Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Wednesday, April 13, 1864

Entered upon my duties to-day, as lady nurse of two divisions of tents at Small Pox Hospital.

Not obliged to come here, but have accepted this most disagreeable place, as there are so few who are willing to take it. Expect to be quite confined to the place; and the hope of doing good in a position which otherwise would be vacant, is the inducement.

The Hospital is about a mile out from the city, and near Camp Cumberland. It consists of tents in the rear of a fine, large mansion which was deserted by its rebel owner. In these tents are about 800 patients-including convalescents, contrabands, soldiers and citizens. Everything seems done for their comfort which can well be, with the scarcity of help. Cleanliness and ventilation are duly attended to; but the unsightly, swollen faces, blotched with eruption, or presenting an entire scab, and the offensive odor, require some strength of nerve in those who minister to their necessities. There are six physicians each in charge of a division. Those in which I am assigned to duty are in charge of Drs. R. & C. There is but one lady nurse here, aside from the wives of three surgeons, each of whom, however, has her special duty.

Mrs. B., the nurse, went with me through the tents, introduced me to the patients and explained my duties.

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. 42

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, April 14, 1864

A woman and boy died in my division last night. The woman left a little child, eighteen months old, which is inconsolable. The father, a soldier, wishes to take the child away, but was not permitted to do so or to see it, for fear of contagion. It is to be kept to see if the child has the disease. [It did not, and had no scar from vaccination, such queer freaks the disease takes.]

The boy, an Alabamian, told me yesterday he was getting better. He had been sent here with measles, recovered from those, but the small pox did not break out. He died easy, and said he was "going to Heaven." I write his people today, via Fortress Monroe. His name was G. B. Allen, of Rockford, Cousa Co., Alabama. One man died yesterday, to whose people I have written to-day. Another died to-day. The mortality here is great. Said one patient to me: "People die mighty easy here."

I asked in what way, he meant.

"Oh," he replied, "they'll be mighty peart-like, one minute, an' the next you know, they're dead!"

This is true, and I find so many who were sent here with measles, recover from those, and die of small pox. Sixty cases of measles were sent to this hospital in one month, as I learn from the lips of the surgeon in charge himself, Dr. F. These are sent by the several physicians of Nashville. The fact itself speaks volumes, but to stay here and see its effects day after day in the poor victims of such ignorance, impress one with a sense of the importance by the medical faculty of distinguishing between the two diseases.

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. 42-3

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Saturday, April 16, 1864

I find many very interesting cases here, some of which shall wait to see the finale before making note of them.

What seems to me a strange feature, as I become more familiar with death-bed scenes, is the fact that so few know they are dying or are even dangerous, but persist with the last breath, or until the last struggle, that they are "getting better."

One poor young boy from Georgia, by the name of Ashman, who must die, although he eats nothing except a few canned peaches and milk, which I carry to him, will tell me sometimes when I go into the tent, that he is expecting a can of peaches every minute from home, and at another that he has just heard that his mother is in town, and that if he really knew she was, he would'nt lie there a great while before he'd be hunting her up. At another, he asked my name and State, and whether I took him to be a man or only a little boy. He is a slight little fellow of about 18, but in answer to the question I told him that of course I considered one really a man who could be a soldier and fight for our country, and who could be so good and patient while sick. To-day he called me to him, as soon as I entered the tent, and asked if I "could'nt discharge him to-day—that the doctor had told him to ask me about it, and that whatever I said he might do."

I told him that I would discharge him just as soon as that limb of his got well, and reminded him that he would want to be able to walk to the cars before starting home. He has a bad abscess on his limb, from which the doctor says the flesh is sloughing, and he does not expect him to live through tonight. And yet the boy wants me to "write to his mother in Atlanta, Georgia, and tell her to write to his aunt Shady, in Butler," that he "has been sick, but is getting better."

One man—G. W. Crane, of 3d Missouri Infantry, and who is called Major, was given up the day before yesterday by Dr. R.

He complained greatly of his throat, and I have since kept wet bandages on it, greatly to his relief. I asked permission of the doctor to do this, and advice as to telling him of his danger. He thought it would be well to do so, as he might wish to make some business arrangements. It was a most unwelcome task, but I believed it best; and first, asked him if he would like a letter written to his people.

