Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Tuesday, April 12, 1864

Have visited Hospital, No. 8, as well as No. 1, several times since I have been here, and am priviledged to carry some delicacies, and write letters for its inmates.

I yesterday visited Hospital, No. 1, for the last time probably, while those remain in whom I have become specially interested. But have made such arrangements that William and the Alabamian, who were given to my care, shall have whatever is needed. They seem to regret my departure, but William is decidedly better. Carried a large bottle of lemonade, some oranges, and blackberry sirup.

Found a poor old Norwegian suffering terribly from the application of bromine to the gangrenous wound in his arm. He was very thankful for an orange and some lemonade—had eaten nothing for two days. His face and bald, venerable head were covered with a red silk handkerchief, to hide the great tears which were pressed out by the pain; but his nurse said he never gave a word of complaint.

The German with amputated limb is easier—the blind man hopeful of sight, and the little fellow improving, who "enlisted to fight, and not to be sick."

While in ward 3, yesterday, I was beckoned to, from a sick bed, whose occupant wished me to come and "rejoice with him." Upon going there he assured me with a mysterious air, that he "isn't going to tell everybody, but as I was a particular friend of his, and he had always thought right smart of me, he would tell me something greatly surprising."

Upon expressing my willingness to be surprised, he confidently and joyfully assured me that though very few people knew it, yet he was "The veritable man who killed Jeff. Davis, President of the Confederate States!"

He waited a moment to note the effect upon me of this pleasing intelligence, when I quietly told him I didn't know before that Jeff. Davis was dead, but that if he was, and he was the one who killed him, they ought to give him a discharge and let him go home, as he has done his share of the work. Then he joyfully assured me, that "they have promised to do so, and that his papers are to be made out to-morrow." But more serious thoughts came to me then, for I saw written upon his countenance, in unmistakable characters, the signature of the Death angel, marking his chosen, and though I knew not how soon his papers would be made out, was certain that before long they would be, and that he would receive a full and free discharge from all earthly toil and battle from the Great Medical Director of us all!

While passing through the aisles of wounded men, and hearing their stories, many of them intensely graphic, I seemed to hear something like the following, which, may the author whose name I do not know, pardon me for copying:*

"Let me lie down,

Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,—

Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see

The surge of the combat; and where I may hear

The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:

Let me lie down.

 

Oh, it was grand!

Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share;

The tempest—its fury and thunder were there;

On, on, o'er intrenchments, o'er living and dead,

With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead,—

Oh, it was grand!

 

Weary and faint,

Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest

With this shot shattered head and sabre-pierced breast ?

Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,

Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,

Wounded and faint.

 

Oh, that last charge!

Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,—

Through without faltering, clear through with a yell,

Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,

Like heroes we dashed at the mandate of doom!

Oh, that last charge!

 

It was duty!

Some things are worthless, and some others so good,

That nations who buy them pay only in blood;

For Freedom and Union each man owes his part;

And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart,

It is duty!

 

Dying at last!

My mother, dear mother, with meek, tearful eye,

Farewell! and God bless you for ever and aye!

Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,

To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!

Dying at last!

 

I am no saint!

But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,

'Our Father;' and then says, 'Forgive us our sins:'

Don't forget that part; say that strongly; and then

I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say amen!

Ah! I'm no saint!

 

Hark! there's a shout!

Raise me up, comrades! We have conquered, I know;

Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe!

Ah! there flies the flag, with its star spangles bright,

The promise of Glory, the symbol of Right!

Well may they shout!

 

I'm mustered out!

O God of our fathers! our freedom prolong,

And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong!

O land of earth's hopes! on thy blood-reddened sod,

I die for the Nation, the Union, and God!

I'm mustered out!"

_______________

NASHVILLE is a city which is set upon hills. It is also founded upon a rock, and the fact that it has not much earth upon that rock, is made the pretext for leaving numberless deceased horses and mules upon the surface, without even a heathen burial, until they are numbered with the things that were.

But it has been comfortingly asserted by the agent of the Christian Commission here, Rev. E. P. Smith, that it is astonishing how much dead mule one may breathe, and yet survive.

Nashville is also a city of narrow, filthy streets, and in some localities, of water, which, like the "offence" of the king of Denmark, "smells to Heaven."

It is moreover a city of mules. Two, four, and six mule teams, with a driver astride of one of them, and sometimes with the high, comical-looking Tennessean wagons attached not to the driver particularly, but to the mules. These, with mulish mules, who draw crowds instead of wagons, animate the streets day and night. It is a city of either dust or mud—but one street boasts a street-sprinkler.

The citizens of Nashville who remain, have mostly taken the oath of allegiance to protect their property, but it is estimated that not above one in fifty is, at heart, loyal. The ladies (?) sometimes show their contempt of Northern laborers by making up faces when meeting them upon the streets, but there are so many "blue coats" about, they do not think it advisable to allow their

"Angry passions rise,"

To tear out our eyes;"

as they would evidently consider it a great pleasure to accomplish.

Nashville and its vicinity boasts a few distinguished personages beside myself. Mrs. Polk, widow of the Ex-President, resides a few blocks from this. Gen. Sherman's headquarters are at a lovely retreat, we think, on High Street, and Gen. Rouseau's but a few blocks distant, while the Hermitage of Gen. Andrew Jackson is but twelve miles east of the city. This has many visitors, but who seldom venture now without a guard. Since our stay here, a party of four ladies from Hospital, No. 19, with as many gentlemen, and a guard of thirteen, visited the Hermitage, who learned next day that a party of guerillas, 100 in number, came there an hour after they had left, and followed them. At first, as they informed us, they made it a subject for pleasant jesting, but after farther consideration, for that of serious thought, as they came rather too near being candidates for "Libby," or a worse fate.

A nephew, who is also an adopted son of the old General, has charge of the place; he has two sons in the rebel service. The property is confiscated to the Government, but the family, out of respect to the memory of the stern old patriot, are permitted to remain. The visitors may see here the quaint and cumbrous family carriage in which the General used to journey, together with a buggy, made from the timbers of the old ship Ironsides.

