Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Saturday Evening, April 9, 1864

Last Wednesday Miss O. and myself visited Hospital No. 1, for the second time.

They were just robing one young boy in his soldier's suit of blue for the last time. He was then borne to the deadhouse. His name was Hickman Nutter, of the 31st Ohio. I secured the Post Office address of his people and that of several others who had died and had no message sent home. I passed the whole of the next day in writing soldiers' letters, and in my journal. My fortitude was sorely tried and really broke down after getting back, to find that in ward 1 alone from two to four boys are dying daily, while the Chaplain has not been in to speak to a single sick or dying boy for two weeks. Wards 2 and 3 have fared little if any better, as is the testimony of ward-masters and nurses. It is his duty also to write to the relatives of those who die, and common humanity would dictate that it be done, and every comforting message sent to them. I was told by the clerk, whose duty it was to collect the names for report in the public prints, that in no single instance had he known the Chaplain to attend to that duty. I was indignant and determined to report him, but was given to understand by more than one Christian minister, that the expression of indignation was considered a bad omen for my future success in hospitals.

"People here," said one, kindly in explanation, "must learn to see and hear of all manner of evil and wickedness going on around them, and be as though they saw and heard not."

Being by nature and birth an outspoken New Englander, and having inhaled freedom of speech from the breezes which blow from the hills of the "Old Bay State," I fancy it will not be very easy becoming initiated into this phase of military service.

We found several interesting cases on passing through wards 1, 2 and 3.

In the first, saw one man in a dying condition, who was brought the night before. He was lifted from the ambulance and brought in by two men, who immediately left without being questioned or saying anything about him. The attendants were busy and expected to find all needed information in the medical papers, which it is rulable and customary to send, but which were not to be found. No one had observed the ambulance or men sufficiently to identify either. The disease could not be determined. There were no wounds and the lungs were in a healthy condition, but he was dying and insensible. A letter was fortunately found in his pocket, from his wife, which gave his name, company and regiment, as being Henry Clymer, Co. K., 128th Indiana.

In passing through ward 2 we came to a handsome young man, who was looking so well compared with others that we were passing without speaking. But the nurse said to us:

"This man is blind!"

Could it be possible! His eyes to a casual observer were perfectly good, but upon a closer examination one saw that the pupil was greatly enlarged and the expression staring and vacant. Questions revealed the fact that he could see nothing except a faint light when looking towards the window. I asked the cause.

"Medicine, the Surgeon here says," was the reply. "I had chills and fever while at the front, and the physician gave me large quantities of quinine, which made me blind. I have the ague now, but the Doctor dare not give any more quinine. I have been blind two weeks."

"Doesn't the Surgeon think the medicine will leave your system, and that you may recover your sight?"

"Well, he doesn't speak very encouragingly says he doesn't know."

And we now see that although the eyes cannot do duty in one way they can in another, for they absolutely rain tears, as he tells us with quivering lips, that his wife does not know anything about it; that he is dreading to send her word by stranger hands, he cannot bear to think that may be he can never write again,—never see her or other friends in this world. He is yet young and life has looked so pleasant; he is a professing Christian, but finds it so hard to bear this affliction. And he sobs like a whipped child, as, kneeling by the head of his low bed, with hand upon his forehead, we listen to this recital and strive to comfort him. We tell him of others afflicted in the same way who have not passed a life of idleness in consequence, but of mental or physical activity. Of those who have risen superior even to this calamity, and in the battle of life have learned

"How sublime a thing it is

To suffer and grow strong."

He says our words have been a blessing, as we take his hand in a good-bye, and with a promise to break the news to his wife, as gently and hopefully as possible. [We do so subsequently and upon the last visit find that he has been gaining his sight so that he can distinguish forms, though not features. Again we stand by his vacant bed and learn that he with many others have been sent North to make room for more sufferers from the front. But he was still gaining his sight.]

In the same ward we find one slight young boy, who looks as if he ought to be at home with his mother, and we sincerely believe is crying because he isn't—though he'd be bayonetted sooner than own it. He draws his sleeve across his red eyes as we approach, and upon our questioning informs us that he is "almost seventeen," and furthermore that he is "nearly half a head taller and two pounds heavier than another boy in his regiment;" but confesses that he is "right tired a' laying this way day after day—fact is I'd a heap sight rather be at home if I could get to go there, for I enlisted to fight, not to be sick!" Now we ask him if he ever thought while lying there that he is suffering in the service of his country, and a quick flash of the eye, a smile and an emphatic "no," tell us that it is entirely a new thought. Then we beg him not to forget that he is, and assure him that it requires a much braver soldier to suffer day after day in a hospital than on the hardest battle-field, and we leave him with a look of heroic endurance on his childish brow.