"Oh no," was the reply, I shall be able to write myself in a few days."

"Perhaps you may," I said, "but we are all in more or less danger when sick." Adding as gently as possible, "How would you feel about it, if you thought you were not going to get well?"

The queries seemed cruel, but I knew he had loaned a gold watch and money to a man, and thought he might wish to at tend to that and other matters. But he said decidedly "I do not think anything about it, as I have no doubt I shall soon be up again. And Madam," he added politely, "it would afford me great pleasure to talk with you, if I were feeling well and in good spirits you know, but my throat is so bad it hurts me to talk”

After this rebuff, and being really undecided as to duty in the matter, I left him. Yesterday I found him living, but evidently near his end, and I felt that I ought to let him know his condition. First, I asked as before about writing letters, when he said with great difficulty that he did'nt wish to talk with me as it distressed him to speak. I then said I would only ask him one or two questions and then leave him, and I said:

If the doctor and all thought you could not live, would you wish to know it?"

He said "No," decidedly.

"Well then," I said "I will not trouble you any more, but if at any time you wish letters written, you can send me word by the nurse.”

I left him and he died in about an hour. He called for water, but as the nurse raised him to give it, he exclaimed "I am dying," and then gave some incoherent charge, in which the nurse distinguished the words; "the lady" and "a letter."

His request has been complied with.

Mrs. F. was relating a similar incident to me the other evening. Dr. F. was at the depot in Nashville, when an old acquaintance was found there, who had been ill, had received a sick furlough, and was to take the cars for home. He was so feeble, he was persuaded to go to a hospital to remain over night, and take the train next day. In the course of the evening there was a change, and the physician knew he could live but a short time. He knew also that were he aware of the truth he would wish to send some message to his family. The man was speaking of his home and laying plans for the future, when the physician asked if he should'nt write a letter for him to his wife.

"Why no," he replied, "what need of that when I'm to start home tomorrow?"

"You may not go then," said the doctor.

"Oh, yes," I must start tomorrow," was the reply.

The surgeon did not answer immediately, but was sadly thinking how to do so, and regarding the countenance of his friend, when the patient, who was about talking more of his plans, suddenly paused upon observing the expression of the surgeon's face, and earnestly asked:

"Doctor—you do not think me very sick, do you?"

"I do," was the sad reply.

"But doctor you don't think me dangerous?"

"I think you a very sick man."

He lay silent for a few moments while thought was busy, and then asked:

"Am I about to cross the lines, doctor?"

Tears, and the simple "I think you are," was the answer.

Then was business arranged, messages given, and they were alone again. Then he said:

"Why, doctor is this all that death is? It's nothing at all to die."

And thus he "crossed the lines."

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. 43-7

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Sunday, April 17, 1864

Attended service in dining hall. Chaplain S. officiated, and spoke very well. At the close I gave him the message sent by two sick men in my division to visit them. He promised to do so, but though he had to pass the tents where the men were, in going to his room, he did not do so. Am sorry, as the men may not live. He may have forgotten it, and if the men are living tomorrow, will remind him of the same. But I think it strange that he has not visited any one in my two divisions, when so many have died.

Three more have died since yesterday forenoon. Geo. W. Boughton, — Co., 2nd Batt. Vet. Res., Nelson Correll, of Co. B. 13 Tenn. Cav. and young Ashman mentioned in previous date.

One man, who is nearly given up by physicians, says he has been through the Mexican war. He is sergeant and will swear one minute and pray the next. He declares he always has had his own way, and will have it here. He is delirious part of the time, but like some others of that class thinks everybody crazy but himself. If it is his sovereign will and pleasure to get out of bed and walk about en dishabille, or take a trip over the mountains on some secret service, for which he fancies there is a war steed just outside,

"All saddled, all bridled all fit for a fight,"

he thinks the nurse is slightly out of his head to show so little respect to a superior officer as to threaten to tie him down to his bed. It has been necessary with him and others. He, and another man who lay at a little distance, were both delirious last night, and had an argument with each other—or what they supposed was one, though it seemed difficult for the nurses to vouch for its connectedness. But it is certain that a considerable number of oaths were used, and each assured the other, in plain terms, that he didn't keep truth on his side. The sergeant, after much gesticulation and violent language, threatened the other with a personal chastisement if he wasn't more reasonable in his statements. He was about stepping out of bed to put the threat into practice, when the nurse produced a rope to tie him with, if he wasn't quiet; upon which he concluded to defer the matter. When he wishes water, he will sing out in a stentorian voice, for the

"Corporal of the Third Relief!"

