Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Sunday, May 1, 1864

This P. M., Miss O. and myself accompanied Rev. E. P. Smith to listen to his "colored preaching," as he termed it, in the same church in which is the school for the colored children. It was a rare treat and the first colored audience I ever saw.

Do not imagine a squalid, ragged, filthy audience; but one where silks, ribbons, velvet, broadcloth, spotless linen and beavers predominated, with a sprinkling of beautifully carved or silver, and gold-headed canes, with about the usual proportion of fops to the canes that one may find in an audience of equal size, of our own color. Some of these persons are free and own property. But one would scarcely covet some of the ladies their silks and velvets, when she learns that it is purchased with the avails of extra labor at night after the day's work "for de missus is done."

But so it is. And although the church was built some years ago with their money, yet it was held in trust by white people because "negroes cannot own property."

I have been repeatedly told that I would turn pro-slavery when I came south and saw how things really were. I do not feel any of the first symptoms as yet, but quite the contrary. Instead, I'm getting to believe that the day when the Emancipation Document was sent forth, was that of which it is said "a nation shall be born in a day," and I'm learning to think that this gospel, which is

"Writ in burnished rows of steel,"

and read by

"The watch-fires of an hundred circling camps,"

is the "word" which "makes men free," and will forever strike the manacles from the oppressed bondsman.

One indignant white man, during the first prayer which was made by a negro preacher, and in which he asked for blessing upon the Union arms and freedom for slaves, left his seat and walked the whole length of the church, with heavy tread and with his hat on his head, while a voice called out,"Take your hat off!"

During the closing prayer the negro very properly prayed, "Oh Lord, wilt dou give de people good manners and teach 'em right behaviour wen dey come into de house ob de Lord!"

The sermon was the Bible-story of the death of James and the release of Peter from prison. It was told in a simple, earnest, impressive manner, to a deeply attentive, impressible audience. When he drew the picture of the angel entering the prison, and taking Peter away as easily as though "his chains were made of wax and a lighted candle was held beneath them, while the four quarternians—sixteen—soldiers were powerless to act," one old man laughed outright, a joyous, grateful laugh, others made their peculiar grunting noise which no combination of sounds will give exactly, while others shook hands and cried "Glory to God." During the singing some women had the "power” so that they passed round, embraced and shook hands.

Some joined the church, and the negro preacher told them he "hoped that wouldn't be the last of it, and that they'd be faithful and come to church;" but that some joined whom he "never could get a chance to set eyes on again, so that when they died he never could tell WHICH PLACE THEY'D GONE TO!"

I have forgotten to note in its proper place, that upon entering the church Miss O. and myself took seats in the only unoccupied pew in the body of the church. But Rev. Mr. S. beckoned us forward to a side seat by the pulpit. We took our seats there, but soon a neat, elderly negress came forward and said with a coaxing smile and voice, "Young ladies go up in de altar an' set-you doesn't want to set down here wid dese yere colored folks." We preferred remaining, and she urged the matter in vain. Soon an elderly mulatto man, probably a prominent member in the church, whose portly form was assisted in its waddles by a gold-headed cane, came forward and made the same request. But not being accustomed to the highest seat in the synagogue on account of our possessing a lighter color, we declined doing so until all the seats were filled and some must stand, when we did go; but upon others coming in they also were induced to take a seat in the altar.

During the sermon Mr. S. related an interesting personal experience. He said that a year ago last July he was in front of Vicksburg, in that dreadful fever region-the Yazoo bluffs. He felt the fever coming upon him-he knew something of its workings-he was two thousand miles from anybody he knew. He said he "had been talking to the boys, to the sick ones in the hospital, telling them that it didn't matter where they died if they only had Jesus with them, and he found that on his back, and on his blanket, had come the time to take some of his own medicine." He said he "tried to do so, but found it rather hard to take. He tried to think that it was just as well to be sick there and to die and be buried on the Yazoo bluffs, and never see his family again; but somehow he couldn't get in that frame of mind, but kept thinking he would much rather be at home. One morning, after he had burned and tossed with fever all night, Aunt Nancy came and drew back the folds of the tent and said: "Massa, how are you this morning-have you found the bright side?'

"Well no, Aunt Nancy, I haven't found any bright side.” "Well, Massa, I'se sorry you can't, for Aunt Nancy never get in such trouble but she can find the bright side.”

"Well, Nancy,” I said, “I guess you've never had any very great trouble—guess you don't know what it is.”