The family, especially the female portion of it, being of secession principles, keep themselves secluded from the gaze of northern mudsills. But the mudsills, presuming upon the cordial reception which they believe would be extended by the General himself, usually make themselves sufficiently at home to wander at their own sweet will through the grounds, and partake of a lunch on the shaded piazza.

It is a fine old mansion, approached by a circular avenue, which is shaded by grand old trees. And notwithstanding that the General has adopted grandsons in the rebel service, and his family are secessionists, yet it requires but little faith to believe that the stern old hero is not unmindful of the present gigantic struggle, neither a great flight. of the imagination when the wind is moaning and stirring the lofty branches of the grand old trees, to fancy that his voice, in suppressed and now reverent accents, yet emphatically exclaims:—

"By the Eternal, the Union must, and shall be preserved!"

The city contains many elegant private residences, and splendid public buildings.

Among the latter is the State Asylum for the Insane, which has four hundred and fifty acres attached, and had an expenditure of $48,000 per annum. Another is the Institution for the Blind, the expenses of which for the year 1850, were nearly $8,000. The Tennessean Penitentiary is also a superior structure. In September 30, 1850, the number of inmates was three hundred and seventy-eight, and of this number three hundred and sixty-six, were white men, with only eight black men, three white women with only one black woman.

The Medical College is a fine building and contains a valuable museum. The University is an imposing edifice of gray marble, while the Masonic Hall, the Seminary and graded school buildings are spacious and beautiful structures. The first in importance, among the public buildings of Nashville, and which is second to none in the United States in point of solidity and durability, is the Capitol. This is a magnificent edifice, situated on an eminence one hundred and seventy-five feet above the river, and constructed inside and out, of a beautiful variety of fossilliferous limestone or Tennessee marble. At each end, it has an Ionic portico of eight columns, and each of the sides, a portico of six. A tower rises from the centre of the roof to the hight of two hundred and six feet from the ground. This has a quadrangular base surmounted by a circular cell, with eight fluted Corinthian columns, designed from the celebrated choragic monument of Lysicrates, at Athens.

Among the private residences we have seen, is a beautiful mansion, still unfinished, which, at the time of his death, was being built for the rebel Gen. Zollicoffer. A more unpretending one perhaps, is that of the widow of ex-President Polk, the grounds surrounding which contain his tomb—a plain, simple, temple-like fabric, of light brown marble.

That beautiful baronial domain known as the Achlen estate is situate about two miles out of town. For attractions it has extensive grounds, with great variety and profusion of shrubbery, among which flash out here and there, life-like statues of men and animals, and miniature monuments and temples. A fountain jets its diamond drops, while an artificial pond is the home of the tiny silver and gold fish. Beside the noble family mansion is another building nearly as spacious, which is used as a place of amusement. A well-filled conservatory is another beautiful feature, while an observatory, which crowns an imposing brick tower, gives a view of the scenery for miles around.

This estate with large plantations, in Louisiania [sic], were accumulated by the owner, while in the business of slave-driving and negro trading. His name was Franklin. After his death his youthful widow married a gay leader in the fashionable [sic] world, known in the southern society of Memphis and New Orleans, as Joe Achlen. Under his direction the estate was improved and beautified at a cost of $1,000,000, At the commencement of this war, it was had in contemplation by the Confederate officials, to purchase the estate and present it to his Excellency, Jeff. Davis; but they will probably defer making that munificent gift, until the Federal army is at a safer distance.

An intelligent chattel, who has been on the place twenty years, informs us that Achlen was a kind master. That when he visited his plantations in Louisiana, the negroes would welcome him at the wharf, and if it was the least muddy, would take him upon their shoulders and carry him to the house. But despite this fact, the negroes have somehow got the impression that freedom is preferable to slavery. So strongly are they impressed with the desire of owning themselves, that out of 900 who were on the estate and plantations at the commencement of the war, but five remain at the former place, and these with wages of $15.00 per month, while about the same number are at each of the plantations, these kept also by wages.

The death of Achlen occurred last fall; his widow is much of the time in New Orleans, but the property is neatly kept by what was formerly a part of itself.

One of those little incidents, by the by, which proves that truth is stranger than fiction, occurred to this negro who testified to the kindness of his master. When he was purchased for the estate he was separated from his wife, who was sold south. Neither knew the locality of the other, and nineteen long years passed by, when this war, which has made such an upheaval in the strata of American society, loosened the chains of the bondwoman, and true to the instincts of her nature, she started toward the north pole, to find freedom and her husband.

He says it was a joyful time when they met and recognized each other in the streets of Nashville; but we each have the privilege of entertaining our own ideas as to whether the race is capable of constancy and affection.

Even the Capitol has its mounted cannon, to protect it against the citizens of Nashville. During our stay in the city, we have had the pleasure of listening to a lecture by two Rev. Drs. of New York, and Brooklyn, in the Hall of Representatives, and by moonlight. They were to speak on the subject of emancipation and reconstruction, by invitation of Gov. Andrew Johnson, and Comptroller Fowler.

That afternoon, they had returned from the front, toilworn and weary, where they had witnessed the battle and ministered to the wounded of Resaca and Dalton. Upon proceeding to the Capitol, the moon was bathing all things without in her silver radiance, while within hid dark shadows, in strange contrast to an occasional silver shaft, through openings in the heavy damask curtains.

Queries revealed the fact that the Governor, Comptroller, and the man having charge of the gas fixtures, had gone to attend a railroad celebration, not having received word that the gentlemen had accepted the invitation to speak at that time and place.

Quite a number of gentlemen gathered in front of the speaker's desk, with some six ladies the latter provided with seats; and after some consultation we found ourselves listening to interesting recitals of how "war's grim visage" had appeared to Rev. Drs. Thompson and Buddington of New York and Brooklyn.

And we could but think as we sat there in the moonlight, with most of the audience standing, what different audiences they had swayed at home, and how much depends upon time, place and circumstance in the life of a public speaker, and were glad to see that they could meet adverse circumstances with becoming serenity and humility. The novelty connected with the scene, time and place, made it an evening long to be remembered.

The Seminary building was used as hospital, then as barracks and since as soldiers' home.

