sign bills, or to get rid of marching in line
with the absurd procession, the muslin temple of liberty and pasteboard
monitor. I saw him on his return, at three o'clock, after the
performance was over. He was in his plain two-horse barouche, and look'd
very much worn and tired; the lines, indeed, of vast responsibilities,
intricate questions, and demands of life and death, cut deeper than ever
upon his dark brown face; yet all the old goodness, tenderness, sadness,
and canny shrewdness, underneath the furrows. (I never see that man
without feeling that he is one to become personally attach'd to, for his
combination of purest, heartiest tenderness, and native western form of
manliness.) By his side sat his little boy, of ten years. There were no
soldiers, only a lot of civilians on horseback, with huge yellow scarfs
over their shoulders, riding around the carriage. (At the inauguration
four years ago, he rode down and back again surrounded by a dense
mass of arm'd cavalrymen eight deep, with drawn sabres; and there were
sharpshooters station'd at every corner on the route.) I ought to make
mention of the closing levee of Saturday night last. Never before was
such a compact jam in front of the White House--all the grounds fill'd,
and away out to the spacious sidewalks. I was there, as I took a
notion to go--was in the rush inside with the crowd--surged along the
passage-ways, the blue and other rooms, and through the great east room.
Crowds of country people, some very funny. Fine music from the Marine
band, off in a side place. I saw Mr. Lincoln, drest all in black, with
white kid gloves and a claw-hammer coat, receiving, as in duty bound,
shaking hands, looking very disconsolate, and as if he would give
anything to be somewhere else.


ATTITUDE OF FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS DURING THE WAR

Looking over my scraps, I find I wrote the following during 1864. The
happening to our America, abroad as well as at home, these years, is
indeed most strange. The democratic republic has paid her today the
terrible and resplendent compliment of the united wish of all the
nations of the world that her union should be broken, her future
cut off, and that she should be compell'd to descend to the level
of kingdoms and empires ordinarily great. There is certainly not one
government in Europe but is now watching the war in this country, with
the ardent prayer that the United States may be effectually split,
crippled, and dismember'd by it. There is not one but would help toward
that dismemberment, if it dared. I say such is the ardent wish to-day of
England and of France, as governments, and of all the nations of Europe,
as governments. I think indeed it is to-day the real, heartfelt wish
of all the nations of the world, with the single exception of
Mexico--Mexico, the only one to whom we have ever really done wrong,
and now the only one who prays for us and for our triumph, with genuine
prayer. Is it not indeed strange? America, made up of all, cheerfully
from the beginning opening her arms to all, the result and justifier of
all, of Britain, Germany, France and Spain--all here--the accepter, the
friend, hope, last resource and general house of all--she who has
harm'd none, but been bounteous to so many, to millions, the mother of
strangers and exiles, all nations--should now, I say, be paid this dread
compliment of general governmental fear and hatred. Are we indignant?
alarm'd? Do we feel jeopardized? No; help'd, braced, concentrated,
rather. We are all too prone to wander from ourselves, to affect Europe,
and watch her frowns and smiles. We need this hot lesson of general
hatred, and henceforth must never forget it. Never again will we trust
the moral sense nor abstract friendliness of a single _government_ of
the old world.


THE WEATHER--DOES IT SYMPATHIZE WITH THESE TIMES?

Whether the rains, the heat and cold, and what underlies them all,
are affected with what affects man in masses, and follow his play of
passionate action, strain'd stronger than usual, and on a larger scale
than usual--whether this, or no, it is certain that there is now, and
has been for twenty months or more, on this American continent north,
many a remarkable, many an unprecedented expression of the subtile world
of air above us and around us. There, since this war, and the wide and
deep national agitation, strange analogies, different combinations, a
different sunlight, or absence of it; different products even out of the
ground. After every great battle, a great storm. Even civic events the
same. On Saturday last, a forenoon like whirling demons, dark, with
slanting rain, full of rage; and then the afternoon, so calm, so bathed
with flooding splendor from heaven's most excellent sun, with atmosphere
of sweetness; so clear, it show'd the stars, long long before they were
due. As the President came out on the capitol portico, a curious little
white cloud, the only one in that part of the sky, appear'd like a
hovering bird, right over him.