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. 47-8

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Monday, April 18, 1864

One man, this morning, while I was taking the name of one who had just died, to write to his friends, told me that people throughout the whole land, will bless me for what I am doing. Wonder if I am doing good. I cannot help knowing that some will hear from their friends who die here, who otherwise would not.

There is a singular case in Dr. C's. division. Upon entering the tent the first day after my arrival, with reading matter for distribution, I inquired of a young German if he could read that language presenting a paper. He said "no," I then offered one in the English language, asking the same question He said he could read, but didn't wish the paper. The next day I did not notice him particularly, as he was sitting up, but the day following found him lying in bed, and that he would not answer when spoken to. While feeding another man with canned peaches who lay near, the nurse said :"You cannot make that man speak to you."

"What is the trouble," was asked. "Well, it is this," was the reply. He says that day before yesterday, when you asked him if he could read English, he told you a falsehood, for he cannot read at all. He has been dreadfully distressed about it ever since, and says the Lord has appeared to him and told him not to eat a mouthful, nor speak to any one except once a day, to the surgeon and myself, until he has forgiven him for the sin. He will speak to no one, not even the other nurse who has charge a part of the time, and says, he will not, until he gets religion."

"What is his name?"

"Oswald."

"Wouldn't you like some of these nice canned peaches, Oswald?" we ask, dipping up some of the delicious fruit. He looked at us smiling but with tightly pressed lips.

"These are very nice—they'll do you good, and we want to make you well as soon as possible. Won't you have some, Oswald?"

No answer.

"Not going to speak to me? Why only think—here's a man trying to get religion and be a Christian and he won't speak to somebody else who is a Christian. I've professed to be one these many years, and you won't speak to me! Now, if you could only read the Bible, you'd know that it says "speak often to each other. You cannot read, can you?" He shakes his head.

"Well, it's a pity, but don't you see that if the Bible says so, you ought to speak, and don't you see that Christian ministers have to talk to sinners to teach them to be good—and if ministers talk to sinners, shouldn't sinners talk to Christians—don't you see that?"

"Yes, yes, I do," he ejaculated, seizing my hand—"I will talk to you for you're a Christian."

We gave him some peaches and left him. The next morning, however, nothing could induce him to speak. He has continued thus ever since—five days and has eaten nothing. He received a forcible cold bath this morning with the promise of its repetition if he does not speak and eat. [This was continued till he both spoke and ate. But he was believed to be a hopeless monomaniac, and after some weeks received his discharge and was sent home.] It is possible that this is mere pretence and his object the same as that of another soldier of whom we have heard, at Jefferson Barracks, Mo. This one used to go daily with a bent pin for a fishhook, and sit for hours upon a stump on the hillside, waiting quietly for the bite which never came, at least in the estimation of others. He was the butt of ridicule for the whole camp, who, while they pitied him on account of his supposed insanity, could but laugh at his perseverance in fishing upon dry ground. He received his discharge, when flourishing it in their faces, he informed them that it was "now his turn to laugh, as he had received what he had all along been fishing for—viz: a discharge!"

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. 48-50

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Tuesday, April 19, 1864

Another change. I am to leave this hospital to-day, as a Miss P. from Chicago, who had been engaged for the place, and expected some three weeks since, has just arrived. I have become really attached to the patients, and on some accounts dislike leaving. It seems that Miss O. and myself were intended for Chattanooga or other place farther toward the front, but in consequence of waiting for Miss O., the place was filled before our arrival. I fear there may not be any other place open for me. And when I can go in so many hospitals and see sick men suffering from neglect or want of more help, I shall think it very hard if I cannot do something. Two other ladies have been sent back, with the assurance that there was no opening for them.