The faculty of this institution, in their last advertisement of its merits, previous to the arrival of the Union army, assured their patrons that they would

"So educate their daughters, as to fit them to become wives of the Southern Chivalry and to hate the detestable Yankees!"

The Medical College on Broad Street, is now a home and hospital for the refugees; and the filth, destitution, misery and ignorance which exist among that class of poor whites who have fled from starvation in Georgia, North and South Carolina, Alabama or East Tennessee, must be witnessed to be realized. We no longer wondered that the neat, industrious and comparatively well-informed negro servants and free colored people of Nashville look upon them with the contempt so well expressed by the words, "poor white trash!"

Brought up to think labor a disgrace, they will sooner sit down in ignorance, poverty, and the filth which nourishes vermin and loathsome diseases, than disgrace themselves by work. Unaccustomed to habits of neatness and industry they are singularly careless of each other's comfort, and neglectful of their own sick.

The same week of our reaching this city, a family of refugees, nine in number, the parents and seven children, all died, and of no particular disease. The scenes which they had passed through, with the loss of home and each other, with the native lack of energy which led them to succumb to circumstances, rather than battle to overcome them, seemed the only causes.

We will sketch a few of the scenes we saw in this home of the refugees, prefacing, however, that some of the worst features we do not propose giving, either to offend ears polite or our own sense of propriety.

In company with the matron we enter the spacious building between two majestic statues, which stand like sentinels to guard the entrance, less efficient, however, than that "blue coat" who perambulates the walk with rifle and bayonet.

In the first room a gaunt and haggard face meets ours, with piercing eyes, from beneath an old slouched hood, and from a miserable bunk, whose possessor, within the next twenty-four hours, ceases to battle with consumption, and finds that "rest for the weary." She is now so restless she must be turned every few minutes, and stranger hands attend to her wishes. "We were starved out," she says. "The Rebs tuk everything what they didn't destroy; and burnt the house."

"We,' who came with you?"

"Me two step-daughters. But they haven't been here these three days. I reckon they're tired o' takin keer o' me. It's mighty hard though to raise up girls to neglect ye when ye're on a death-bed."

What can we say to comfort her. Our heart grows faint when we think how incapable we are to minister to this one. Bereft of home, penniless, forsaken even by relatives, and in such agonizing unrest. Yes, but a happy thought comes now, if homeless, can she not better appreciate the worth of that "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens"—if penniless, realize the enduring riches of the better land—husbandless and friendless, know better the worth of that "Friend above all others"—restless, the value of that "rest for the weary?" We tell her of all these, and she professes to gain new strength from our words to wait on the chariot wheels which so long delay their coming.

On another bunk is a wretched woman, who is drowning sorrow as usual in the stupor induced by opium. We have now no message for her.

See that little chubby child, of perhaps three years, whose little flaxen head, has made a pillow of the hard hearthstone, and is soundly sleeping. That is a little waif—nobody owns it. It has neither father, mother, brother, sister or other relative in the wide world that any one knows about. Pity, but some one bereaved by this war would suffer this little one to creep into the heart and home and grow to fill the place made desolate!

Here is a tall, well-formed girl, of perhaps twenty, with a perfect wealth of soft, glossy, auburn hair, of which any city belle would be proud, but it is in wild disorder and just falling from her comb. Ask her, if you choose, what is that eruption with which her hands are covered, and which appears upon her face, and she will as unblushingly and drawlingly tell you, as though your query were a passing remark upon the weather.

Here are three other girls sitting upon a rough board bench—the eldest, a bright girl of about twelve, is making an apron for her sister. Do you wish to hear her story?—if so, listen.

"Me an' me mother an' me two sisters come from East Tennessee. The Union army come to our place first, an' they burned an' destroyed a great deal what they didn't take away, and after they left the Rebs come an' did the same, an' so between 'em both they left us all starvin' through the country. Then the Unioners come agin, and we followed 'em, an' they sent us here. While we were on the boat it was powerful open an' cold-like, an' me mother tuk cold. An' she looked like she was struck with death from the very first, an' the doctor told me I might just as well make up my mind to it, first as last, an' make her as comfortable as I could. So I tukkeer o' her, day an' night for two weeks, an' brought her every thing she wanted, oranges an' sich like, till she died. I thought when my father an' other relatives died that I tuk it powerful hard, but 'twas nothin' like losin' me mother. While she was sick me two little sisters had been livin' with a cousin o' mine; but I hearn tell he was treaten 'em mighty bad, so I wrote a note to the captin an' told him I wanted to come here and see to the keer on 'em myself. An' he said I might, so I comed yesterday."

We leave this room for another. There a sick boy of fourteen is lying on a bed of rags, who is recovering from measles. Hear his history.

"We lived in East Tennessee, an' my father nigh onto the first o'the war, wanted to get to Kaintucky and jine the Yankees, but the Rebels tuk him off to Vicksburg and made him jine them. Then when the place surrendered to the Yanks, about half on 'em jined them, an' my father 'mong the rest, jest what he'd been wantin' to, for a long time.

But they burned and starved us all out to home, an' we left thar an' come har whar we could git suthin' to eat. Me an me mother an' me little brother what's only six year old come. But me mother was tuk sick an' died here three week ago. I hearn right after, that my father's regiment was ordered some whar else, an' I don't know whar he is. She knew what company an' regiment me father was in, but I was sick when he sent word about it, an' he don't know whar we air. Mother nor he could'nt write, so we've no letters nor nothin' to tell. May be he's dead, an' we'll never hear of it, or if he lives he'll never find us."

It is a sad case, but we comfort him with the hope of what perseverance and a little knowledge of writing may do for him, and pass to another.

Here is a young man, dressed and lying upon the outside of his bed, whose foot and ancle are encased in a wooden box. His temperament partakes largely of the nervous sanguine. He has an open, frank, intelligent countenance, speaks rapidly, and with a short, joyous, electrical laugh.

"I was raised in North Carolina," he says. "I was'nta Union man at the first-nor a Confederate either, well about half an' half, I reckon. But we'se all obliged either to run away from our families an' leave 'em to starve, or hide with 'em in the mountains or jine the army. So I concluded to jine; an' I've been in Braggs army mor'n two years."