Indeed, the heavens, the elements, all the meteorological influences,
have run riot for weeks past. Such caprices, abruptest alternation of
frowns and beauty, I never knew. It is a common remark that (as last
summer was different in its spells of intense heat from any preceding
it,) the winter just completed has been without parallel. It has
remain'd so down to the hour I am writing. Much of the daytime of the
past month was sulky, with leaden heaviness, fog, interstices of bitter
cold, and some insane storms. But there have been samples of another
description. Nor earth nor sky ever knew spectacles of superber beauty
than some of the nights lately here. The western star, Venus, in the
earlier hours of evening, has never been so large, so clear; it seems
as if it told something, as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity,
with us Americans. Five or six nights since, it hung close by the moon,
then a little past its first quarter. The star was wonderful, the moon
like a young mother. The sky, dark blue, the transparent night, the
planets, the moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of
that great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west,
suffused the soul. Then I heard, slow and clear, the deliberate notes of
a bugle come up out of the silence, sounding so good through the night's
mystery, no hurry, but firm and faithful, floating along, rising,
falling leisurely, with here and there a long-drawn note; the bugle,
well play'd, sounding tattoo, in one of the army hospitals near here,
where the wounded (some of them personally so dear to me,) are lying
in their cots, and many a sick boy come down to the war from Illinois,
Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, and the rest.


INAUGURATION BALL

_March 6_.--I have been up to look at the dance and supper-rooms,
for the inauguration ball at the Patent office; and I could not help
thinking, what a different scene they presented to my view a while
since, fill'd with a crowded mass of the worst wounded of the war,
brought in from second Bull Run, Antietam, and Fredericksburgh.
To-night, beautiful women, perfumes, the violin's sweetness, the polka
and the waltz; then the amputation, the blue face, the groan, the glassy
eye of the dying, the clotted rag, the odor of wounds and blood, and
many a mother's son amid strangers, passing away untended there, (for
the crowd of the badly hurt was great, and much for nurse to do, and
much for surgeon.)


SCENE AT THE CAPITOL

I must mention a strange scene at the capitol, the hall of
Representatives, the morning of Saturday last, (March 4th.) The day just
dawn'd, but in half-darkness, everything dim, leaden, and soaking. In
that dim light, the members nervous from long drawn duty, exhausted,
some asleep, and many half asleep. The gas-light, mix'd with the
dingy day-break, produced an unearthly effect. The poor little sleepy,
stumbling pages, the smell of the hall, the members with heads leaning
on their desks, the sounds of the voices speaking, with unusual
intonations--the general moral atmosphere also of the close of this
important session--the strong hope that the war is approaching its
close--the tantalizing dread lest the hope may be a false one--the
grandeur of the hall itself, with its effect of vast shadows up toward
the panels and spaces over the galleries--all made a mark'd combination.

In the midst of this, with the suddenness of a thunderbolt, burst one of
the most angry and crashing storms of rain and hail ever heard. It
beat like a deluge on the heavy glass roof of the hall, and the wind
literally howl'd and roar'd. For a moment, (and no wonder,) the nervous
and sleeping Representatives were thrown into confusion. The slumberers
awaked with fear, some started for the doors, some look'd up with
blanch'd cheeks and lips to the roof, and the little pages began to cry;
it was a scene. But it was over almost as soon as the drowsied men were
actually awake. They recover'd themselves; the storm raged on, beating,
dashing, and with loud noises at times. But the House went ahead with
its business then, I think, as calmly and with as much deliberation as
at any time in its career. Perhaps the shock did it good. (One is not
without impression, after all, amid these members of Congress, of both
the Houses, that if the flat routine of their duties should ever be
broken in upon by some great emergency involving real danger, and
calling for first-class personal qualities, those qualities would be
found generally forthcoming, and from men not now credited with them.)