Here is a good-faced German, who is moaning with pain from an amputation. It is twenty days since the operation, but he suffers terribly every few moments from a spasmodic contraction of the muscles. And we also find upon conversing, that the fact of the amputation hurts his feelings in more ways than one, and we must needs tell him to bear the pain like a good brave soldier, and that it will grow less and less each day, and really last but a few days more altogether, and that as to being without a limb he will not be the only one capable of exhibiting such a proof of the service rendered his country, that it is an honor rather than a disgrace to lose limbs while battling for the right; and now the hero's look of determination settles over his features also. But just as we turn to leave, he expresses his opinion that two or three more such "cookies" as we brought him the other day wouldn't hurt him, indeed,

"Dey was mosht as goot vot my moder used to make."

SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, pp. 19-23

Diary of Edward Bates, Thursday, February 20, 1862

This day, at 5. p. m. the Prest's son Wm. Wallace Lincoln died. A fine boy of 11 yrs., too much idolized by his parents.

SOURCE: Howard K. Beale, Editor, Annual Report of The American Historical Association For The Year 1930, Vol. 4, The Diary Of Edward Bates, p. 235

Diary of Malvina S. Waring, April 8, 1865

I have neglected you, my little book, but don't you know how sick I am? And how they have all been busy nursing me, so tenderly, so patiently, so untiringly—Ernestine, Elise, and the members of this kind family, the Davidsons. We are back in our old quarters with them, and I count myself blessed that such is the case. Never can I repay them for their kindness! God, you pay them for me! Heaven, if ever they come to troublous days, and dark nights, send down thy tender light upon them! I cannot pay them; I am a miserable, weak thing, with very little moral strength and very much body (all aching). I wish my spirit didn't have to be pent up in this body. My brother told me of his prison house; we all have a prison house. Death is the escape—so why should any one dread death?

SOURCE: South Carolina State Committee United Daughters of the Confederacy, South Carolina Women in the Confederacy, Vol. 1, “A Confederate Girl's Diary,” p. 284

Diary of Musician David Lane, September 21, 1862

Maryland Heights, Va., September 21st, 1862.

Toward evening of the 13th we left Frederic City and marched out on the National Turnpike toward South Mountain, and halted for supper and a few hours rest near Middleton. It was nearly midnight. We had made a rapid march of several miles, and were tired, and hungry as wolves. Hardly had we stacked arms when Lieutenant Rath inquired: "Where's John Conley?" John could not be found; he was already off on an expedition of his own. "Well, then," said Rath, "send me the next best thief; I want a chicken for my supper."

Our foragers soon returned; the Lieutenant got his chicken, and we privates were fairly well supplied with the products of the country. It strikes me as a little strange, the facility with which a soldier learns to steal his grub. It must be the effect of heredity. Perhaps, in the dim past, when our ancestors went on "all fours," and roamed the forests in search of food; possibly at a more recent date, but before a name was given to the deed; they formed the habit of taking what they wanted wherever it could be found, provided they had the physical power, or mental cunning, to accomplish it, and this habit, thus formed, became instinct, and was transmitted to their descendants. At daylight we were on the move, headed for South Mountain. We had an inkling—how obtained I do not know; mental telepathy, perhaps, that occult, mysterious power that enables us to divine the most secret thoughts of men-that a mass meeting was to be held on that eminence to discuss the pros and cons of secession, and that we, the Seventeenth, had received a pressing invitation to be present. The Pike was in fine condition. Our men stepped off briskly, with long, swinging strides that carried them rapidly over the ground. We marched in four ranks, by companies, and were led by our gallant Colonel Withington. Company G was seventh from the front, which gave me a view of over half the regiment. And it was good to look upon. Only two weeks from home, our uniforms were untarnished. Dress coats buttoned to the chin; upon our heads a high-crowned hat with a feather stuck jauntily on one side. White gloves in our pockets; a wonder we did not put them on, so little know we of the etiquette of war.