I have just been through the tents and introduced Miss P. to the patients. Many are feeling sad, or appearing and expressing themselves so, that I am going to leave. Received many warm expressions of gratitude from many for the very little I have been able to do for them.

In going into one tent, found one of the nurses just recovering from an attack of lockjaw. When able to speak, he told me that it had "followed him, like an evil shadow, for ten long years."

Then followed an interesting recital of the cause, which was a gun-shot wound in the spine from the hand of a brother in an encounter with a grizzly bear in the rocky mountain. He himself ran away from home at the age of twelve, to follow his brother in a hunting expedition. After the brother had fired, the bear sprang toward him, and with one stroke of his paw laid the flesh from the bone from the forehead down one side of his face and arm to the elbow. The ball had only grazed the spine of the narrator, and seeing his brother in such danger, who called to him to fire, he did so and fortunately the shot was fatal to bruin. Their horses bore them to the nearest settlement, and the brother's life was saved.

This nurse I had always observed as quiet, efficient, faithful, and a favorite with the patients.

The sergeant mentioned last under date of the 17th, overhearing me say that I was to leave to-day, and that I did not know where I should be stationed, advised me "not to be going round from one place to another, but to join a regiment, as I would be in less danger from guerillas."

Northern people, who think that all Government employees fatten on commissary stores, ought to see the table which is set at this hospital. It is exceedingly plain; and it sometimes requires more moral courage than all are very long, capable of exercising, to inhale the odor of oyster soup, custards, pies, and sweatmeats, which latter are sometimes prepared for those who are convalescing, but very rarely bless the palate of those who prepare them, or daily to deal out the jellys, blanc-mange and canned fruit without ever tasting. An instance of this kind has occurred here which not only increased our respect for the surgeon, but amused us not a little.

The usual rations, such as tough army beef, baker's bread and stale butter, with muddy coffee, served in brown mugs, has been the diet for so long a time that it has ceased to be very palatable. To the steward perhaps this was particularly so, and probably thinking that we had been sufficiently industrious and self-denying to merit a treat, and as five boxes of canned oysters had just arrived as a present from the Christian commission, he ordered enough cooked for dinner, in addition to the usual fare, to give all, from the surgeon in charge to the servants, a taste.

"It will take but five cans for us," said the wife of the surgeon-in-charge to me, "while for the patients a meal, it will require twenty cans."

So she, with the wife of doctor R., who jointly had charge of the diet kitchen, prepared the oysters, and at the usual hour, those, with the hungry expectants, appeared in the dining-room. The soup had been partially served up but no one had time to taste it, when the surgeon-in-charge walked in and took a seat at the table. Probably the peculiar odour of the oysters and the ominous hush at the table warned him to be on the alert for something unusual.

Unusually demure, certainly, was the manner of the one table waiter, as he proceeded to the table, with another dish of the forbidden food.

The surgeon might well have exclaimed with Cæsar, " Veni, vidi, vici," for smoothing an instant smile from his features, with a forced sternness he demanded:

"What have you there?"

"Oysters," meekly responded the servant, who as well as the rest of us, more than suspected what might be coming.

"Take every one of those from the table," said he, "and don't let me see anything of this kind again. There are too many sick boys up at the tents, needing these things, for us to eat them!"

The oysters were taken from the table we are quite positive, and furthermore, that that was the last we ever saw of them.

It was, however, respectfully suggested to the surgeon by some one that he make it convenient to dine out at as early a day as possible, and acquaint his wife and the steward with the fact some time previous. He didn't promise, however, and the oysters have never since appeared to us.

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. 50-3

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Wednesday, April 20, 1864

Back in town again. I've done something but havn't the least idea what, to displease somebody and havn't the least idea who. Perhaps some one of my friends here, will, after a day or so find the important secret too burdensome to keep alone, and will share it with me.

Just think what it is, Hallicarnassus, to go abroad and see the world-and feel it too, for that matter.

But in order to think as little as possible of that terrible crime of which I've been guilty, before finding out what it is, am going to hunt up enough work to keep my head and hands busy in the hospitals about town.

Glad to meet my travelling companion, Miss O., again. She has remained at this home of the Christian Commission, engaged in the preparation of delicacies, which are taken out to hospitals, or barracks, as needed.