A YANKEE ANTIQUE

_March 27, 1865_.--Sergeant Calvin F. Harlowe, company C, 29th
Massachusetts, 3d brigade, 1st division, Ninth corps--a mark'd sample
of heroism and death, (some may say bravado, but I say heroism, of
grandest, oldest order)--in the late attack by the rebel troops, and
temporary capture by them, of fort Steadman, at night. The fort was
surprised at dead of night. Suddenly awaken'd from their sleep, and
rushing from their tents, Harlowe, with others, found himself in the
hands of the secesh--they demanded his surrender--he answer'd, _Never
while I live_. (Of course it was useless. The others surrender'd; the
odds were too great.) Again he was ask'd to yield, this time by a rebel
captain. Though surrounded, and quite calm, he again refused, call'd
sternly to his comrades to fight on, and himself attempted to do so.
The rebel captain then shot him--but at the same instant he shot the
captain. Both fell together mortally wounded. Harlowe died almost
instantly. The rebels were driven out in a very short time. The body
was buried next day, but soon taken up and sent home, (Plymouth county,
Mass.) Harlowe was only 22 years of age--was a tall, slim, dark-hair'd,
blue-eyed young man--had come out originally with the 29th; and that
is the way he met his death, after four years' campaign. He was in the
Seven Days fight before Richmond, in second Bull Run, Antietam, first
Fredericksburgh, Vicksburgh, Jackson, Wilderness, and the campaigns
following--was as good a soldier as ever wore the blue, and every old
officer in the regiment will bear that testimony. Though so young, and
in a common rank, he had a spirit as resolute and brave as any hero
in the books, ancient or modern--It was too great to say the words "I
surrender"--and so he died. (When I think of such things, knowing them
well, all the vast and complicated events of the war, on which history
dwells and makes its volumes, fall aside, and for the moment at any rate
I see nothing but young Calvin Harlowe's figure in the night, disdaining
to surrender.)


WOUNDS AND DISEASES

The war is over, but the hospitals are fuller than ever, from former and
current cases. A large' majority of the wounds are in the arms and legs.
But there is every kind of wound, in every part of the body. I should
say of the sick, from my observation, that the prevailing maladies
are typhoid fever and the camp fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal
affections and bronchitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. These forms of
sickness lead; all the rest follow. There are twice as many sick as
there are wounded. The deaths range from seven to ten per cent, of those
under treatment.[7]


Note:

[7] In the U. S. Surgeon-General's office since, there is a formal
record and treatment of 153, 142 cases of wounds by government surgeons.
What must have been the number unofficial, indirect--to say nothing of
the Southern armies?


DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

_April 16, '65_.--I find in my notes of the time, this passage on the
death of Abraham Lincoln: He leaves for America's history and biography,
so far, not only its most dramatic reminiscence--he leaves, in my
opinion, the greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral
personality. Not but that he had faults, and show'd them in the
Presidency; but honesty, goodness, shrewdness, conscience, and (a new
virtue, unknown to other lands, and hardly yet really known here, but
the foundation and tie of all, as the future will grandly develop,)
UNIONISM, in its truest and amplest sense, form'd the hard-pan of his
character. These he seal'd with his life. The tragic splendor of his
death, purging, illuminating all, throws round his form, his head, an
aureole that will remain and will grow brighter through time, while
history lives, and love of country lasts. By many has this Union been
help'd; but if one name, one man, must be pick'd out, he, most of all,
is the conservator of it, to the future. He was assassinated--but the
Union is not assassinated--_ça ira_! One falls and another falls. The
soldier drops, sinks like a wave--but the ranks of the ocean
eternally press on. Death does its work, obliterates a hundred, a
thousand--President, general, captain, private,--but the Nation is
immortal.


SHERMAN'S ARMY'S JUBILATION--ITS SUDDEN STOPPAGE

When Sherman's armies, (long after they left Atlanta,) were marching
through Southand North Carolina--after leaving Savannah, the news of
Lee's capitulation having been receiv'd--the men never mov'd a mile
without from some part of the line sending up continued, inspiriting
shouts. At intervals all day long sounded out the wild music of those
peculiar army cries. They would be commenc'd by one regiment or brigade,
immediately taken up by others, and at length whole corps and armies
would join in these wild triumphant choruses. It was one of the
characteristic expressions of the western troops, and became a habit,
serving as a relief and outlet to the men--a vent for their feelings of
victory, returning peace, &c. Morning, noon, and afternoon, spontaneous,
for occasion or without occasion, these huge, strange cries, differing
from any other, echoing through the open air for many a mile, expressing
youth, joy, wildness, irrepressible strength, and the ideas of advance
and conquest, sounded along the swamps and uplands of the South,
floating to the skies. ("There never were men that kept in better
spirits in danger or defeat--what then could they do in victory?"--said
one of the 15th corps to me, afterwards.) This exuberance continued till
the armies arrived at Raleigh. There the news of the President's murder
was receiv'd. Then no more shouts or yells, for a week. All the marching
was comparatively muffled. It was very significant--hardly a loud word
or laugh in many of the regiments. A hush and silence pervaded all.