As we neared the mountain, about nine o'clock in the morning, I scanned its rugged sides for indications of the presence of our friends, the enemy, and, as I looked, I saw a puff of smoke, and on the instant a shell sped howling above our heads, bursting some half a mile beyond.

Every man of us "bowed his acknowledgments;" then, as by one impulse, every spine became rigid; every head was tossed in air; as if we would say: "My Southern friend, we did the polite thing that time. No more concessions will you get from us and—may God have mercy on your souls." Of our exploits on South Mountain I will not write. They will be woven into history and will be within the reach of all. About thirty of our brave boys were killed, and over one hundred wounded. Captain Goldsmith was wounded in the shoulder and Lieutenant Somers in the side. A number of Company G boys were wounded, but none were killed in this battle.

Eli Sears, the best, the most universally beloved of the regiment, is dead. He died the second day after the battle. A rifle ball, early in the engagement, struck him in the left breast and passed entirely through him. When I saw him he was so low he could only speak in whispers. He gave me his hand, with a pleasant smile, and told me he had but a few more hours to live. Bitterly do I mourn his loss. So kind, so thoughtful, always preferring another to himself. He died as heroes die, as calm and peaceful as an infant on its mother's breast. Albert Allen, Carmi Boice and Charlie Goodall were in the thickest of the fight and escaped unhurt.

The Seventeenth has been baptised in blood and christened "Stonewall." The battle of Antietam was fought on Wednesday, September 17th, three days after South Mountain. The Seventeenth did not lose so many in killed—eighteen or twenty, I think, although the list is not yet made out—and eighty or ninety wounded. Company G lost three killed, among whom was Anson Darling. We crossed the Antietam River about 1 p. m., and about three o'clock charged up the heights, which we carried, and advanced to near Sharpsburg. Here, our ammunition giving out, we fell back behind the hill and quietly sat down ’mid bursting shells and hurtling balls until relieved. As we sat waiting, a spent ball—a six-pounder—struck a tree in front of us. Not having sufficient momentum to penetrate, it dropped back upon the toe of my comrade on my left. With a fierce oath he sprang to his feet and shouted, "Who the h--l? Oh!"

That night, while on picket, when all my comrades were wrapped in slumber, and silence reigned where, a few hours before, the tumult of battle raged, my willing thought turned to my Northern home. The most vivid pictures arose before me—so real—could they be imagination? And as I gazed upon these fancied visions and pressed them to my soul as a living reality, I asked myself the question, "Can this be homesickness?" The answer came, quick and decisive: No; I have never seen the time—even for one short moment—that I could say to myself, “If I had not enlisted, I would not." On the contrary, if, after the little experience I have had, and the little knowledge I have gained, I had not enlisted, I would do so within the hour.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 10-13

Diary of 1st Lieutenant Joseph Stockton, September 30, 1862

For the past ten days there was nothing of particular interest. Quite a number of men are sick. I was in the hospital today seeing my men and while there one of Co. C men was dying. He was delirious and wanted his gun that he might take his place in the ranks of his company. Poor fellow, before tomorrow's sun he will be marching with that country's host that have already gone before. Some six or eight others have already died but none as yet from my company. We came near having a large fire the other day, but owing to the exertion of the guard under the command of my 1st Lieutenant Randall, it was put out. He was complimented on dress parade for his courage. Some days we are required to go to church which is held by the men being drawn up in a square and our Chaplain Barnes discourses in the center. As we have a number of good singers the music goes off very well, but there is a great deal of opposition to church on the part of the men, some being Catholics and one a Jew. In my company are two Germans who are atheists so there is quite a mixture. On Sunday last, sixty of the men marched down to the church in the city and took communion. Our camp life promises to be tedious in some respects but we are kept busy in batallion and company drills. Colonel Starring is very proficient in the formations.

SOURCE: Joseph Stockton, War Diary (1862-5) of Brevet Brigadier General Joseph Stockton, p. 2-3

Senator Daniel S. Dickinson to Mr. H. W. Rogers, October 15, 1850

BINGHAMTON, October 15, 1850.

MY DEAR SIR—I deeply regretted that you could not give us a call on your return, for I had many things I wished to say to you, but I heard of you at the cars with the reasons which urged you onward.

Our poor son is nearly gone. The long, dark night of death. is closing around him, and in a few days at most, and probably in a few hours, he will have finished his earthly career. He is calm and resigned, and deeply thoughtful, and in these his last moments gives the clearest evidence that his mind was one of no common mould. I knew not until now how strong was my expectation in his future success and usefulness.