This building, to which we came upon our arrival, is a spacious three story brick, at No. 14 Spruce Street. It was deserted by a rebel banker just before our forces entered Nashville, who took nothing south, except his gold and silver. A man from New York, whose conscience permitted him to take the oath of allegiance, removed and stored up against the return of his rebel friend, the silver and glass service, curtains, works of art, &c., but left much fine furniture, such as massive sofa bedsteads, marble-topped stands, tables, bureaux, a well-filled book-case, writing table and piano.

In Secretary Stanton's own handwriting, we saw permission given to occupy this building till the close of the war, to Mrs. H., of the Philadelphia Ladies' Aid Society, "together with other ladies who might be associated with her, in any benevolent enterprise having for its object the relief of invalid Union soldiers."

She is confident he meant benevolent gentlemen, also, so one half of the house is given up to the Rev. E. P. Smith and family, who make a home for the delegates of the Christian Commission.

Thus are many of the private as well as public buildings reduced from their lofty position of serving southern chivalry, to the vile misuse of northern mudsills. "Oh, Babylon how art thou fallen!" must be the lamentation of the Nashvillians, as they see the desecration of their beautiful edifices by northern vandals.

"Oh! the citizens here would tear us to pieces very quick," said Mrs. Smith, the eve of our arrival, "were it not for the 'blue coats' about. Our dependence is in those and the guns of Fort Negley."

Evening.

Visited the Refugee Home again, this P. M. Saw some of those mentioned in a previous date. As I entered one room, a woman was bustling about in a great passion, and picking up a few personal rags, while ordering her son to get up and they would find a place to stay where she shouldn't be "set to do niggar's work!"

She was a healthy, strong woman, and had been repeatedly requested to make her own and son's bed, and assist in sweeping or cooking for the numerous inmates. Indeed, I think she had received a gentle hint that it might be as well to see that her son and herself had clean linen as often as once in two or three weeks, and that the use of a comb occasionally would not detract from their personal appearance. But she had her own peculiar ideas, obtained from living under the domination of a peculiar institution, and didn't fancy being dictated to in the delicate matter of her personelle.

Upon entering what is called the lecture-room we saw several families and parts of families, which had within two hours arrived on the trains from Alabama or Georgia.

I found that some of these snuff-dipping, clay-colored, greasy and uncombed ladies "from Alabam and Gorgee," are as expert marksmen as any of our northern exquisites, as they deposit the "terbaker" juice most beautifully into and around any knot-hole or crack in the floor, and while they are at the distance of several feet. Its wonderful how they do it am afraid I should never be able to learn.

We approach one woman who is standing by a rough board bunk, upon and around which are several children overcome by the fatigue of travelling. She, unlike the generality, is neatly dressed in a clean dark calico and sunbonnet, and wears a cheerful and intelligent look. She informs us that these are all her children—six of them, that her husband is in the Union army, only a few miles out, that he had sent for her to come here, and she expects to see him in a few days. She cannot write, for she hasn't been to school a day in her life, and she says:

"An' that thar's suthin' you people hev' up north, thet we don't. Poor folks thar, hev' a chance to give thar children some larnin'; but them as owns plantations down our way, don't give poor folks no chance. Larnin's only for rich folks. But my children shan't grow up to not know no more nor thar father nor thar mother, ef I kin' help it. Ef this war don't close so's to make it better for poor folks down har, we'll go north. Thar's a woman what kin' write," she adds with an admiring glance to the other side of the room, "an' she's writin' a letter for me to my husband."

We glance that way, and see a youngish woman, whose entire clothing evidently consists of one garment, a dress which is colored with some kind of bark. She sits in conscious superiority, scarcely deigning to notice us, as we approach, while she is carefully managing the writing with one eye, while her head is turned half way from it, so that the ashes or coal, from the long pipe between her lips, may not fall upon the paper. Her air and manner are evidently intended to be regal, for isn't she the woman "what kin' write?" At a little distance sat a hale, broad-shouldered, stalwart man, who looked as if he were able to do the work of half a dozen common men, who inquired of us, where "Hio was-if 'twas in Illinois"—and whether if he went to either of those places he would be "pressed into the service." In reply, we informed the gentleman that "Ohio was not in Illinois, but that if he went to either, he would probably have to stand his chance of being drafted, together with other good loyalists with the physicians, lawyers, editors, and ministers. He did not reply to that, but his looks spoke eloquently,

"For a lodge in some vast wilderness,-

Some boundless contiguity of shade"

Where war and draft come not.

