These “Notes” need no introduction. They were jotted down, from day to day, as a private journal, and are printed only at the instance of friends. The undersigned greatly mistakes if they are not welcomed as an accession to our literature. On every page they betray a large and elegant culture, and what is better, they manifest a profound sympathy in all that is human, and a keen insight into nature and into man’s heart. Felicities of thought and expression abound, vivid pictures of incidents and

A literary friend said to me some time since, “One of the greatest evils of this rebellion, is the manner in which it is tainting our literature, science, and arts. If they would only fight it out and confine it to fighting, bad as it is, we might rise from its effects; but this flood of war-literature will so set the mind of the next generation into a military groove, that poetry, refined taste, and love for the beautiful, will be lost in the roar of literary drums and mental musketry.” “And di

Life in a hospital! When and where? Now and here. Now, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three; here, in this good city of Philadelphia, whose generous outpouring of her sons, for the cause, nearest all our hearts, can only be matched by the loving tenderness with which she receives and cherishes them, on their return, maimed and mutilated, to their homes amongst us. Every one, who knows anything of the subject at the present moment, is well aware, that no matter where

August , 1862. You ask me, dear C., the usual question, when our work at the hospital is mentioned, “What can the ladies find to do all day?” I might give you the stereotyped answer, “We receive and register the donations, give out and oversee the clothing, make either delicacies or drinks for the men who are ill, read to them, write for them, and try to make ourselves generally useful.” This is the ordinary answer, but I think it would be more agreeable to you to come and see for yourself; one

A steady, pouring rain. The fog, which in the early morning hesitated whether to roll off and give us one of those beautiful, bright autumn days, the more precious because we feel they are gliding so rapidly from us, or to come down in rain, seems to have decided at last, and a dreary, drenching rain is the result. As we [1] enter the hospital, a glance is sufficient to tell that some depressing influence is at work; instead of the bright, happy laugh which so often astonishes us on our entrance

U.S.A. Hospital , September 29, 1862. I trust, dear C., this bright, beautiful day may have brought you as much pleasure as it has done to me, and that you have been able to enjoy it as you would most wish to do. I escaped from my duties here for one hour, and spent it you know where. On my return, we were favored with a visit from the Bishop of Minnesota, who is here on his way to the General Convention. He seemed much interested in going through the wards, had a kind word and friendly greeting

“I wish to goodness they would not send their men here, just to die!” Such was the exclamation, in no very amiable tone, which greeted my ear, as I opened the door of one of the wards of our hospital. “What is the matter, Wilson?” said I, to our usually cheerful wardmaster. “Oh! nothing, miss; I beg your pardon, only there’s a young fellow, just brought in, who, the doctor thinks, can’t live over the day, and I hate to have them dying on my hands, that’s all.” “Wounded or sick?” “It’s the typhoi

This morning, as I opened the door of the ladies’ room at the hospital, I found M., as usual, before me at her post busily working. She greeted me with “Mr. —— (our chaplain) has just been in, to say that Browning is to be baptized this morning, and he would like us to be present; so we shall have to be prompt with our work.” This Browning was a striking instance of the mercy and long-suffering of our dear Lord and Master. After a wholly irreligious life, he had entered the army, (though quite a

“How you can endure that man, is a mystery to me,” said M., to me one morning, as, in going through the wards, I paused at the bedside of one of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not answer what was the truth, “I cannot endure him,” for I had resolved on testing to the uttermost, my theory, most firmly held, that there is some good in every one—some key to the heart—some avenue by which the soul may be reached—some smouldering spark of goo

“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter within the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was beating with unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and dusty streets. The city in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always seem to me synonymous terms. It is on days like these, when the town seems so close and crowded, the heated air so heavy and impure, that I long to have the hospitals or their occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor su

Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place. One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine. How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen, never to be forgotten? “Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriat

How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our brother! We walk daily by his side, and receive the cold exterior as a type of the inner life, forgetting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, may be only the crust of the crater, hiding the lava beneath. How comes it that, when, in our own case, we are all so well aware that, yet, we will not believe in the secret sufferings of others? Instead of seeking to win the unstrung instrument back to harmony, by the tender touch of loving sympathy

I promised, when we parted, dear C., that you should have some account of our Christmas doings; but the busy days have slipped by, till now, without my finding a moment to redeem that promise. You know how we are all occupied at that time; but no matter how much there is to be done, in these days “private interests” have a different signification, and demand attention. The morning of Christmas Eve, therefore, found —— and myself on our way to the hospital. With that ready interest which, with he

The stormiest day of this stormy winter. Hail, rain, and snow seem to have formed a precious triumvirate to take possession of the day, “vi et armis,” and claim it for their own. I know not whether it is a certain perverseness of nature, or a desire to overcome difficulties, which leads me to prefer such blustering, battling days, to more serene ones; whatever may be the cause, the fact will account for my finding myself, on this particular morning, seated on the kitchen table, before the hospit

“War is an unmixed evil; look at it as you will, it is, it must be, an unmixed evil!” This, in an indignant tone, from one, standing at my side, gazing at one of its saddest results. “An evil, I grant,” said I; “unmixed I deny. War and its attendants have a grand side. Do not start, and look so reproachfully at me; were we standing on another spot, and were the circumstances different, I would tell you all I mean; but let it pass.” We were in no mood for argument then, and the subject dropped; b

A bright, sunshiny week. Moral sunshine, I mean; for like St. Peter’s, at Rome, our hospital may be said to have “an atmosphere of its own”—our brightness or dulness being in a great measure dependent upon the state of our patients. Deaths, or very severe cases of illness, naturally have their effect in casting a shadow on everything around; but at present, most fortunately, we have nothing of the kind; and our principal grief (though in a very mild form) has been from the daily partings caused

U. S. A. Hospital. And so you really wish, dear C., to take that long-promised trip through the wards of our hospital? Most happy shall I be to escort you; and I promise, ere we start, to use every endeavor to prevent you from going any deeper than you wish into the “horrors of hospital life.” You shall not see an open wound if I can help it;—do not imagine that I have forgotten the effect upon you of the sight of that man’s arm the last time that you were here; and yet it was your own fault, fo

July , 1863. It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the last ten days—the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed—the eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions brought but further disturbance of mind—the difficulty of deciding upon the proper course of action—the heavy, wearing anxiety—the slow realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at