We are deeply pained and afflicted, and need the sympathy and consolation of our friends. May the God who upholds all enable us to pass through the trial which speedily awaits us

Sincerely yours,

D. S. DICKINSON.

SOURCE: John R. Dickinson, Editor, Speeches, Correspondence, Etc., of the Late Daniel S. Dickinson of New York, Vol. 2, p. 450-1

John A. Dix to Senator Daniel S. Dickinson, October 25, 1850

NEW YORK, October 25, 1850.

MY DEAR SIR—My wife and I were very much pained to observe that the apprehension you expressed in respect to your son, when I saw you at the Irving House, was so soon realized; and I beg you to believe that we both sincerely sympathize with you and Mrs. Dickinson in your affliction. It has pleased heaven to spare us such a trial as yours. On you and your excellent wife the hand of affliction has indeed been heavily laid. If we could say one word which could afford you consolation, you know how freely it would be spoken. But in such affliction the heart is its own best comforter. Yet the sympathy of friends is always grateful; and it is to assure you and Mrs. Dickinson how much we lament your loss that I write you this brief note. My wife will never cease to cherish for her a sincere regard, and, with my kind remembrances to her, I beg you to believe me

Truly yours,

JOHN A. DIX.

SOURCE: John R. Dickinson, Editor, Speeches, Correspondence, Etc., of the Late Daniel S. Dickinson of New York, Vol. 2, p. 454-5

Senator John J. Crittenden to Ann Mary Crittenden Coleman, July 23, 1850

FRANKFORT, July 23, 1850.

MY DEAR DAUGHTER,—Doubly near and dear to me in your affliction, I do not know how to address you, or to express my sympathy in your great calamity. You will find, my child, in your own heart and in your own reflections the only real consolations. If, as I believe, this life is but a state of preparation and probation, happiest is he who, having done his duty like a man and a Christian, is soonest relieved from it. You have every reason to be assured that such is the fortunate lot of that husband of whom death has deprived you. That very excellence, which you mourn the loss of, will become a source of comfort and consolation to your heart. The death of your husband has placed you under great responsibilities, and left you many duties to perform. Turn, then, courageously to the performance of those duties, and in their performance you will find strength and consolation. You will feel, too, the high and pleasant consciousness that you are thereby best gratifying and manifesting your respect and devotion to the memory of your husband. He has enjoined it upon you to take his place in respect to your children, and to be to them as a father and mother also. You will, I know, consider this a sacred duty, and will not abandon it by giving yourself up to unavailing grief. I had intended to go to Louisville, to-morrow, to see you, but, upon consultation with Harry, it is decided to be best to postpone my visit for about a week; then, perhaps, I may be more serviceable to you than now. Your mother will probably accompany me. Farewell, my dear child.

J. J. CRITTENDEN.

Mrs. A. M. COLEMAN.

SOURCE: Ann Mary Butler Crittenden Coleman, Editor, The Life of John J. Crittenden: With Selections from His Correspondence and Speeches, Vol. 1, p. 376

Congressman Horace Mann, April 2 1850

APRIL 2.

Mr. Calhoun's funeral, which took place to-day, was attended in the Senate Chamber at twelve o'clock. I did not wish to connect the thoughts I have with death with the thoughts which I have with him; and therefore I did not attempt to be present. What a test of true greatness is death! How it converts to vanity and nothingness all which is not intrinsically worthy! How it magnifies and eternizes whatever is good! The preacher who could carry men for an hour to the other side of the grave, whenever they have a prospect of worldly appetite or ambition or aggrandizement in view, and make them look back upon the objects of their desire from that point, would indeed be a minister of God.

SOURCE: Mary Tyler Peabody Mann, Life of Horace Mann, p. 298-9

Diary of Private Richard R. Hancock: Monday, January 6, 1862

We moved in rear of the wagons up to Monticello, and there we passed them and went into camp.

One of our comrades, John Hearmon, who had been sick at Mr. West's about one month, died about noon.

SOURCE: Richard R. Hancock, Hancock's Diary: Or, A History of the Second Tennessee Confederate Cavalry, p. 106

Diary of Private Richard R. Hancock: Friday, December 13, 1861

I helped to bury Cousin A. N. Ramsey, who had died of fever two days before, from Franklin County, Alabama, and a member of the sixteenth Alabama Infantry. He was buried in the honors of war, near Mr. A. R. West's.