Miss Ada M., the Matron of the Refugee Home, was, in our room this eve, and said that she was yesterday preparing some sewing for some young Misses, who were conversing earnestly about the Yankees. Finding their ideas rather erroneous with regard to that class of people, she made a remark to the effect that she was one herself.

"Why, you 'aint a Yankee?" exclaimed a Miss of fifteen dropping her work in blank astonishment. "Yes, indeed, I am," was the reply.

"Why," said the girl, with remarkably large eyes, "I've allays hearn tell that the Yankees has horns, and one eye in the middle of their foreheads!"

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. 54-8

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Friday, April 22, 1864

Yesterday morning, Mr. F., a gentleman from my native State, Massachusetts, and who has charge of the Refugee Farm, asked if I would not like to ride out to the place, they "wanted a teacher and perhaps I might be willing to engage as one, if not the ride and fresh air would do me good." "Yes, I should enjoy it."

Then hour after hour passed away, with the fresh morning air, and not until at the dinner table did I meet my expected cavalier. He explained:

The fact was the poor old nag, which had been turned out some months before by government to die, like some other contrabands of war, wouldn't work—he was free! But he had confiscated another animal from Government and hoped he might not long say of that as in the nursery ballad, that

"The horse wouldn't go,"

as it was

"Time he and I were gone an hour and a half ago."

One, two and three o'clock came, and I overheard Lucy, one of the black girls, of about fourteen—though she doesn't know her age—laughing about "that thar Mr. F., who had been for two long hours, a curryin' an' pattin' an' feedin' that old horse with sugar, to coax it to be good: but I know by its actions it has never been harnessed 'fore a carriage in its life. For it acts, for all the world, like I did, when I ran away to find my freedom. I couldn't tell for my life, whether to go backwards or forward, to keep out of danger."

In answer to my questions, she tells me that she was "the very first one that Lincoln set free in Winchester, but that as soon as she was gone, all the other nigs left."

Of course, her remarks about the horse were not very encouraging as regarded the safety or pleasure of the trip, even if he decided at last to go forward instead of backward. At half-past three, the equipage was announced in readiness, when, with a most self-denying spirit, I assured the gentleman, that I would willingly forego the pleasure, if the animal was not perfectly safe. But he was quite positive upon that subject, and as I perceived the appearance of the contraband did not indicate anything vicious or powerful enough to be very dangerous, we started. Had a ride of perhaps two miles upon the other side of the town, stopped a moment by the guard, then allowed to proceed a mile farther to the Refugee Farm.

This is best known to citizens as the Eweing farm. It was a splendid place, but has been nearly ruined by General Buel's army who camped upon it. Trees were felled, fences torn down, windows broken entirely out, and several fine outbuildings destroyed, such as a spring-house and conservatory, which I would like to have seen in its glory. Picked a beautiful bouquet of apple-japonica and pomegranate blossoms. Saw a "Butternut" planting cotton. He told me he expects, if the crop does well, to realize "one bale of picked cotton" from the two acres, which at present prices will bring $250. The yield, he said, was only about a half or a third what it would be three degrees farther south.

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. 58-9

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Sunday, April 24, 1864

Went out in an ambulance with Rev. Dr. D., Mr. E. and Mrs. H., Iowa State Agent, to hear the first named gentleman preach to a portion of the fifth, I think, Ohio Cavalry. They are camped on the Achlen estate. Saw a tree called the Red Bud and the mistletoe for the first time. The last grew on an elm. Secured specimens of each for pressing. Was indebted for the same to politeness of a gentleman who sported one bar.

Attended service also this morn and eve at Union Church; Rev. Mr. Allen officiated in the morning and Rev. Mr. Cramer this eve. The last is a young man and brother-in-law of General Grant.