"Why did you leave it," we asked.

"Well the fact was I begun to think sure we was in the wrong, else we'd fared better'n we did. For I've allays allowed the Lord would prosper the right ride. So when I found that I had to march or fight hard all day, an' have nothin' more to eat for the hull twenty-four hours, than a piece o'bread the bigness o'my hand, an' a piece o'meat only as large as my two fingers-an' have been so hungry for weeks that I could nearly eat my own fingers off, I concluded to desert and try the other side.

My brother-in-law left Lee's army about the same time I left Bragg's. I was to meet him and my wife, at his house in Athens; but when I was coming on the train from Charleston, I saw another train coming that ran into ours, and I jumped off and broke my limb. So I could'nt go there, and they brought me on to this place.

I've enough to eat, and have good care, and should feel right well contented till I get well, if I only could know where my wife Martha is. I've sent two letters, but I can't hear a word. I've got a letter written to my brother-inlaw about her now-its lying there."

And he points to a rough board. one end of which rests upon his bunk, and the other upon an empty one near, and which serves him in place of a stand.

"Its been waitin' a long time" he adds, for I hav'nt a postage stamp on it. We were just married when the war begun, an' we had a fine start for young folks, but I let my gold and silver go in gittin' settled, and the Confederate money's worth nothin' here, so I hav'nt a penny to use."

The letter was put in the office, and he was supplied with stationary and stamps during our stay. He wished more added to his letter and we wrote what he dictated.

"It's the first time I ever had anybody write for me," he said proudly. "I generally do my own writin',—an' readin' too," and he glanced toward some books he had.

"An' you may be sure," he added as we left him, "if I get well, an' my wife Martha is lost, but I'll spend the rest o' my life huntin' but I'll find her!"

SOURCES: 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. 26-41; For the poem “Mustered Out,” written by Rev. William E. Miller, see Frank Moore, Editor, The Rebellion Record: A Diary of American Events, with Documents, Narratives, Illustrative Incidents, Poetry, Etc., Vol. 7 p. 92.

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Sunday Evening, April 10, 1864

Attended church to-day at the Second Presbyterian, or "Union Church" as it is called. It is the only one in the city, I am told, where one is sure of hearing sentiments of loyalty. Rev. Mr. Allen is pastor. He does not fear now, under the shadow of Fort Negley, and with so many "blue coats" about, to "Lift up his voice like a trumpet, and show the people their transgressions and the house of Jacob their sins." I believe, however, that he was obliged to leave the place previous to the entrance of our troops.

I saw a pomegranate flower for the first time, to-day. It is of a dark red color, single, about the size of a plum blossom. It is of the same family I think, though cannot analyze it, for want of a botanical work.

In passing through ward 1 of the hospital last Wednesday, and asking advice of the chief nurse—who, by the by, is soon to complete his studies as surgeon—as to what we could do for the benefit of the invalids, he said there were two cases who would die unless some one could by attention and cheerful conversation save them. That they had been sick a long time, were very low, but the trouble now was nervous debility from homesickness and despair of life. Had himself done what he could for them, but was worn out with care of the ward and loss of sleep. And he added:

"The Surgeon has given them up, and I will give them into your charge, and if they live it will be your care which saves them."

"Would anything be injurious for them to eat?"

"No, if you can get them to eat anything you will do better than I can."

Upon inquiring which they were, he pointed them out, when I told him that I had spoken to both only a few moments before, and that one would scarcely notice me enough to tell me his disease, while the other would not answer at all, but drew the sheet over his face.

"Oh, yes," he replied, "they think no one cares for them, that they're going to die, and the worst one is in a half stupor much of the time. But pass your hand gently over his forehead to arouse him, and then you know how to interest him."

He then directed the nurse of this one to go with me and see that everything was done which I directed. The nurse and patient were both from Indiana, and the former going to the side of the bed toward which the face of the sick man was turned, said in a peculiarly pleasant and sympathizing tone:

"William, there's a lady come to see you and she wants to make you well if she can."

Passing my hand over his forehead, as directed, I added as cheerily as possible :

"Yes, William, I've come to see if I can't do something for you; if I shall write some letters for you, or bring you something to eat to make you better."

He roused up and I knew he was listening, but not wishing to excite him too much I then commenced asking of the nurse about his company and regiment, and the length of time he had been sick in that hospital. But I had scarcely done so, when the sick man turned his face down into the pillow, burst into tears and grieved and sobbed like a child, fairly shaking the bed with the violence of his emotion. The nurse bent down to him, and said as if pacifying a sick child:

"Don't fret so, William, this lady loves you, and she's going to try to make you well."

I knew the tears would do him good, but I spoke low and slowly, and the sobs grew less as he listened:

"You've been sick a long time, I know, and have grown discouraged and have thought you were never going to get well, but the Doctor says there is nothing to hinder if you will only try. I was once sick myself with a low nervous fever, and felt just as you do for a long time. And the physician told me at last that I wouldn't live unless I made up my mind to try to live. And I did try and worked hard for it for a long time else I should never have got well. And now if you will do the same and think all the time of what you are going to do when you get well, I will come and see you as often as I can, and bring you anything you wish to eat. Wouldn't you like to have me write for you to ask your wife, mother, or sister, to come and take care of you?

Just then the nurse tells me he is "single" and I repeat the question of his mother and sisters.

"No," he replied, in a sad, grieved, hollow voice, "they wouldn't come."

"Shouldn't I write to his father to tell him how he was." "No," he didn't "want any letters written."

"Could he think of something he could eat."

He said he could not, but the nurse exclaimed:—"Why, William, don't you remember you said the other day you could eat some pickles, if you could get them?" "Yes, I could eat some pickles," said the slow, hollow voice. A little inquiry found that it was possible he could eat a cookie also, so it was arranged that the nurse should call at the home of the Christian Commission, where I was stopping, for the articles.

I also learned that the sick man had not been bathed since having the fever, and his face looked like dried parchment. I made a prescription of castile soap and warm water for his benefit, to be applied to the whole surface of his body—the application to take place immediately after my departure. After the bath, the nurse called and I sent some cookies and a small jar of pickles.