SOURCE: Richard R. Hancock, Hancock's Diary: Or, A History of the Second Tennessee Confederate Cavalry, p. 97

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 8, 1863

CAMP SAXTON, BEAUFORT, February 8, 1863.

I feel that it was a little cowardly in me to run away from camp yesterday, but I knew that three of our good soldiers must die within a few hours and I could do no more for them. It is just impossible for me to get used to losing patients. Such death is equivalent to losing some vital part of one's self. This comes from distrust of myself, rather than of God. Our sick list is rapidly lessening and all will soon be as usual. I have this afternoon conversed with a pro-slavery surgeon, who has had much to do with negroes. I thought he seemed rather pleased in making the statement that their power of endurance was not equal to that of the whites. I nevertheless gathered valuable information and hints relative to their treatment. If I am permitted to remain in this regiment a year I shall prove that, while the blacks are subject to quite different diseases from those of the whites, the mortality among them will average less and the available strength or efficiency will average more. This is the season for white soldiers to be well and blacks to be ill. . .

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 359

Major-General Edward O. C. Ord to Major-General Ulysses S. Grant, July 1, 1863

[July 1, 1863.]

One of the men who gave himself up is confined here here  is about three miles from here his wife is sick expected to die he is poor & without Servants  the man has behaved well & is anxious to give his parole & be with his wife can I parole him as I should do if it was left with me  all quiet on Black river this Eve

SOURCE: John Y. Simon, Editor, The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant, Volume 8, p. 449

Diary of Sergeant David L. Day: August 8, 1864

NED CARTER THE BLACKSMITH.

When I first came here I was pretty well used up, but thanks to my friends, Garland of company C and Wheelock and Aldrich of my own company (who are attaches of this hospital), and also to Miss Dame for their attention, kindness and favors, I am feeling the best now I have any time this summer. For their sympathy, attentions and kind offices, I am under a debt of everlasting gratitude.

Within a week two of my sick men have died and another is fast going.

One of them was a character in his way. As near as one can guess the age of a darky I should judge he was about 60 years old, and rather an intelligent man. He always called himself Ned Carter the blacksmith, and delighted in having others call him so. He would talk by the hour of old times, about his old master, and the good times and good cheer they used to have at Christmas time. When I first took this ward I saw that Ned was a sick darky and told him to have things his own way; if he felt like sleeping in the morning and didn't want to come out to roll call I would excuse him. I noticed that he seldom went for his rations, but would send his cup for his coffee and tea.

He said there was very little at the kitchen he could eat. I asked him what he could eat. He said he thought some cracker and milk would taste good. I took his cup up to Miss Dame and asked her if she would give me some condensed milk and a few soda crackers for a sick darky. She gave them to me, and Ned Carter the blacksmith was happy. The convalescent camp is not allowed anything from the sick kitchen, except by order of Doctor Fowler, so any little notion I get from there is through the kindness of Miss Dame or my friend Wheelock. I have often carried Ned a cup of tea and a slice of toast, with some peach or some kind of jelly on it, and the poor fellow could express his gratitude only with his tears, he had no words that could do it. One morning after roll call I went to his little tent and called Ned Carter the blacksmith. I got no response, and thinking he might be asleep I looked in. Ned Carter the blacksmith was gone, but the casket that had contained him lay there stiff and cold.

SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the 25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 144

Diary of Caroline Cowles Richards: July 26, 1863

Charlie Wheeler was buried with military honors from the Congregational church to-day. Two companies of the 54th New York State National Guard attended the funeral, and the church was packed, galleries and all. It was the saddest funeral and the only one of a soldier that I ever attended. I hope it will be the last. He was killed at Gettysburg, July 3, by a sharpshooter's bullet. He was a very bright young man, graduate of Yale college and was practising law. He was captain of Company K, 126th N. Y. Volunteers. I have copied an extract from Mr. Morse's lecture, “You and I”: “And who has forgotten that gifted youth, who fell on the memorable field of Gettysburg? To win a noble name, to save a beloved country, he took his place beneath the dear old flag, and while cannon thundered and sabers clashed and the stars of the old Union shone above his head he went down in the shock of battle and left us desolate, a name to love and a glory to endure. And as we solemnly know, as by the old charter of liberty we most sacredly swear, he was truly and faithfully and religiously

Of all our friends the noblest,

The choicest and the purest, 

The nearest and the dearest, 

    In the field at Gettysburg. 