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. 59-60

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Monday, April 25, 1864

The ambulance and driver were placed at my disposal this P.M., and I visited Hospital No. 1. I find changes here, but mostly for the better. Some have recovered sufficiently to be sent North. The "Alabamian," as he was called, who together with "William" was placed in my care, I am grieved to learn has "crossed the lines." He was getting better I was told, until one night he died suddenly of an ulcer on his lungs. William is dressed and walks around is surely getting well, and talking of going home. Has had a letter written to his father and received a reply. Seems very grateful. The German suffered no more pain from the amputation, and is hopeful. The Norwegian has no gangrene in his arm now, and it is fast healing.

I find two or three new cases of interest. One is a middle-aged man who is suffering greatly from ulcers caused by scurvy. It is thought that he cannot live long; and he tells me that he isn't ready to die that he has "been a bad man, that if the Lord will only spare him this time, he will live a different life." Another, a young man with fair skin, red cheeks and bright eyes, the victim of consumption, was moaning,

"Only to die at home with mother!"

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. 60

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Thursday, April 28, 1864

Am expecting soon to go to Huntsville, Alabama, as hospital nurse. Should have gone four days since, had not Gen Sherman closed the way against everybody and everything except soldiers, rations, gunpowder and pontoon bridges. The road has been crowded with those for a week past. A great battle is expected to come off very soon, some where at the front. The Government has been pressing horses of every description into the service to-day. The streets have been crowded with teams marked "United States Transfer," those of "Q. M. D." and ammunition wagons.

This evening 600 horses have gone past our door, en route for the front, where they are to act as scouts, I understand not the horses, though, I believe, but their riders.

General Sherman, himself, left for the front to-day noon. During this time of waiting for a pass, rather than remain idle, and also for the purpose of picking up some grains of knowledge with regard to the "capacity" of the colored race—which I believe a wealthy man said he would buy for his daughter if she was'nt supplied with the article—I volunteered my services yesterday, as teacher in Mr. Brown's school. This is held in the body of the colored peoples' church, near the Chattanooga depot; Mr. B. is from Hamilton, Ohio, and is the pioneer here, in this work. There are some 400 pupils and five teachers, all in one room. I supposed they were having recess when I entered, but found that it was impossible to prevent them from studying aloud. It seems it is practiced in the schools of white children here, and the great number in this one room, prevented such discipline as otherwise would have been secured.

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. 61

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Saturday, April 30, 1864

The aptness of the pupils, as a whole, is really surprising. Some have learned the alphabet, I am told, in three days, and others in a week.

It is said that all northern people who visit the school, very soon fall a victim to that fearful disease, known by the southern chivalry and northern copperheads, as "niggar on the brain." And I will confess my belief that were I to teach in this school very long, I might become so interested in some of my pupils I should sometimes forget that they were not of the same color as myself, and really believe that God did make of one blood all nations of the earth.

They present every shade of color from the blackest hue to a fairer skin than my own. It is often necessary to find out who the mother is before you know whether the person is white or black. The age varies from four to thirty.

The progress of some is really astonishing. One little black girl of seven years, and with wooly head, can read fluently in the Fourth Reader, and studies primary, geography, and arithmetic, who has been to school but one year. I inquired if any one taught her at home, or if she had not learned how to read before that time. "Oh, no, I learned my letters when I first came to school, and I live with my aunt Mary, and she can't read. She's no kin to me, and I havn't any kin, but I call her aunt."

Perhaps she never had any, or is related to Topsey, and if questioned farther, might say she "spects she grew." A boy of about twelve, who has been to school but nine months, and who learned his letters in that time, reads in the Third Reader and studies geography. Some are truly polite. The first day of my taking charge of one of the divisions, a delicate featured, brown-skinned little girl of about nine years came to me and said with the sweetest voice and manner : "Lady will you please tell me your name?" I did so, when she thanked me and said:

"Miss P—— can you please hear our Third Reader this morning." It was not an idle question either, for the school is so large that now, while two of the teachers are absent, from illness, some of the classes are each day necessarily neglected. And so eager are the generality of the pupils to learn, that most of them are in two or three reading and spelling classes at the same time.

