Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 11, 1863

February 11.

It is to be remembered that the officers of a regiment in which the privates do not read and write, have much to do that would otherwise be done by an orderly or by a private detailed for the purpose. Today I have planned a new hospital and begun to lay the foundation of the first ward. This looks a little like having a brigade here sometime. We have a charming spot near the river, for hospital buildings. I shall have only sixteen patients in a ward. Each ward is to be a separate building 20 x 50 feet, containing two fire-places. From morning till evening, all through the summer, a breeze comes up the river and my wards shall be blessed by it. What a relief it would be to have Stephen Earle [of Worcester] take charge of this, but it is all to be very simple and our efficient chaplain takes almost all of it on his hands.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 360

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: October 28, 1864

Very much interested lately in the hospitals; not only in our own, “the Robertson hospital,” but in Mr. –––’s, the officers’ hospital.”

He has just told me of a case which has interested me deeply. An officer from the far South was brought in mortally wounded. He had lost both legs in a fight below Petersburg. The poor fellow suffered excessively; could not be still a moment; and was evidently near his end. His brother, who was with him, exhibited the bitterest grief, watching and waiting on him with silent tenderness and flowing tears. Mr. ––– was glad to find that he was not unprepared to die. He had been a professor of religion for some years, and told him that he was suffering too much to think on that or any other subject, but he constantly tried to look to God for mercy. Mr. ––– then recognized him, for the first time, as a patient who had been in the hospital last spring, and whose admirable character had then much impressed him. He was a gallant and brave officer, yet so kind and gentle to those under his control that his men were deeply attached to him, and the soldier who nursed him showed his love by his anxious care of his beloved captain. After saying to him a few words about Christ and his free salvation, offering up a fervent prayer in which he seemed to join, and watching the sad scene for a short time, Mr. ––– left him for the night. The surgeons apprehended that he would die before morning, and so it turned out; at the chaplain's early call there was nothing in his room but the chilling signal of the empty “hospital bunk.” He was buried that day, and we trust will be found among the redeemed in the day of the Lord. This, it was thought, would be the last of this good man; but in the dead of night came hurriedly a single carriage to the gate of the hospital. A lone woman, tall, straight, and dressed in deep mourning, got quickly out, and moved rapidly up the steps into the large hall, where, meeting the guard, she asked anxiously, “Where's Captain T.?” Taken by surprise, the man answered hesitatingly, “Captain T. is dead, madam, and was buried to-day.” This terrible announcement was as a thunderbolt at the very feet of the poor lady, who fell to the floor as one dead. Starting up, oh, how she made that immense building ring with her bitter lamentations! Worn down with apprehension and weary with travelling over a thousand miles by day and night, without stopping for a moment's rest, and wild with grief, she could hear no voice of sympathy — she regarded not the presence of one or many; she told the story of her married life, as if she were alone — how her husband was the best man that ever lived; how everybody loved him; how kind he was to all; how devoted to herself; how he loved his children, took care of, and did every thing for them; how, from her earliest years almost, she had loved him as herself; how tender he was of her, watching over her in sickness, never seeming to weary of it, never to be unwilling to make any sacrifice for her comfort and happiness; how that, when the telegraph brought the dreadful news that he was dangerously wounded, she never waited an instant nor stopped a moment by the way, day nor night, and now “I drove as fast as the horses could come from the depot to this place, and he is dead and buried! — I never shall see his face again!” “What shall I do?” — “But where is he buried?” They told her where. “I must go there; he must be taken up; I must see him!” “But, madam, you can't see him; he has been buried some hours.” “But I must see him; I can't live without seeing him; I must hire some one to go and take him up; can't you get some one to take him up? I'll pay him well ; just get some men to takt him up. I must take him home; he must go home with me. The last thing I said to his children was, that they must be good children, and I would bring their father home, and they are waiting for him now! He must go; I can't go without him; I can't meet his children without him!” and so, with her woman's heart, she could not be turned aside — nothing could alter her purpose. The next day she had his body taken up and embalmed. She watched by it until every thing was ready, and then carried him back to his own house and his children, only to seek a grave for the dead father close by those he loved, among kindred and friends in the fair sunny land he died to defend. Many painfully interesting scenes occur, which I would like so much to write in my diary, but time fails me at night, and my hours of daylight are very closely occupied.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 311-4

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: July 23, 1863

Spent the day at the hospital. Mr. ––– has just received a post chaplaincy from Government, and is assigned to the Officers' Hospital on Tenth Street. For this we are very thankful, as the performance of the duties of the ministerial office is in all respects congenial to his taste and feeling. I pray that God may give him health and strength for the office!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 233

Colonel Charles Russell Lowell to Major Henry Lee Higginson, November 19, 1863

Vienna, Va., Nov. 19, 1863.