The other patient to whom I was referred, was scarcely less interesting, but have not time to note the particulars. I visited them again yesterday, and found my directions with regard to each had been carried out, and both were better and glad this time to see me. William rejoiced in the jar of pickles upon his stand, out of which he had gained sufficient appetite to "reckon," he "could eat a few dried peaches, if he could get them." A small jar of those was prepared and sent to him, with a second edition of cookies.

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. 23-6

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 Elvira J. Powers: Thursday, April 7, 1864

Nashville, Tenn., Thursday Evening, April 7.

The present week, thus far, has been to me, full of new and thrilling experiences.

On Sabbath, the day after our arrival, I entered an ambulance and visited a camp for the first time. The company consisted of three, besides myself—Rev. Dr. D., a young theological student who is passing vacation here, and Miss T. The day was warm and springlike; the hyacinths, crocuses, and peach trees in blossom. It was the camp of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and situated upon one of the hights overlooking the City. The tents were white, the soldiers well-dressed, the uniform bright and everything tidy. A new and gaily painted banner pointed out the tent of the Colonel. As we entered the grounds, that gentleman, with the Major, met us cordially, a seat was prepared for the ladies at the opening of the Colonel's tent, while a huge box in front served for a speaker's stand. The bugle then summoned such as wished to listen, and service was held by the two gentlemen of our party. Books and papers were afterward distributed, for which the soldiers seemed eager. The Colonel informed us that the Regiment had just been reorganized, and new recruits filled the vacant places in the ranks, made so by the heroes, who fell at such battles as Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, and Chickamauga. There is a long list of such inscribed upon this banner, of which they are justly proud.

On Monday, visited a hospital for the first time. Was accompanied by Mrs. E. P. Smith, Mrs. Dr. F. and my travelling companion Miss O, beside the driver. As the ambulance halted, we saw through the open door and windows the homesick, pallid faces raised from the sick beds to greet us with a look of pleasure. Upon entering, almost the first object was that of a dying boy. His name was John Camplin, of Co. G. 49th Illinois Vols. He was a new recruit of only seventeen, and the victim of measles. He "did'nt want to die," but, after the singing of such hymns as "Rock of Ages," and "Jesus lover of my soul," he grew more resigned. I took the card which hung in a little tin case at the head of his bed, and copied the name and address of his father. The dying boy had been watching, and he then with difficult speech asked me to write to his people and tell them "good bye,” and that he was "going home." I tried to obtain a more lengthy message to comfort them, but speech was soon denied nd reason wandered. He died a few hours after, and the sad tidings was sent next day.

Found another poor boy quite low, with pneumonia. He knew his condition, but with an heroic smile upon his wasted features said, that "if" his "life would do his dear country any good" he was "willing to give it."

The Masonic Hall and First Presbyterian Church constitute Hospital, No. 8. We visited that on Tuesday.

As we enter the Hall, past the guard, we find a broad flight of stairs before us, and while ascending, perceive this caution inscribed upon the wall in evergreen.

"Remember you are in a hospital and make no noise." Up this flight, and other cautions meet us, such as "No smoking here"—" Keep away from the wall," &c. We here pause at a door, and are introduced to the matron who is fortunately just now going through the wards. It is Miss J-tt, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Ascending another broad flight, and asking in the meantime of her duties, she throws open the door of the linen room where are two clerks, and says:

"This department comprises all the work assigned to me whatever else I do is voluntary and gratuitous. "But today," she adds laughingly, "it would be difficult to define my duties. I think I might properly be called 'Commandant of the Black Squad,' or Chief of the Dirty Brigade;" and she explained by saying that she had seven negro women and two men, subject to her orders, who were cleaning the building. She next throws open the door of a ward which contains but a few patients, and has a smoky appearance. She tells us, they are fumigating it, having had some cases of small pox, most of which have been sent to the proper Hospital.

We pass to another, where she tells us, previous to entering, is one very sick boy. He is of a slight form, only fifteen, and with delicate girlish features. His disease is typhoid fever, from the effects of which he is now quite deaf. As we approach, he says to her faintly, "Sit down here, mother, on the side of my bed.”

She does so, when he asks her to "to bend her head down so he can tell her something." This she does, when he says, quite loud, but with difficulty;—“There's some money under my pillow, I want you to get it, and buy me some dried peaches."

"I don't want your money," she says, "but you shall have the peaches if I can get them," and she writes a note and dispatches it to the sanitary rooms for them." "This boy always calls me mother," she says, "and the first day he was brought here, he sent his nurse to ask if I would come up and kiss him. He has always been his mother's pet, and I now correspond with her on his account."

His fever is very high, and we pass our cold hand soothingly over his forehead and essay to speak words of cheer, and as we turn to leave, he looks up pleadingly and says:

"Can't you kiss me?"

"Yes, indeed, I can—am glad to do so," and we press our own to his burning lips and receive his feverish, unpleasant breath, not a disagreeable task though, for all, when we remember that he is the pet of his mother, who misses him so very much, and who may never look upon her boy again.

Of one-a middle-aged, despondent looking man we ask cheerily, how he is to-day.

"About the same," he replies coldly, but with a look which is the index of a thought like this:

Oh, you don't care for us or our comfort,—you are well, and have friends, and home, probably near you, and you cannot appreciate our suffering, and only come here to satisfy an idle curiosity."

He does not say this, but he thinks it, and we read the thought in the voice, manner, and countenance. We determine to convince him of his mistake, if possible, notwithstanding he looks as if he prefers we should walk along and leave him alone.

"Were you wounded?" we ask.

"No-sick," was the short gruff answer.

"Your disease was fever was'nt it?" we persist," your countenance looks like it."

"Yes, fever and pneumonia,” he replies in the same cold, but despairing tone.

"Ah-but you're getting better now."

"Don't know about it—reckon not."

"Well, how is it about getting letters from home?"

His countenance, voice and manner undergo a sudden change now, and his eyes overrun with tears, at the simple words "letters from home."