One might now not only exclaim with Gallileo, "the world does move," but add, and we move with it. For though but a little time since the negro dared not say "I think," lest the master might exclaim, — "You think, you black niggar—never you mind about that, I'll do your thinking for you," but would instead, say deferentially, with bent head and hand in his wooly hair, "Wall, massa, I'se been a studyin' about dat dar," is now learning to stand erect and confess that he does think, as well as learn to read and write.

One of the more advanced pupils told me that her father taught her to read and write before it was safe to let any one know that he did, or that he could himself read.

EVENING.

Eureka! That wonderful secret, like "murder," has "out." I have been very cautiously, and little by little, and with many charges not to tell any body, informed of the terrible crime for which I was tried, convicted, sentenced and banished, while all the time in blissful ignorance of the crime itself. This is the way of managing affairs here, I am told, and it is called military style. I like it. It saves one all the trouble and worry of defending one's self. And that might make one nervous and excited. It saves also confusion in the mind of the adjudging party, the same as of a certain judge in Missouri, who having heard evidence on the side of the plaintiff, refused to listen to that of the defendant, with the profound remark, that "whenever he heard both sides he always got things so mixed up, that he never could tell upon which side to give judgement!"

But the grave charge, as ferreted out by some two or three friends, of which I am accused, and to most of which I should have plead "not guilty" had opportunity been given, runs thus, that upon a certain occasion, I presented myself before the surgeon of the division and told him with an authoritative air, that I wished he "would see that a certain patient had a mustard poultice on his chest, for he wanted it."

This is my defence. One morning, I found a man suffering greatly with a pain in the chest from pneumonia, according to the physician's diagnosis. He was convalescing from varioloid and had taken cold. He breathed very short, seemed in extreme pain and begged for a mustard poultice. I said I dare not apply it without permission from the surgeon, but would ask him immediately. He was in another tent—the third above, and while going there I recollected hearing that some physicians were offended even by a request, and hesitated. Then thinking of the moans and apparent danger of the sufferer, I proceeded. These contradictory emotions, I can now realize, gave an unusual brusqueness to my manner, as I said :

"Doctor there is a patient in the third tent below, on bed, No. 9, who is in great pain and wants a mustard poultice. Will you see if he needs it? If so, I can make it."

There was a flash in his eyes, as he replied "I will attend to the man. As for the mustard poultices, it is not necessary that you should attend to them, as the men nurses do that."

The patient did not have the poultice, but presume the physician gave him something which removed the pain, as it had left him at noon. This trouble was caused simply by a misunderstanding. He used the word want for need, so that when I said the man "wanted" it—meaning he had asked for it, he interpreted it so as to convey the idea of my assuming the responsibility of saying, "he needed" it. He also understood me to order him to "see" that the man had it, when I simply asked if he would "see if he needed it."

I respect this physician and his wife, but wish he had been certain of my meaning before reporting the speech to the surgeon-in-charge.

There is also another little matter which I am certain had something to do with my departure, but which it would scarcely be policy for them to mention. It was this. The next day after speaking to Chaplain S. about visiting those sick men who had sent for him, and whom, though he was obliged to pass the tents where they lay in going to his room, he did not visit, I sent a slip of paper, saying in pencil, that as he had probably forgotten it, and as they were anxious to see him, I would remind him of this request. I received no response to the same, although I am certain he received the note, and the day passed without his visiting the sick men, although, at noon, I saw him out for half an hour, engaged in pitching quoits. I certainly did feel somewhat indignant, when the next morning came, and I found from the lips of the sick soldiers that he had not been in the tent; and I wondered, when I knew he had not been in to see a single sick or dying soldier in my division since my stay, nor preached a funeral sermon for the many who had died in my division alone, what could occupy his time. I asked for information of two of the ladies, and was told in excuse for him, that his time was fully occupied in discharging the duties of clerk for the surgeon-in-charge. So here was a chaplain neglecting the sacred duties of his own profession, though amply paid for the same, and earning more of the filthy lucre, to the neglect of dying men!

Thus endeth the defence. Mrs. Gala Days, you were entirely correct in your assertion that one must go abroad and see the world, to have "personal experiences."

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. 61-6

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.