AFTER THE BATTLE---MY FIRST EXPERIENCE IN A MILITARY HOSPITAL---A DEATHLY FAINTNESS COMES OVER ME---NERVING MYSELF FOR THE WORK---TOUCHING SCENES.

Mrs. Hoge and myself visit the Hospitals of St. Louis---Our first Experience-Boisterousness of new Recruits---The grim Silence of Men who had "been under Fire"---Our remarkable Hostess---Conspicuous and unflinching Loyalty---Her "Hospital Kitchen" and "Hospital Wagon"---"Eleven Hundred Soldiers' Letters! "---The Donelson Wards---Their sickening Odor and ghastly Sights---Horrible Mutilation of the Men---A deathly Faintness came over me---The Wounded and Dead robbed on the Field of Battle---Plucky Fellow---"They couldn't be bothering with us"---"Afraid to die!"---"Send for a Methodist Minister!"---The Magic of Song---The Mental Conflict of the Night that followed---St. Louis sitting in Gloom---Sad Wedding in the Hospital---Death of the Bridegroom.

HILE the demand for "battle supplies" continued, Mrs. Hoge---my co-Worker---and myself; assisted in collecting, purchasing, cutting, making, and packing what-ever was in demand. But it became , evident that the tide of war was setting towards other large battles; and, as soon as there was a lull in the demand for sanitary stores, Mrs. Hoge and myself were sent to the hospitals and to medical headquarters at the front, with instructions to obtain any possible information, that would lead to better preparation for the wounded of another great battle.

The great proportion of the wounded of Fort Donelson had been taken to the excellent general hospitals established at St. Louis, and our first visit was to this city. We stopped at Springfield, Ill., en route, to obtain the endorsement of Governor Yates, and letters of recommendation from him. They were heartily given. From Chicago to Springfield, we went in company with recently formed regiments of soldiers, who, with the boisterous enthusiasm that always characterized the newly enlisted, made the night hideous with their shouts and songs. We soon learned that we could easily distinguish soldiers who had "been under fire" from the new recruits. Boatloads of the former would steam past us, going up or down the Mississippi, in a grim silence that was most oppressive; while men fresh from their first camp would deafen us with their throat-splitting yells and shouts. The former had had experience of war; and the first rollicking enthusiasm of ignorance had given place to a grimness of manner that impressed one with a sense of desperate purpose.

During our stay in St. Louis, we were the invited guests of one of the few wealthy families of the city which had remained loyal. The mistress of the household was a New England woman, whose ancestors had borne an honorable part in the war of the Revolution. Her husband, who had died just before the outbreak of the rebellion, was allied by blood and friendship with the foremost leaders of the Southern Confederacy, and was himself, during his life, a slaveholder, a stout defender of slavery, and intensely Southern in his feelings. At his death, his widow manumitted all the slaves bequeathed her, and then hired them all at fair wages. Eight of them were connected with the household in some capacity, and held their mistress in idolatrous estimation. The noble woman hesitated not an instant as to her line of conduct, when the rebellion was inaugurated. She clung to the loyal party of the state of Missouri, with a Roman firmness, and an uncompromising fidelity that never wavered.

Those of her children who had grown to manhood and womanhood sided with the South, as the younger ones would have done but for her all-compelling will, that held them true to their country. She overbore the purpose of the older sons to enter the Confederate army, and persuaded them to go to the south of Europe with a delicate sister, in quest of her health. Two of her children, a son and daughter, never returned, but died before the war ended, as much from chagrin and disappointment at the failure of the South, and grief over the death of kindred lost in the war, as from disease. The younger sons, who were terribly demoralized by the disloyal and defiant atmosphere of St. Louis, were sent to New England, to school and to college. Then, with one loyal daughter, she gave herself, her wealth, her elegant home, her skilled and trained servants, her influence, her speech, all that she was or had, unreservedly to the service of the country. That household was representative of many in the border states.

Some three of the wounded officers of Fort Donelson, one of whom had lost an arm, another a leg, and the third had a broken shoulder, and had been shot through the lungs, were taken to her stately home, where they were nursed as tenderly as if they had been her sons. There we found them in her charge, a hired, trained nurse being installed over them, her own family physician entrusted with the duty of restoring them to health. Her whole time and labor were given to the hospitals.