NO GOOD PORTRAIT OF LINCOLN

Probably the reader has seen physiognomies (often old farmers,
sea-captains, and such) that, behind their homeliness, or even ugliness,
held superior points so subtle, yet so palpable, making the real life
of their faces almost as impossible to depict as a wild perfume or
fruit-taste, or a passionate tone of the living voice--and such was
Lincoln's face, the peculiar color, the lines of it, the eyes, mouth,
expression. Of technical beauty it had nothing--but to the eye of a
great artist it furnished a rare study, a feast and fascination. The
current portraits are all failures--most of them caricatures.


RELEAS'D UNION PRISONERS FROM SOUTH

The releas'd prisoners of war are now coming up from the southern
prisons. I have seen a number of them. The sight is worse than any sight
of battle-fields, or any collection of wounded, even the bloodiest.
There was, (as a sample,) one large boat load, of several hundreds,
brought about the 25th, to Annapolis; and out of the whole number only
three individuals were able to walk from the boat. The rest were carried
ashore and laid down in one place or another. Can those be _men_--those
little livid brown, ash-streak'd, monkey-looking dwarfs?--are they
really not mummied, dwindled corpses? They lay there, most of them,
quite still, but with a horrible look in their eyes and skinny lips
(often with not enough flesh on the lips to cover their teeth.) Probably
no more appalling sight was ever seen on this earth. (There are deeds,
crimes, that may be forgiven; but this is not among them. It steeps its
perpetrators in blackest, escapeless, endless damnation. Over 50,000
have been compell' d to die the death of starvation--reader, did
you ever try to realize what _starvation_ actually is?--in those
prisons--and in a land of plenty.) An indescribable meanness, tyranny,
aggravating course of insults, almost incredible--was evidently the rule
of treatment through all the southern military prisons. The dead there
are not to be pitied as much as some of the living that come from
there--if they can be call' d living--many of them are mentally
imbecile, and will never recuperate.[8]


Note:

[8] _From a review of_ "ANDERSONVILLE, A STORY OF SOUTHERN MILTTARY
PRISONS," _published serially in the Toledo "Blade" in 1879, and
afterwards in book form_.

"There is a deep fascination in the subject of Andersonville--for that
Golgotha, in which lie the whitening bones of 13,000 gallant young
men, represents the dearest and costliest sacrifice of the war for the
preservation of our national unity. It is a type, too, of its class. Its
more than hundred hecatombs of dead represent several times that number
of their brethren, for whom the prison gates of Belle Isle, Danville,
Salisbury, Florence, Columbia, and Cahaba open'd only in eternity. There
are few families in the North who have not at least one dear relative or
friend among these 60,000 whose sad fortune it was to end their service
for the Union by lying down and dying for it in a southern prison pen.
The manner of their death, the horrors that cluster'd thickly around
every moment of their existence, the loyal, unfaltering steadfastness
with which they endured all that fate had brought them, has never been
adequately told. It was not with them as with their comrades in the
field, whose every act was perform'd in the presence of those whose duty
it was to observe such matters and report them to the world. Hidden from
the view of their friends in the north by the impenetrable veil
which the military operations of the rebels drew around the so-called
confederacy, the people knew next to nothing of their career or their
sufferings. Thousands died there less heeded even than the hundreds
who perish'd on the battlefield. Grant did not lose as many men kill'd
outright, in the terrible campaign from the Wilderness to the James
river--43 days of desperate fighting--as died in July and August at
Andersonville. Nearly twice as many died in that prison as fell from the
day that Grant cross'd the Rapidan, till he settled down in the trenches
before Petersburg. More than four times as many Union dead lie under
the solemn soughing pines about that forlorn little village in southern
Georgia, than mark the course of Sherman from Chattanooga to Atlanta.
The nation stands aghast at the expenditure of life which attended the
two bloody campaigns of 1864, which virtually crush'd the confederacy,
but no one remembers that more Union soldiers died in the rear of the
rebel lines than were kill'd in the front of them. The great military
events which stamp'd out the rebellion drew attention away from the sad
drama which starvation and disease play'd in those gloomy pens in the
far recesses of sombre southern forests."