Of all the heroes bravest, 

Of soul the brightest, whitest, 

Of all the warriors greatest, 

    Shot dead at Gettysburg. 

And where the fight was thickest, 

And where the smoke was blackest, 

And where the fire was hottest, 

    On the fields of Gettysburg, 

There flashed his steel the brightest, 

There blazed his eyes the fiercest, 

There flowed his blood the reddest 

    On the field of Gettysburg. 

O wailing winds of heaven! 

O weeping dew of evening! 

O music of the waters 

    That flow at Gettysburg, 

Mourn tenderly the hero, 

The rare and glorious hero, 

The loved and peerless hero, 

    Who died at Gettysburg. 

His turf shall be the greenest, 

His roses bloom the sweetest, 

His willow droop the saddest 

    Of all at Gettysburg. 

His memory live the freshest, 

His fame be cherished longest, 

Of all the holy warriors, 

    Who fell at Gettysburg.

These were patriots, these were our jewels. When shall we see their like again? And of every soldier who has fallen in this war his friends may write just as lovingly as you and I may do of those to whom I pay my feeble tribute.”

SOURCE: Caroline Cowles Richards, Village Life in America, 1852-1872, p. 153-5

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 8, 1863

CAMP SAXTON, BEAUFORT, February 8, 1863.

I feel that it was a little cowardly in me to run away from camp yesterday, but I knew that three of our good soldiers must die within a few hours and I could do no more for them. It is just impossible for me to get used to losing patients. Such death is equivalent to losing some vital part of one's self. This comes from distrust of myself, rather than of God. Our sick list is rapidly lessening and all will soon be as usual. I have this afternoon conversed with a pro-slavery surgeon, who has had much to do with negroes. I thought he seemed rather pleased in making the statement that their power of endurance was not equal to that of the whites. I nevertheless gathered valuable information and hints relative to their treatment. If I am permitted to remain in this regiment a year I shall prove that, while the blacks are subject to quite different diseases from those of the whites, the mortality among them will average less and the available strength or efficiency will average

This is the season for white soldiers to be well and blacks to be ill. . . .

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 359

Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, August 23, 1864

CAMP NEAR CHARLESTOWN SIX MILES (OR FOUR) FROM 

HARPERS FERRY, August 23, 1864. 

DEAREST:— For the first time since I saw you I received letters from you the day before yesterday. I hope I shall not be so cut off again. It almost pays, however, in the increased gratification the deferred correspondence gives one. You can't imagine how I enjoy your letters. They are a feast indeed.

I had hardly read your letter when we were called out to fight Early. We skirmished all day. Both armies had good positions and both were too prudent to leave them.' So, again yesterday. We are at work like beavers today. The men enjoy it. A battle may happen at any moment, but I think there will be none at present. Last evening the Twenty-third, Thirty-sixth, and Fifth surprised the Rebel skirmish line and took a number of prisoners, etc., without loss to us. It is called a brilliant skirmish and we enjoyed it much.

You recollect "Mose" Barrett. He was taken prisoner at Lynchburg while on a risky job. I always thought he would get off. Well, he came in at Cumberland with a comrade bringing in twelve horses from the Rebel lines!

Colonel Tomlinson was slightly wounded in the skirmish last night, just enough to draw blood and tear his pants below the knee. - One corporal of the color-guard was killed at Winchester - George Hughes, Company B. He died in five minutes without pain.

Winchester is a noble town. Both Union and Secesh ladies devote their whole time to the care of the wounded of the two armies. Their town has been taken and retaken two or three times a day, several times. It has been the scene of five or six battles and many skirmishes. There are about fifty Union families, many of them “F. F.'s.” But they are true as steel. Our officers and men all praise them. One queer thing: the whole people turn out to see each army as it comes and welcome their acquaintances and friends. The Rebels are happy when the Secesh soldiers come and vice versa. Three years of this sort of life have schooled them to singular habits.

I have heard heavy skirmishing ever since I began to write.

Now I hear our artillery pounding, but I anticipate no battle here as I think our position too good for Early to risk an assault and I suppose it is not our policy to attack them.

Interrupted to direct Captain Gillis about entrenching on our left. Meantime skirmish firing and cannonading have almost ceased.