In her house, a kitchen had been fitted up expressly for the preparation of such delicate articles of sick-food as were not at that time easily cooked in the hospitals. It was called the "hospital kitchen," and her best cook was installed in it, with such assistants as she required. A light covered wagon, called by the coachman the "hospital wagon," was fitted up expressly for the transportation of these delicacies to the wards or invalids for whom they were designed. More than half the day was given by Mrs.-----to visiting the hospitals, to which her social position, her wealth, and her noted loyalty, always gave her admission, even under the most stringent medical administration. The evenings were devoted to writing letters for the soldiers, from memoranda she had gathered during the day---and into this work she impressed all who were under her roof. Mrs. Hoge and myself took our share of it every evening during our stay with her. Over eleven hundred letters for soldiers were written in this house in one year alone.

In company with this lady I made my first visit to a military hospital. We drove to the "Fifth Street Hospital," and passed directly into a ward of the wounded from Fort Donelson. The sickening odor of blood and healing wounds almost overpowered me. In the nearest bed lay a young man whose entire lower jaw had been shot away, and his tongue cut off. A surgeon came to dress the poor fellow's wounds, and I was directed to render him what assistance he required. The process of healing had drawn down the upper part of the face, so that when the ghastly wound was concealed by plasters and bandages, the exposed portion of the face was sadly distorted. But when the bandages were removed by the surgeon for examination of the wound, its horrible nature became apparent. A deathly faintness came over me, and I was hurried from the ward to the outer air for recovery.

Three times I returned, and each time some new horror smote my vision, some more sickening odor nauseated me, and I was led out fainting. The horrors of that long ward, containing over eighty of the most fearfully wounded men, were worse than anything I had imagined; but not worse than scenes in which I afterwards spent weeks and weeks without a tremor of the nerves or a flutter of the pulse. This was my first experience.

"A great many people cannot stay in hospitals, or render any service in them, they are so affected by the sights and smells," said the surgeon. "I would not try to do anything here were I in your place."

But was I to shrink from the sight of misery which these brave men were so nobly enduring? The thought was a tonic, and. despising my weakness, I forced myself to remain in the ward without nausea or faintness. Never again were my nerves disturbed by any sight or sound of horror. I was careful to hold myself in iron control, until I had become habituated to the manifold shocking sights that are the outcome of the wicked business men call war.

In the second bed, a mere boy, a rebel prisoner, was dying. Both mutilated legs had been amputated above the knee, inflammation and fever had set in, the brain had become involved, and he was wild with delirium---singing, gesticulating, and babbling. Occasional paroxysms of fear seized him, when his shrieks would resound through the ward, and but for the attendants he would have leaped from the bed, struggling and wrestling with some phantom of his diseased brain, calling piteously all the while, "Mother! Mother! Mother!"

Another form of horror occupied a bed adjoining. He was one of the wounded who had fallen in the first of the battle, sinking into the mud, into which he was afterwards frozen, and from which he could not extricate himself. He had been cut out from the congealed earth ; but his feet had. been so badly frozen as to render amputation necessary. The flesh in places had sloughed off his frozen back and thighs and his lower limbs were paralyzed.

"How long were you left on the field?" I inquired.

"Two days and nights," was the answer.

"If you had been a rebel you could not have been used worse!" I replied, with indignation; for the dire necessities of war were then new to me. "Who was to blame for such neglect?"

"Oh, they couldn't be bothering with us," said the patient sufferer ; they had to take the fort, and we didn't expect anybody to stop to see after us, till that was done."

"Did you think of that while you lay there freezing those long nights?"

"Of course!" was his nonchalant answer. "We knew we should be taken care of as soon as the fort surrendered. We were as anxious for that---we who were wounded---as were the troops who were fighting. We fellows on the ground all cheered, I tell you, when the fort showed the white flag, and we knew the rebs had surrendered. I had dropped into a drowse, when I heard the boys cheering enough to stun you. I couldn't cheer myself, for I was most gone. I guess I shouldn't have held out much longer. But Jerry, over in that bed," nodding across to a bed opposite, "his left arm was gone, and his right hand shot away; but he threw up his right stump of an arm, and hurrahed enough to split his throat." He gave this account feebly and disconnectedly---and not rapidly and coherently, as I have written it. He was yet in a low condition; but the surgeon thought he would ultimately recover, maimed as he was.

As the tide of battle flowed and ebbed around the fort during the three days' conflict, our wounded men on the field were sometimes brought within the lines of the enemy, by the surging back and forth of the combatants. They were well clad, and had money; for they had been paid only a few days before. The, rebels were very insufficiently clothed; and, when the opportunity offered, they rifled the pockets of our helpless fellows, robbed them of their watches, and stripped them of any clothing they coveted. 'Wounded though they were, our men, in some instances, fought like tigers against this robbery, two or three lying together uniting against the rebel thief. They were overpowered by the robbers; and some who resisted were clubbed to death with their own muskets, and others were pinned to the earth with their own bayonets. Incredible as it seems, some of these latter were in this ward of the badly wounded, and in every instance were recovering.