_From a letter of "Johnny Bouquet," in N. Y. "Tribune," March 27, '81._

"I visited at Salisbury, N. C., the prison pen or the site of it, from
which nearly 11,000 victims of southern politicians were buried, being
confined in a pen without shelter, exposed to all the elements could do,
to all the disease herding animals together could create, and to all
the starvation and cruelty an incompetent and intense caitiff government
could accomplish. From the conversation and almost from the recollection
of the northern people this place has dropp' d, but not so in the gossip
of the Salisbury people, nearly all of whom say that the half was
never told; that such was the nature of habitual outrage here that when
Federal prisoners escaped the townspeople harbor'd them in their barns,
afraid the vengeance of God would fall on them, to deliver even their
enemies back to such cruelty. Said one old man at the Boyden House, who
join'd in the conversation one evening: 'There were often men buried out
of that prison pen still alive. I have the testimony of a surgeon that
he had seen them pull'd out of the dead cart with their eyes open and
taking notice, but too weak to lift a finger. There was not the least
excuse for such treatment, as the confederate government had seized
every sawmill in the region, and could just as well have put up shelter
for these prisoners as not, wood being plentiful here. It will be hard
to make any honest man in Salisbury say that there was the slightest
necessity for those prisoners having to live in old tents, caves
and holes half-full of water. Representations were made to the Davis
government against the officers in charge of it, but no attention
was paid to them. Promotion was the punishment for cruelty there. The
inmates were skeletons. Hell could have no terrors for any man who died
there, except the inhuman keepers.'"


DEATH OF A PENNSYLVANIA SOLDIER

_Frank H. Irwin, company E, 93rd Pennsylvania--died May 1, '65--My
letter to his mother_--Dear madam: No doubt you and Frank's friends have
heard the sad fact of his death in hospital here, through his uncle,
or the lady from Baltimore, who took his things. (I have not seen them,
only heard of them visiting Frank.) I will write you a few lines--as
a casual friend that sat by his death-bed. Your son, corporal Frank H.
Irwin, was wounded near fort Fisher, Virginia, March 25th, 1865--the
wound was in the left knee, pretty bad. He was sent up to Washington,
was receiv'd in ward C, Armory-square hospital, March 28th--the wound
became worse, and on the 4th of April the leg was amputated a little
above the knee--the operation was perform' d by Dr. Bliss, one of the
best surgeons in the army--he did the whole operation himself--there was
a good deal of bad matter gather'd--the bullet was found in the knee.
For a couple of weeks afterwards he was doing pretty well. I visited
and sat by him frequently, as he was fond of having me. The last ten or
twelve days of April I saw that his case was critical. He previously had
some fever, with cold spells. The last week in April he was much of
the time flighty--but always mild and gentle. He died first of May. The
actual cause of death was pyaemia, (the absorption of the matter in the
system instead of its discharge.) Frank, as far as I saw, had everything
requisite in surgical treatment, nursing, &c. He had watches much of the
time. He was so good and well-behaved and affectionate, I myself liked
him very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting by
him, and soothing him, and he liked to have me--liked to put his arm out
and lay his hand on my knee--would keep it so a long while. Toward the
last he was more restless and flighty at night--often fancied himself
with his regiment--by his talk sometimes seem'd as if his feelings
were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely
innocent of--said, "I never in my life was thought capable of such a
thing, and never was." At other times he would fancy himself talking as
it seem'd to children or such like, his relatives I suppose, and giving
them good advice; would talk to them a long while. All the time he was
out of his head not one single bad word or idea escaped him. It was
remark'd that many a man's conversation in his senses was not half as
good as Frank's delirium. He seem'd quite willing to die--he had become
very weak and had suffer'd a good deal, and was perfectly resign'd, poor
boy. I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it must have
been good. At any rate what I saw of him here, under the most trying
circumstances, with a painful wound, and among strangers, I can say
that he behaved so brave, so composed, and so sweet and affectionate,
it could not be surpass'd. And now like many other noble and good men,
after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his young life
at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy--yet there
is a text, "God doeth all things well"--the meaning of which, after due
time, appears to the soul.

I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about your son,
from one who was with him at the last, might be worth while--for I loved
the young man, though I but saw him immediately to lose him. I am merely
a friend visiting the hospitals occasionally to cheer the wounded and
sick.