I believe you know that I shall feel no apprehension of the war being abandoned if McClellan is elected President. I therefore feel desirous to see him nominated at Chicago. Then, no odds how the people vote, the country is safe. If McClellan is elected the Democracy will speedily become a war party.

А great good that will be. I suspect some of our patriots having fat offices and contracts might then on losing them become enamored of peace! I feel more hopeful about things than when I saw you. This Presidential election is the rub. That once over, without outbreak or other calamity, and I think we save the country.

By the by, I think I'll now write this to Uncle Scott. So good-bye. Love to chicks. Ever so much for their grandmother and more for you, darling.

Ever yours,

R. 

MRS. HAYES.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 495-6

Diary of 5th Sergeant Osborn H. Oldroyd: June 21, 1863

To-day again church bells at the North are calling good people to worship, and to hear words of cheer and comfort to the soul. The prayers of our patriotic mothers and fathers that will go up to-day for the suppression of this rebellion will surely have a hearing.

We had inspection of arms and quarters at nine this morning. Of course everything was in good order, but if such a thing should take us by surprise some time, our beds might be found not made, and things in general upside down. When notice of this inspection was given, or rather an order to prepare for it, one of our boys remarked, “This must be Sunday;” and he added, “I guess I won't wait for this inspection, I'll take my girl to church.” If his girl had been here the whole company would doubtless have wanted to go to church, too. “Though lost to sight, to memory dear.” We can talk to the sweet creatures only through the dear letters exchanged; but a love letter brings a very bright smile to a warrior's face, and the sunshine that prevails in camp after the reading of the mail from home, is quite noticeable. Dear girls, do not stop writing; write letters that are still longer, for they are the sweetest of war's amenities, and are the only medicine that has kept life in the veins of many a homesick soldier. When the mail comes I cannot help wishing everybody may get a letter; but alas! some must miss hearing their names read, and oh! the sadness that creeps over them when the last name has been called and the last letter handed out to some one else. They are sadder than if wounded by a bullet. If wounded, a surgeon may prescribe; but what prescription for the failure of a letter from home? Our mail is by no means daily, and if it comes at all, its favors are few and far between. Indeed, each time it comes we get to feeling as if it may never come again. And so it may prove, in fact. The disappointed one carries his strangled hope into the next day's fight, falls, and dies, perhaps, from some wound that otherwise might prove slight, for his heart is broken.

This afternoon I stood on a little hill just back of a regiment adjoining, talking with a friend there, when crash through his brain went a rebel bullet. He had just alluded to the horrors of the daily strife. Relieved from further duty here, he went to answer roll-call in a better army, to which his honorable discharge from this ought surely to admit him. He answered the first call of his country, and had served faithfully through two years of hardship and danger. I personally know that he fought well, and his name should not fail to be enrolled somewhere in the records of his country.

SOURCE: Osborn Hamiline Oldroyd, A Soldier's Story of the Siege of Vicksburg, p. 61-2

Emory Upton to Maria Upton, February 9, 1859

WEST POINT, February 9, 1859.

MY DEAR SISTER: . . . The perusal of your last letter gave me great pain, yet I am glad you gave me so clear an insight into brother Le Roy’s disease.  I have but little hope of his recovery, and I only ask that he may be prepared for his great change.  Oh, that I could by look, ward, or deed, ease his condition, but I can only thing of and pity him!  My last thoughts at night and my first waking thoughts are of him.  How I wash I was at home, to watch by him and contribute my might toward comforting him!  May he not delay in making his peace with God!  How thankful I am for such parents as we have!  Their sacred influence is ever about us, shielding us from temptation, and teaching us the true object of life.  If Le Roy can not get well, I wish to be sent for; I can not part with him forever without a last farewell.

SOURCE: Peter Smith Michie, The Life and Letters of Emory Upton, p. 15

Diary of Caroline Cowles Richards: December 1 1861

Dr. Carr is dead. He had a stroke of paralysis two weeks ago and for several days he has been unconscious. The choir of our church, of which he was leader for so long, and some of the young people came and stood around his bed and sang, “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” They did not know whether he was conscious or not, but they thought so because the tears ran down his cheeks from his closed eyelids, though he could not speak or move. The funeral was from the church and Dr. Daggett's text was, “The Beloved Physician.”

SOURCE: Caroline Cowles Richards, Village Life in America, 1852-1872, p. 137