And as he raises his hand to his mouth, to conceal its quivering, he tells us with tremulous voice that he has sent three letters to his wife and can get no answer. She has left the place where they used to live, and he does not know certainly where to direct. We ask who we can write to, to find out, and learn that a sister would know. We take the probable address of the wife, and that of the sister, and after some farther conversation leave him looking quite like another man as we promise to write to each in the evening. (Subsequently, we learned that he received a reply to both, and was comparatively cheerful and very grateful.)

Down stairs, and we enter a ward on the first floor. Here is a thin sallow visage, the owner of which piteously asks if we "have any oranges," "No," but we provide means, by which he can purchase.

"I'm from North Carolina," he says, "I hid in the woods and mountains and lived on roots and berries for weeks, before I could get away."

In reply to our query as to whether he would like a letter written home, he informs us that his wife and father arrived in town only a few days ago,

"Then you have seen them," we say.

"Yes, they both visit me, but my wife comes oftenest."

Just now, his nurse, a young man who should know better, interrupts him by telling us that "it isn't so, and his family are all in North Carolina."

"That's just the way," said the sick man, turning to me with a flushed and angry look, "that they're talking to me all the time, and trying to make everybody think I'm crazy. I reckon I know whether I've seen my wife or not!"

"Of course you do," we say quietingly; "does she bring you anything nice to eat?" and we add that we wish she would come while we were there, so we could see her.

"Well, she don't bring me much to eat," he says in a weak, hollow voice, but earnestly, "she don't understand fixin' up things nice for sick folks, and then she's weakly like, but she does all she can, for she's a right gude heart. She doesn't fix up, and look like you folks do, you know," he added, “for she's sort o' torn to pieces like by this war."

“Yes, we can understand it."

Upon inquiring about this man a few moments after of the Ward-Master, we find that he is really a monomaniac upon this subject, persisting in the declaration that his wife and father visit him often though no one sees them.

"He can't live," said the Ward-Master, "he has lost all heart and is worn out. The chance of a Southerner to live after going to a hospital is not over a fourth as good as for one of our Northern boys. They can do more fighting with less food while in the field, but when the excitement is over they lose heart and die.”

We find upon several subsequent visits that he is growing weaker, and at the last when his countenance indicates that death is near, we are thankful that he is still comforted by these imaginary visits from father and wife.

We crossed the street and entered the First Presbyterian Church, which constitutes a part of the hospital. This place is notable for the promulgation of secession sentiments from its pulpit in other days. A specimen of the style was given here a short time before the entrance of our troops, by Prof. Elliott of the Seminary, who in a prayer besought the Almighty that he would so prosper the arms of the Confederates and bring to naught the plans of the Federals, that every hill-top, plain and valley around Nashville should be white with the bones of the hated Yankees!”

“After hearing this it was doubly a pleasure, in company with Miss J., another "Northern vandal," to make the walls of the old church echo to the words of "The Star Spangled Banner," with an accompaniment from the organ; and it would have done any loyal heart good to see how much pleasure it gave to the sick and wounded soldiers.

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, p. 13-19

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: April 1, 1864

ON BOARD THE "GEN. BUELL,"        

OHIO RIVER, April 1, 1864.

HAVING been duly commissioned and ordered to “report immediately at Nashville, Tenn., for hospital service at the front," my friend, Miss N—— O——, and myself find ourselves steaming down the Ohio, between Cincinnati and Louisville.

Thus far we are quite ignorant of the duties of hospital life, though so soon to enter upon them. Our Northern friends have been questioned to little purpose, except that of ascertaining how very little knowledge there is upon the subject; and the papers are equally silent.

This fact determines me to keep some sort of a journal, however imperfect. It will of course necessarily be so, as I must neglect no duty for the sake of scribbling about it.

We have just been seeking information of our gentlemanly escort, Mr. R., of Louisville. He, it appears, has an innate love of humor and a peculiarly dry and quiet way of quizzing people. Here was a fine opportunity. But we determine to ward off the attacks as skilfully as possible with the little knowledge we do possess. He says:

“Well, ladies, I suppose you are prepared to make bread and gruel, sweep and mop, make beds, dress wounds and plough?"

In reply the gentleman was informed that had we not been proficient in each, especially the ploughing, we should never have dared to make application for the situation.

He explained by informing us that one of the Southern refugees, who confessed herself unable to do either of the others, said she "could plough."

"And I suppose you have each brought good knives along with you?" was the next query."

“Knives—oh yes, but for what purpose do you mean?" And visions of being set to amputate limbs or to protect ourselves against personal assaults flitted through our minds.

“Well, nothing, only you'll have an enormous amount of onions to peel for those boys down there. You can peel those during the night, for you'll hardly have time in the day, that's the way I used to do."

"Did you? That's pleasant employment. I've practised it considerably myself, but didn't, like you, have the satisfaction of knowing during the grievous operation that I was shedding tears for the good of my country."

Then he wished to know whether in our visits to the sick wards we should "notice only the good looking ones." Upon being informed that we have fully-determined to minister to such only as looked as if they were ministers, doctors, lawyers or editors, the gentleman seemed satisfied that we were fully fitted for the service. Still he felt called upon to caution us against excessive attention even to such, by relating that one of the class was asked by a lady visitor if she might "comb his hair."

"Yes-you-may," meekly responded the sufferer, "but it will be the thirteenth time to day."

Evening.

Just at sunset we passed North Bend, and had a glimpse of the tomb of President Harrison. The remains of Mrs. Harrison have within the last thirty days been laid by the side of the old hero. The place was pointed out by Dr. S., of Louisville, who is a second cousin to Mrs. Harrison. He informed us that the brother of his grandfather received a grant of all the land lying between the "Big and Little Miami,” and extending back sixteen miles from their mouths. 4500 acres of this was willed to the grandfather of the Doctor and about the same to the mother of Mrs. H.

Dr. S. also informed us that he was the only one in Louisville who voted for Lincoln. That the polls were twice declared closed, and the clerk with oaths refused to record his vote, when the son of one of our Generals—I regret having forgotten the name—peremptorily ordered it done; when an A. and L. and a long black stroke was dashed upon the record, The baser sort had all day threatened hanging him upon the back porch, but at the close of the day most of them were safely intoxicated.