W. W.


THE ARMIES RETURNING

_May 7_.--Sunday.--To-day as I was walking a mile or two south of
Alexandria, I fell in with several large squads of the returning Western
army, (Sherman's men as they call'd themselves) about a thousand in all,
the largest portion of them half sick, some convalescents, on their way
to a hospital camp. These fragmentary excerpts, with the unmistakable
Western physiognomy and idioms, crawling along slowly--after a great
campaign, blown this way, as it were, out of their latitude--I mark'd
with curiosity, and talk'd with off and on for over an hour. Here and
there was one very sick; but all were able to walk, except some of
the last, who had given out, and were seated on the ground, faint and
despondent. These I tried to cheer, told them the camp they were to
reach was only a little way further over the hill, and so got them up
and started, accompanying some of the worst a little way, and helping
them, or putting them under the support of stronger comrades.

_May 21_.--Saw General Sheridan and his cavalry to-day; a strong,
attractive sight; the men were mostly young, (a few middle-aged,)
superb-looking fellows, brown, spare, keen, with well-worn clothing,
many with pieces of water-proof cloth around their shoulders, hanging
down. They dash'd along pretty fast, in wide close ranks, all spatter'd
with mud; no holiday soldiers; brigade after brigade. I could have
watch'd for a week. Sheridan stood on a balcony, under a big tree,
coolly smoking a cigar. His looks and manner impress'd me favorably.

_May 22_.--Have been taking a walk along Pennsylvania avenue and Seventh
street north. The city is full of soldiers, running around loose.
Officers everywhere, of all grades. All have the weatherbeaten look of
practical service. It is a sight I never tire of. All the armies are
now here (or portions of them,) for to-morrow's review. You see them
swarming like bees everywhere.


THE GRAND REVIEW

For two days now the broad spaces of Pennsylvania avenue along to
Treasury hill, and so by detour around to the President's house, and so
up to Georgetown, and across the aqueduct bridge, have been alive with a
magnificent sight, the returning armies. In their wide ranks stretching
clear across the Avenue, I watch them march or ride along, at a brisk
pace, through two whole days--infantry, cavalry, artillery--some 200,000
men. Some days afterwards one or two other corps; and then, still
afterwards, a good part of Sherman's immense army, brought up from
Charleston, Savannah, &c.


WESTERN SOLDIERS

_May 26-7_.--The streets, the public buildings and grounds of
Washington, still swarm with soldiers from Illinois, Indiana, Ohio,
Missouri, Iowa, and all the Western States. I am continually meeting and
talking with them. They often speak to me first, and always show great
sociability, and glad to have a good interchange of chat. These Western
soldiers are more slow in their movements, and in their intellectual
quality also; have no extreme alertness. They are larger in size, have a
more serious physiognomy, are continually looking at you as they pass in
the street. They are largely animal, and handsomely so. During the war
I have been at times with the Fourteenth, Fifteenth, Seventeenth, and
Twentieth Corps. I always feel drawn toward the men, and like their
personal contact when we are crowded close together, as frequently these
days in the street-cars. They all think the world of General Sherman;
call him "old Bill," or sometimes "uncle Billy."


A SOLDIER ON LINCOLN

_May 28_.--As I sat by the bedside of a sick Michigan soldier in
hospital to-day, a convalescent from the adjoining bed rose and came to
me, and presently we began talking. He was a middleaged man, belonged
to the 2d Virginia regiment, but lived in Racine, Ohio, and had a family
there. He spoke of President Lincoln, and said: "The war is over, and
many are lost. And now we have lost the best, the fairest, the truest
man in America. Take him altogether, he was the best man this country
ever produced. It was quite a while I thought very different; but some
time before the murder, that's the way I have seen it." There was deep
earnestness in the soldier. (I found upon further talk he had known Mr.
Lincoln personally, and quite closely, years before.) He was a veteran;
was now in the fifth year of his service; was a cavalry man, and had
been in a good deal of hard fighting.


TWO BROTHERS, ONE SOUTH, ONE NORTH

_May 28-9_.--I staid to-night a long time by the bedside of a new
patient, a young Baltimorean, aged about 19 years, W. S. P., (2d
Maryland, southern,) very feeble, right leg amputated, can't sleep
hardly at all--has taken a great deal of morphine, which, as usual,
is costing more than it comes to. Evidently very intelligent and well
bred--very affectionate--held on to my hand, and put it by his face, not
willing to let me leave. As I was lingering, soothing him in his pain,
he says to me suddenly, "I hardly think you know who I am--I don't wish
to impose upon you--I am a rebel soldier." I said I did not know that,
but it made no difference. Visiting him daily for about two weeks after
that, while he lived, (death had mark'd him, and he was quite alone,) I
loved him much, always kiss'd him, and he did me. In an adjoining ward
I found his brother, an officer of rank, a Union soldier, a brave and
religious man, (Col. Clifton K. Prentiss, sixth Maryland infantry,
Sixth corps, wounded in one of the engagements at Petersburgh, April
2--linger'd, suffer'd much, died in Brooklyn, Aug. 20, '65). It was
in the same battle both were hit. One was a strong Unionist, the other
Secesh; both fought on their respective sides, both badly wounded, and
both brought together here after a separation of four years. Each died
for his cause.