"Well,” said she with a sigh, “may be I don't know what trouble is, but my old man was sold away from me down in old Virginny and I never see him any more, and then my son, the staff of my old age, was sold way down in de rice fields, an' I never see him any more. No-maybe I don't know what trouble is, but after that my last little boy an' girl was sold away from me, an' I never see them any more-an' now I'm getting so old I'll never go back to ole Virginny any more!”

"Well, Aunt Nancy, that is trouble; but tell me how you managed to find the bright side.'

"Well, Massa,” she said, “when I see the storm coming, and the clouds are thick and get black and blacker, then I just go 'round the other side of the cloud where Jesus is!'

"Then I turned over in my bed, with my face to the back of the tent, and said:

"Come now fever, death and burial upon the Yazoo bluffs, if God wills, I am ready!"

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. 66-9

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Tuesday, May 3, 1864

Spring has long delayed her coming here as well as northward. I could not be comfortable this P. M. in my room without a fire. Still, despite the cold, I have seen the blossom of a species of magnolia, which is very beautiful. It is in shape and size something like the African lily, and grew upon a tree the size of the common apple. It is of a peachblow hue upon the outside and white within, and with the mingled fragrance of the roses and lemon.

Aunt Nanny, the former housekeeper of the rebel banker who owned this residence, has just been giving me a highly interesting account of the scenes here when it became known that our forces were coming towards Nashville. It was on Sunday morning the news reached the white citizens, when they were on their way to church. And the streets were soon filled with half-crazed people flying here and there, women and children and even men running out of breath, and screaming, "The Yankees are coming," while the less excited ones were securing every possible conveyance to use for flight.

"We colored folks," said Aunt Nanny, "knew it in the night, and all de mornin' while de white ones was so quiet a putin' on dere finery for church, we knew it wouldn't last long. An' we was all so full wid de great joy, dat we'se a sayin' in our hearts all de time "Bless de Lord," "Thank de good God," for de "day of jubilee has come!"

"But we was mighty hush, an' put on just as long faces as we could, an' was might' 'sprized when they told us of it. An' missus she come runnin' back from the street wid' her bonnet on her neck, an' the strings a flyin', an' she come to the kitchen and put up both arms, an' she said:

"Oh, Aunt Nanny, we'll all be killed! The Yankees are coming! They'll hang or cut the throat of every niggar that's left here!'

"An' after that she tried to have me go south with her, but I told her I'd risk the Yankees a killin' us, an' I wouldn't go."

Aunt Nanny is respected by all who know her. She is neat, industrious, well-informed, although she cannot read, respectful, polite, affectionate, virtuous, and a Christian. Her husband is here, and she has one little daughter who is in my division at school.

She tells me also that only last Sunday she saw the body of a dead negro boy of about nine years who died from blows received from his mistress. The cause was her anger that his mother had run away in search of freedom. But the mother heard of the illness of her child and returned in time to hear him say that "the whipping his mistress had given him had killed him," and to find upon his back the terrible gashes from the whip, and bruises from blows.

I wish I had known of this before the child was buried. Having the name of speaking my mind, it might be as well to do so, occasionally.

Have just listened to a little incident which occurred some months since. While Grant had charge of this department, General Rousseau in his absence, issued an order to the effect that slaveholders, who had taken the oath of allegiance, might dispose of their slaves. One man from the country, accordingly drove in several slave women tied hand to hand. But Grant had suddenly returned and countermanded the permit, and he could not dispose of them. He got into his carriage and ordered his negro women to march home. They refused to obey. This was unprecedented insolence. He caught his horse-whip and was about laying it over their shoulders when the "blue coats" appeared as suddenly and as thick around him as if like fairies they had popped out of the ground.

"No whipping here! No whipping here!" they exclaimed, and the result was, he was forced to return alone, and they were slaves no longer.

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. 70-2

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Wednesday, May 4, 1864

A death in the house. Little Clark, the only son of Rev. E. P. Smith, aged three and a half years, died last night. It is a sad affliction. The disease, decline from measles. The funeral service was held in the parlor, this P. M., by Rev. Mr. Allen. His body was embalmed and is to be sent to the Sabbath School of the parish, over which Mr. S. presided, at Pepperill, Massachusetts.

To me it seems strangely touching this trusting of the precious remains to the chances of travel, and so many miles away, to land in the throng of sad little faces to whose questioning glances he can perchance respond

"From the land o' the leal."

He was laid out in a child's military suit of light blue, with star-flowers, snow-drops, rose-buds, and leaves of the rose geranium. It was a sweetly sacred bequest to the Sabbath School.

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. 72

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Saturday, May 7, 1864

Have been to Hospital, No. 1, at the request of a mother whose young son had died there. She is in great anxiety to learn something of his last words, and whether he died a Christian. I have just written her the facts, that there was no outward evidence of the same, but that she must trust the Good Father that it was "well with him."