The Doctor has the sad trial of losing a son, who had by the offer of military emolument been drawn into the Confederate service. He was wounded or taken sick and carried to Ohio, where a brother took care of him till his death. The father wished him brought home, and funeral services performed, but the military authorities of Louisville forbade it, as similar occasions had drawn out crowds of two or three thousands of secession proclivities. Then he was buried in Ohio, but when the citizens of the loyal little town learned that he had been in the Confederate service, they obliged Dr. S. to remove the body. That such staunch loyalists should suffer innocently is one of the saddest features of this rebellion.

In the course of conversation this evening we were informed by the Doctor that we were to pass the next day within seven miles of Mammoth Cave. And he spoke of the subterranean streams and mills in the vicinity, and of the blind fishes in the waters of the Cave.

"Yes," said Mr. R., in his usual serious way, "and I believe that is where your people go a craw-fishing!"

The Doctor replied in the affirmative, but in a tone which excited my curiosity. Here was a chance to add to my rather meagre stock of knowledge in natural history, and with the anxiety of a reporter for something out of which to manufacture an item, I inquired what kind of fish those were—if that was the name given to those blind fishes in the cave. To my astonishment a universal laugh greeted me from the trio. An explanation followed; and it seems that the same or something similar to what at the North we find in creeks and ditches, and call fresh-water crabs, there bear the name of craw-fish. And moreover as those crawl backward, they have attached a meaning to the term, so that when a man "puts his hand to the plough and looks back," he is said to have “gone a craw-fishing." So, like that notable traveller in Pickwick Papers, I can make a note of the discovery of a new kind of fish of the skedaddle genus. Hallicarnassus was decidedly

wrong in thinking one can sail around the world in an armchair. He should have considerately assisted that big trunk down stairs, and benignly seconded Gail's efforts to go abroad and see the world, for peradventure she might learn something even about craw-fish.

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, p. 1-5

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Saturday, April 2, 1864

Reached the "City of the Falls" in the night. Left the boat about six this morning, took a hasty breakfast at the “National,” then a hack for the depot, calling at the office of Provost Marshal to secure passes on train to Nashville. Am pleasantly impressed with Louisville. A pretty green plot in front of private residences, even if quite small, with linden, ailanthus and magnolia trees, are peculiarities of the city. It is too early for the foliage of the trees to be seen, but the deep green, thick grass and the blossoms of the daffodil are in striking contrast to the snow I saw in the latitude of Chicago and Buffalo only day before yesterday.

The cars are now so crowded with soldiers en route for "the front," that it is quite difficult for citizens to find passage. Some have to wait several days before they can find an opportunity. Only one car is appropriated for this use, and ladies with their escort always have the preference. Thus gentlemen who are alone are liable to be left, As we were leaving the "National" this morning a gentleman rushed out and inquired if we were going to take the Southern train, and if there was only one gentleman to the two ladies. He "begged pardon—knew he was a stranger—wished to go to Bowling Green his wife was sick and he had written her he would be home to-day. If the ladies would be so kind as to pass him along, and if the gentleman would step with him into the office he could convince him, through the keeper of the "National," that he was a man of honor,” Mr. R. referred the matter to the ladies. They decided to take under their protecting wing the lone gentleman and see him safe home if the interview with the landlord, with whom Mr. R. was fortunately acquainted, should prove satisfactory. It was so, and Mr. Moseby—not the guerilla as himself informed us—entered the hack. He had "taken the oath of allegiance," he said, and "lived up to it, but had a right to his own thoughts."

Upon arriving at the depot found the ladies' car locked, and we were left standing by it while the two gentleman looked after the baggage. Mr. R. was not to accompany us farther. Soon an elderly, pale-looking man, with a white neck-tie, came up, who asked if we each had a gentleman travelling with us. We hesitated and evaded the question. This was being in too great demand altogether. It was not even included in Mr. R.'s list of our duties. He "was really hoping we had not, and that one of us would take pity on an old man and pass him along."

His fatherly look and manner banished selfishness, and he was told to wait until the gentlemen returned, and we would see about it. As they did so Mr. Moseby stepped up and cordially shook hands with the old man, calling him “Judge." But all Southerners are styled judges, captains, colonels or generals, thought I, and this one is an honest old farmer nevertheless. As Mr. M. assured us that he was "all right," and a "man of honor," I told him he might occupy half of my seat in the car. But it was not long before I found that my poor old farmer was no less a personage than Judge Joseph R. Underwood, one of the most noted men and pioneers of Kentucky. He has been Judge of the Supreme Court of that State six years, a United States Representative for ten years and a Senator for six.

A spruce little Captain came through to examine military passes before the cars started. Quite a number of citizens were left as usual, and as we were moving off I heard one young man exclaim in desperation that he would "go right back to the city and marry." The gentlemen congratulated themselves upon their good fortune, and the subject elicited the following incidents:

A gentleman of Mr. M.'s acquaintance could get no admission to the cars, no lady would take him under her care, and he asked the baggage agent if he might get in the baggage car. That functionary said he had orders to admit no one. "Then you'll not give me permission, but if I get in will you put me out?"

No answer was made, but the agent walked away, and the man, thinking like children, that "silence gives consent," entered the baggage car and remained.

Another gentleman, a merchant of Bowling Green, by name F—— C——, could get no chance to ride. But fortunately having on a blue coat, in desperation he stepped up to a man with the two bars on his shoulder who was putting his soldiers aboard, and said with a pleading look and tone:

"Captain, can't you lengthen out my furlough just two days longer?"

"No," said the Captain, in a quick authoritative tone, "you've been loafing 'round these streets long enough, in with you," and he made a motion as if he would materially assist his entrance if he didn't hurry.

“Well, if I must I must, but its hard, Captain."

"No more words," was the short reply, "in with you.” Another was related by an eye witness. A lady who was travelling alone was about stepping into the car, when a gentleman, who was trembling with anxiety lest he should be left, stepped up and offered to take her box. He did so, and stepping in behind was allowed a seat by her side, cautiously retaining the box. He had two comrades equally desirous of securing a passage, who had seen his success. One of them stepped to the car window and whispered him to pass out the box. It was slyly done, and the gentleman marched solemnly in with the weighty responsibility. The box went through the window again, and again walked in at the door, until it must have been thoroughly "taken in" as well as the guard.