SOME SAD CASES YET

_May 31_.--James H. Williams, aged 21, 3d Virginia cavalry.-About as
mark'd a case of a strong man brought low by a complication of diseases,
(laryngitis, fever, debility and diarrhoea,) as I have ever seen--has
superb physique, remains swarthy yet, and flushed and red with fever-is
altogether flighty--flesh of his great breast and arms tremulous, and
pulse pounding away with treble quickness--lies a good deal of the time
in a partial sleep, but with low muttering and groans--a sleep in which
there is no rest. Powerful as he is, and so young, he will not be able
to stand many more days of the strain and sapping heat of yesterday and
to-day. His throat is in a bad way, tongue and lips parch'd. When I ask
him how he feels, he is able just to articulate, "I feel pretty bad
yet, old man," and looks at me with his great bright eyes. Father, John
Williams, Millensport, Ohio.

_June 9-10_.--I have been sitting late to-night by the bedside of a
wounded captain, a special friend of mine, lying with a painful fracture
of left leg in one of the hospitals, in a large ward partially vacant.
The lights were put out, all but a little candle, far from where I
sat. The full moon shone in through the windows, making long, slanting
silvery patches on the floor. All was still, my friend too was silent,
but could not sleep; so I sat there by him, slowly wafting the fan, and
occupied with the musings that arose out of the scene, the long shadowy
ward, the beautiful ghostly moonlight on the floor, the white beds, here
and there an occupant with huddled form, the bed-clothes thrown off. The
hospitals have a number of cases of sun-stroke and exhaustion by heat,
from the late reviews. There are many such from the Sixth corps, from
the hot parade of day before yesterday. (Some of these shows cost the
lives of scores of men.)

_Sunday, Sep. 10_.--Visited Douglas and Stanton hospitals. They are
quite full. Many of the cases are bad ones, lingering wounds, and old
sickness. There is a more than usual look of despair on the countenances
of many of the men; hope has left them. I went through the wards,
talking as usual. There are several here from the confederate army whom
I had seen in other hospitals, and they recognized me. Two were in a
dying condition.


CALHOUN'S REAL MONUMENT

In one of the hospital tents for special cases, as I sat to-day tending
a new amputation, I heard a couple of neighboring soldiers talking to
each other from their cots. One down with fever, but improving, had come
up belated from Charleston not long before. The other was what we now
call an "old veteran," (_i.e._, he was a Connecticut youth, probably of
less than the age of twenty-five years, the four last of which he had
spent in active service in the war in all parts of the country.) The two
were chatting of one thing and another. The fever soldier spoke of John
C. Calhoun's monument, which he had seen, and was describing it. The
veteran said: "I have seen Calhoun's monument. That you saw is not the
real monument. But I have seen it. It is the desolated, ruined south;
nearly the whole generation of young men between seventeen and
thirty destroyed or maim'd; all the old families used up--the rich
impoverish'd, the plantations cover'd with weeds, the slaves unloos'd
and become the masters, and the name of southerner blacken'd with every
shame--all that is Calhoun's real monument."


HOSPITALS CLOSING

_October 3_.--There are two army hospitals now remaining. I went to the
largest of these (Douglas) and spent the afternoon and evening. There
are many sad cases, old wounds, incurable sickness, and some of the
wounded from the March and April battles before Richmond. Few realize
how sharp and bloody those closing battles were. Our men exposed
themselves more than usual; press'd ahead without urging. Then the
southerners fought with extra desperation. Both sides knew that with the
successful chasing of the rebel cabal from Richmond, and the occupation
of that city by the national troops, the game was up. The dead and
wounded were unusually many. Of the wounded the last lingering driblets
have been brought to hospital here. I find many rebel wounded here, and
have been extra busy to-day 'tending to the worst cases of them with the
rest.

_Oct., Nov. and Dec., '65--Sundays_--Every Sunday of these months
visited Harewood hospital out

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