All the patients whom I have mentioned in my journal, are better. Even the one with ulcers is improving. As for William he has applied for a furlough, and expects soon to go home.

Day before yesterday a girl came to school who had just the look and complexion of a snuff-dipping refugee. She, also, like them, wore a dress of the same color, derived from some kind of bark. Her manner was as listless and her expression as vacant. Wishing much to know whether she could claim our superior race as her own, or whether a few drops of the black blood in her veins had procured perhaps from her father and master the fiat— "only a niggar!" I made known my curiosity to one of the teachers, with my perplexity as to how I should obtain the coveted information, without wounding her feelings.

"Oh! you need not fear that," was the reply, "they're used to it, and expect to be asked whether they're niggars or not." I could not do it, however, without considerable circumlocution; and commenced by asking if she could buy herself a book, whom she lived with, &c. After some time the questions eliminated the fact that though she didn't know whether she was free, or a “refugee," her own second name, or the age, she did know that she had lived most of her life in Texas, where she had always worked out of doors, had hoed corn, and ploughed that she lived with the same people now—that her father she had never heard anything of—that her mother was black, "though not real black," and finally that she herself was a "niggar," which nobody else could have told by her features or complexion.

A lady who stopped over night, on her way home from Bridgeport, where she has been stationed with her husband in charge of sanitary stores, relates the following:

She said that sitting a few days since in the rooms where were the stores of the Christian Commission, she saw a woman, when half a mile distant, who had a long stick in her hand. She supposed that being weary perhaps, with a long walk, she had picked it up to serve the office of a cane. But after entering, and engaging for some time in jovial conversation and laughter with some neighbors, she found there, she made known her errand. She wanted to beg a shirt, pair of stockings and a coffin for her husband, and the stick was the measure of his body. My informant asked the age of the deceased husband, and she replied:

"Well, now, I never rightly axed him how old he was. but I reckon he mought be nigh on to thirty or forty!"

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. 72-4

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Tuesday, May 10, 1864

My friend Miss O. is quite ill. We fear it may prove typhoid fever. Shall not enter the school again until she is better.

Last evening, had just seated myself to write to Mrs. Bickerdyke who had promised me a situation in Huntsville, Alabama, when she and Mrs. Jeremiah Porter, of Chicago, arrived on train from that place, bound for the front of Sherman's army, if they can procure passes.

To-day at dinner table, heard Rev. Dr. Thompson, of New York city, say that he saw 8,000 men march through the streets of Paris, at that farce entitled the election of Napoleon. I expressed my idea of the grand sight to Mrs. B. when she said that was not equal to what may be seen now. That there are "twice that number marching to the front now." "Is there?" was the surprised inquiry.

"Yes," she replied, "why don't you read the papers? You ignorant women in the army do ask such foolish questions!" This is her style of speech, but she is a perfect hero in the army, among sick soldiers.

It seems that not long since she solicited and obtained contributions of fruit and vegetables for the soldiers who are suffering with scrofulous diseases for want of them. Some have arrived at this place, which she had ordered to be sent to Huntsville. She had left word while here some time since, with Colonel, or Captain Somebody, whose duty it was to attend to the matter, to forward them immediately upon their arrival. She also wrote the same from Huntsville, and still the fruits and vegetables came not, although she had learned of their arrival at this city, while the sick men in the hospital were suffering for the want of the vegetables, which were wasting from decay. This morning, she sallied out to ferret out the matter. In an hour or two she came capering into our room, where Mrs. P. was writing, and swinging her bonnet by the string, exclaimed:

"There, I've done it! I've said it! I've had it all my own way, for you wasn't there—addressing Mrs. P.—, to nudge my elbow and whisper 'be careful now, don't say too much,' or to tell the one I'm talking to 'Oh, she don't mean that.' Why what do you think I found?" she continued. I found those cars of vegetables moved on to a side track to spoil for days, while some of these officers have been sending on their fine furniture to keep house with, down to Huntsville. And after finding this out, I went to the office of this fine gentleman in shoulder-straps, and told him to send on those things in double quick-time, or I'd have his official head taken off. And I asked him if it needed a Miss Nancy to come and tell Miss Betty what her duty was, before she could do it."