. . . I wish that you and could make as pleasant arrangements for winter-quarters as E. and I have made. We have all the luxuries and some of the necessaries. Housekeeping is under difficulties, but is a success. It's a great thing, pendant l’hiver, to have a Brigade in a fancy Department, and to have your wife out to command it. In spite of Mosby, we have a good canter every day, have enough books, and only have not enough time to read them.¹ This is not a letter. Merely hearing how soon you were to be married, I wish to express my satisfaction and to give my formal consent. I would advise you not to be impatient about returning to your regiment. Haste is poor speed in such matters, but of course I know nothing of your condition (as we say of horses) or of your intentions. If you go to the Army of the Potomac on horseback, you must manage to pass through Vienna. Remember this, boy. How old are you? To see a fellow like you, whom I've seen grow up from an infant, go and be married, makes me feel very old.  . . . When you leave the service, you must permit to arrange your life so that we can occasionally see one another. I dare say she and E. could manage it. I have great confidence in them. Good-bye.

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¹ Chaplain Humphreys wrote home of the kindly and refining influence of Mrs. Lowell's presence in the camp, and of the hospitality that welcomed the officers in turn at the little home which the Colonel and she had established there. He adds: “With the foreigners in the hospital, I was greatly assisted by the wife of the commander, who visited the patients very frequently. She delighted the Frenchmen, Italians, and Germans, by conversing with them in their own languages, that so vividly recalled their early homes. She often assisted in writing letters for the disabled soldiers, and when I sought to give comfort to the dying, her presence soothed the pangs of parting, with a restful consciousness of woman's faithful watching and a mother's tenderness.”

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 314-5, 445

Diary of Corporal Alexander G. Downing: Sunday, July 31, 1864

Quite warm. It rained very hard this afternoon. There is no news of any importance. Everything appears so dull and the time passes so slowly. I am considered a convalescent now by the doctor and he has put me to work dealing out the medicine to the sick. Our chaplains here in the hospital hold preaching services in the churches of the town on Sundays. The convalescent soldiers make up the audience, as most of the citizens are gone, having given up their houses for hospital purposes.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 208

Colonel Charles Russell Lowell to Josephine Shaw, September 2, 1863

Centreville, Sept. 2d.

Did I tell you that I saw my classmate, William J. Potter, in Washington? Potter was settled as clergyman in New Bedford, was drafted, preached an excellent sermon on the “draft,” saying he should go if accepted, and that meanwhile (previous to the examination) he should use every means to improve his muscle and should feel much humiliation if rejected as unfit to fight for his country.¹ Some one sent the sermon to Stanton; Stanton wrote asking him to come at once to Washington. Potter declined, saying “if accepted he should be under orders, but he preferred to take his chance with others.” He was accepted, and just afterward received another letter from Stanton asking him as a particular favour to come on and confer with him; so Potter was in Washington as an enlisted man on furlough, in a full suit of black. Stanton had had one “conference” with him, and finding that he did not think himself very fit for a chaplaincy with a regiment, had told him he wanted to keep him in Washington, that he wanted such men there, and had proposed to make him chaplain to a hospital, pro forma, with outside duties, — Potter was to see him again in the evening and to breakfast with him the next morning. Such little things as that make me like Stanton, with all his ferocity of manner. He acts on impulses. and is often wrong, but oftener right; on large questions, he is almost always right, I believe. I think . Stanton must have the credit in the Cabinet of having carried through the “Negro Army,” in spite of great opposition there, and some doubts at the White House. It was very pleasant to see old Potter again, coming out all right.

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¹ Mr. William [James] Potter, of Quaker ancestry and great virtues and gifts, was pastor of a large, intelligent, and rich society in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and highly esteemed. On July 3, 1863, he was drafted for a soldier, under the new Conscription Act. On the following Sunday he preached to his people a manly sermon, “The Voice of the Draft,” from the text “Make full proof of thy ministry” (2 Tim. iv, 5), strongly stating the duty and privilege, even for scholars and men with no natural military tastes, to serve in such a war, in such an emergency of the country. Secretary Stanton read it, and had it at once published in the Army and Navy Gazette, as the word for the hour. He set Mr. Potter the important task of visiting and inspecting all the U. S. hospitals in or near Washington, which he did well and thoroughly, reporting their needs. Then, as chaplain to the convalescent hospital, he lived there in a little hut with his young wife, but resigned to join in the vast and beneficent work of the Sanitary Commission. Afterwards he returned to his church in New Bedford. He was one of the founders and chief workers in the Free Religious Association.

When young Potter was in college, he began to feel strongly drawn to the ministry, yet sorely doubting his fitness. “What society or sect must I go with, believing with none? I have in my mind, it is true, an ideal minister, different from any real one whom it was ever my lot to know.” His success was in the measure he approached this ideal.

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 299-301, 442-3