Just out of the city we passed a camp and saw soldiers lying under the little low "dog tents" as they are called, and in the deep, clay mud, while only a few rods distant was a plenty of green sward. Any officer who would compel his men to pitch tents where those were ought to be levelled to the ranks.

I saw for the first time to-day, fortifications, stockades, riflepits, and mounted cannon at the bridges. We passed over the battle-ground of Mumfordsville, and saw the burnt fences and the levelled trees which were to obstruct the march of our troops, and the building which was used by them as a hospital. In the deep cut passes one sees suddenly the picturesque figure of a negro soldier, far above upon the heights, who with shining uniform and glittering bayonet stands like a statue, guarding the portals of liberty. At the fortifications are sign-boards upon which are printed in large letters, "Please a drop a paper," while perhaps half a dozen hands point to it as the train whirls past. Some papers were thrown out. There were other things which had for our Northern eyes the charm of novelty. A half respectable or squalid farm-house, with a huge chimney upon the outside, and with a huddle of negro quarters. Also negro women with turbans upon their heads, working out of doors, and driving teams—in one case on a load of tobacco, while driving a yoke of oxen. The total absence of country school-houses, and the squalid and shiftless appearance of the buildings and people at the depots, are in striking contrast to the neat little towns of the Northern and Eastern States. The scenery is fine, much of the soil good, and the water-power extensive. Nature has dealt bountifully with Tennessee and Kentucky, but the accursed system of slavery has blasted and desolated the land, and both races, black and white, are reaping the mildewed harvest.

I find my honorable companion very entertaining and instructive. I am indebted to him for many items of interest, both concerning the early settlers, and also the modern history of the places we pass. His personal history is full of interest, and is one more proof that early poverty is not necessarily a barrier to honor and position. The Judge was given away by his parents to an uncle, who educated him, gave him five dollars and told him he must then make his own way in the world. Another uncle lent him a horse, and he set out to seek his fortune as lawyer and politician. He has in trust the fortune of an eccentric old bachelor, which is known in Warren County as the Craddock fund. Three-fourths of this is used to educate charity children, while the other fourth pays the Judge for his care of the fund. His friend Captain C., while upon his death-bed, sent for the drummer and fifer to play tunes in the yard, and from those selected such as he wished played at his funeral. He was buried with military honors.

“Muldroughs-Hill" which we saw, is a long ridge extending about one hundred miles from the mouth of Salt-River to the head of Rolling-Fork. It was named from an early settler who lived twenty miles from the others, and was farthest west. Rolling-Fork is a tributary of Salt-River. The origin of the term "going up Salt-River" originated at a little place we passed, now called Shepherdsville. It has only four or five hundred inhabitants. But in its early days its salt licks supplied all the Western country with salt, and was a growing aspirant for popularity, as it invited so much trade. It was a rival of Louisville, but unlike that, made no provision for its future well-being, but depended on its present worth alone. "Thus," moralized the Judge, “do we often see two young men start out with equal advantages, and find afterward that one became a Shepherdsville, and the other a Louisville." Now there is a bridge at Shepherdsville guarded by cannon, then there was no bridge and ferry-boats were used. It was not a smooth stream, and to cross, one must row up the river some one hundred rods before heading the boat to the opposite shore. Owing to the rapidity of the current, it was hard rowing, and great strength was needed. There were those engaged in the making of salt who were called kettle-tenders, and who for the most part were a low, rough set, being often intoxicated and quarrelsome. Two of these having a fight, the victor finished with the triumphant exclamation of There, I've rowed you up Salt River!"

Lincoln's birth-place is near this, in the adjoining County of Larue—although this was not the name at the time of his birth. And how little did the mother of Lincoln think, as she taught him the little she knew of books, that the people in the vicinity would ever have cause to exclaim of him, in relation to his rival for the Presidency, as they do of the successful politician—" he has rowed him up Salt River !"

There is a little river called "Nolin," which waters his birth-place. It was so named from the fact that in the early settlement upon its banks a man named Linn was lost in the woods, and never found. He was probably killed by the Indians. But the neighbors searched for several days, and at night met at a place upon its banks, calling to each other as they came in, "No Linn"—" No Linn, yet."

The Judge has carried lead in his body for over fifty years, received in the war of 1812. He was in the battle on the Maumee river called Dudley's defeat. The regiment, under Dudley, had crossed the river to take cannon of the enemy, which they succeeded in doing, but instead of returning they pursued them two or three miles, leaving a few behind to protect the captures. But a detachment of the enemy passed around in their rear, retook the cannon, and when the regiment returned, their retreat was cut off, and all were taken prisoners and obliged to run the gauntlet. About forty were killed in running the gauntlet. The Judge saw that the line of men which had formed at a little distance from, and parallel with the river, had a bend in it, and that if he ran close to the guns they would not dare fire for fear of hitting their own men. The Indians were armed with guns, tomahawks, and war clubs. In that day the gun was accompanied with what was called the "wiping-stick," which was a rod made of hickory notched, and wound with tow, and used to clean the gun. He escaped by receiving a whipping with some of those sticks. It was the last gauntlet ever run in the United States. During the trip I had quite a spirited but good-natured discussion upon the condition of the country, with Mr. M., who I found is really a strong rebel sympathizer. He worships Morgan since his late raid into Ohio, and secretly cherishes his picture in his vest pocket. Just before reaching Bowling Green, where we were to separate, the fatherly old Judge took a hand of each in his own, and with moisture in his eyes and a tremor in his voice, said:

"My children, you represent the two antagonistic positions of the country, and like those, do not rightly understand each other, on account of sectional prejudices. And now let an old man who has watched the growth of both sections, who has, as he trusts, fought for their good in the field, the desk, and senate, join your hands in the grasp of good fellowship, and oh, how sincerely I wish that I could bring also together the North and South in one lasting peace!"

Soon after, he pointed out his residence—the cars stopped, and we parted with our pleasant friends.

Reached the "City of the Rocks" about five, this P. M. Shall wait to see more of it, before making note of impressions.

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, p. 5-12