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. 74-5

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Friday, May 13, 1864

Miss O. since last date, has been daily growing worse. It seems she must have typhoid fever, and for one of her delicate health and sensitive nerves, we fear the worst. Her mind is at times wandering, and she dwells upon the scenes of filth and wretchedness she has seen among the refugees. At the commencement of her illness she was playfully told that she had "refugee on the brain." But it has since become too serious a matter to jest about, for she is sometimes certain they are in the bed with her; and this morning she told me of that "filthy refugee phlegm she spits up." She is a favorite in the house, and has every needed comfort and attention. I shall not leave for a hospital during her illness.

It was this subject which won from Mrs. P. the following: "A soldier at Fort Donaldson was wounded in the head, and was taken care of by Mrs. B. He was at times deranged, but got better and went to his home in Michigan. Afterward he became so bad as to require constant watching, and it was decided to take him to the insane asylum at Jackson. While on his way there, in the care of his brother, who was worn out with wakefulness, Mrs. B. entered the car. The insane man knew his old nurse, and she said the saying flashed through her mind that we should treat a crazy man as though everybody was crazy but himself. So she said to him :"Why you're taking your brother to Jackson, aren't you?" "Yes," he promptly responded.

"How long has he been crazy?" she asked.

"Oh! he has always been crazy," he replied with emphasis.

So she told him she would help him watch his brother, and taking his arm walked back and forth in the car with him, and let the well man lie down and sleep. They had had much trouble with him, but he caused none the rest of the way.

She accompanied him to Jackson and has since heard that he is rapidly recovering.

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. 76-7

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Saturday, May 14, 1864

Mr. V., an acquaintance from Michigan, called on Wednesday. He is a secret messenger or spy for the Government. He wears the citizen's dress and a seven-shooter beneath the skirts of his coat, and has papers to show that he has a permit to wear the arms. His headquarters are here, and he goes on missions to and from the front. He says that on coming on the train from Chattanooga last Monday the train was fired into. He saw one man in the act of firing and he returned the fire, and by the way he tumbled back into the bushes he had reason to think his own shot took effect.

He says the young lady at his boarding-house on Cedar Street, exhibited a pistol that morning, and said it was "intended to shoot a Yankee with; and that most ladies of Nashville carried one for the same purpose."

He told her in return that they might threaten, but that they seemed perfectly willing to accept a Yankee for a husband. It seems she has herself refused a wealthy citizen for a Yankee sutler.

Have found this eve that a Prof. P., a graduate of Yale, is about as nearly related to myself as the thirteenth cousin; and that he as well as myself can trace a relationship back to the "Mayflower." I think we each took a mutual dislike to the other from the first, and have been as coolly polite as possible; but this chance discovery will probably lead each to look with much leniency upon the faults of the other.

He tells me that with another of the delegates he has this P. M. been "the distinguished guest" of the 10th Tennessee Battery, which is stationed at the Capitol, and very near Governor Andy Johnson. That they were "sumptuously regaled with hard tack and molasses, and coffee with sugar in it!"

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. 77-8

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Sunday Evening, May 15, 1864

Miss O. is very much worse. I did not sleep any last night, and about three sent for Dr. F. She is suffering greatly, and it is the opinion that before many days nature may give up the contest. I cannot realize it, but fear I am to lose this dear friend. Having had the exclusive care of her and feeling quite worn, two ladies volunteered to take my place to-day and eve. Sought sleep this forenoon but anxiety prevented but little. This P. M. "Charley," as everybody calls him, kindly prescribed fresh air and carriage exercise, and we rode out about two miles to hear a delegate preach to what is called "Anderson's corps."

It seems they enlisted with a promise that they should constitute General Anderson's body corps but afterward were forced into the common field service. They were mostly graduates and professional men, and some have mutinied. Wonder whose fault this was this wrong done them? I should be angry with them, even, should they tell me it was the fault of the Government. The truth is that Red Tape, which in its rightful province forms the firm ligatures which keep in their proper places the different portions of the social and military systems, is sometimes distorted from its original use, and made to subserve the interest of petty underlings and unprincipled officials. It is these who tell us that all sin and high-handed wickedness which is wrought in high places, must be "winked at."

"Red Tape is all right," said a poor boy in Hospital No. 8, "if the commissioned officers did their duty, and had to come under it the same as the privates. 'Tis the abuse of it which makes the trouble."

This poor boy had lain for seven long months in the hospital, while begging to go home, after his limb had been, as all the surgeons declared, permanently bent nearly at right angles with his body.

"Anderson's corps" is a fine and intellectual looking set of soldiers.

We also visited the 15th Colored Regiment and saw them on dress parade. Lieut. Col. ——— accompanied me, and explained the changes and evolutions. He says that no regiment of our own color could so perfectly learn the evolutions, or a band learn to perform so well in so short a time.

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. 78-9

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, 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