"Well, boys," I said to some of them, "you got more than you bargained for this time. Don't you wish you had remained at home?"

"Not a bit of it!" was the plucky answer. "We enlisted as folks marry, for better or worse; and if it's for the worse, we oughtn't complain."

I had nearly completed the tour of this ward, making memoranda for letters which the men desired written, or of some want to be gratified or some errand done,---every bed being occupied by a very severely wounded man,---when I halted beside one on whose handsome face the unmistakable look of death was settling. He labored painfully for breath, and large drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"You are suffering a great deal," I said.

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" he gasped, "I am, I am! but not in body. I can bear that. I don't mind pain---I can bear anything---but I can't die! I can't die!"

"But perhaps you may not die. It is not certain but you may recover. While there is life there is hope, you know."

"Oh, no, I can't live---I know it---there's no chance for me. I've got to die---and I can't die! I am afraid to die!"

I went to the surgeon, still in the ward, and inquired about the man. The poor fellow was right; there was no chance for him. "He was horribly cut up," the surgeon said. One leg had been amputated, the other had suffered two amputations, the last one taking off the leg between the knee and hip; the right arm had been broken, a caisson had crushed the lower left arm, and he had been shot twice through the abdomen. "There had been no expectation of his life when he was first brought in," said the surgeon; "and it seemed an utterly hopeless case. But he has pulled along from day to day, as if in defiance of death, and at last there seemed a ghost of a chance for his recovery; but gangrene has set in, and defies medical treatment, and it will be over with him in a few hours. All you can do is to help him die easy." I returned to the poor fellow, whose anxious eyes were following me.

"What does the doctor say?" he asked. "Oh, I know I must die! I can't! I can't! I can't!" And he almost shrieked in his mental distress, and trembled so violently as to shake the bed.

"Why are you afraid to die?" I inquired. "Tell me, my poor boy."

"I ain't fit to die. I have lived an awful life, and I'm afraid to die. I shall go to hell."

I drew a camp-stool to his bedside, and, sitting down, put my hands on his shoulders, and spoke in commanding tones, as to an excited child: "Stop screaming. Be quiet. This excitement is shortening your life. If you must die, die like a man, and not like a coward. Be still, and listen to me. " And I proceeded to combat his fear of death and his sense of guilt with assurances of God's willingness to pardon. I told him of Christ's mission on earth, and assured him that however great had been his sins they would be forgiven of God, since he was penitent, and sought forgiveness. And I bade him repeat after me the words of a prayer, which he did with tearful earnestness. I backed up my assurances by quotations from the Bible and illustrations from the life of Christ; but I made little impression on the dying man.

"Can't you get a Methodist minister?" he asked. "I used to belong to the Methodist church, but I fell away. Oh, send for a Methodist minister!"

One of the attendants remembered that the hospital steward was also a Methodist minister, and hastened to find, him. To him I communicated the particulars of the case, and besought him to assist in allaying the anguish of the dying man, which was distressing to witness. Whatever was done for him must be done speedily, as he was fast sinking.

The announcement that the steward was a Methodist minister was beneficial to the sufferer. To him he listened eagerly. "The love of Christ," was the chaplain's theme. "He had only to trust in the Saviour, only to ask for forgiveness, and God, who was always ready to pardon, would grant his prayer. Christ had died to save just such conscience-smitten, stricken, penitent souls as he "---thus ran the chaplain's talk. And then he prayed, earnestly, feelingly, tenderly---the dying man frequently taking up the prayer, and joining in it.

"Can't you sing, chaplain?" I inquired. For it seemed to me the poor fellow, in this last hour of life, needed soothing more than argument or entreaty.

Immediately, in a rich, full, clear tenor, whose melody floated through the ward, and charmed every groan and wail into silence, he sang hymn after hymn, all of them familiar to most of his audience.

"Come, humble sinner, in whose breast
A thousand thoughts revolve;"---

"Love divine, all love excelling,
Joy of heaven, to earth come down;"---

"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly; "---

"My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger;"---

all of them hymns so well known to his dying auditor, that I saw he followed the singer, verse after verse. The music affected him as I had hoped. The burden rolled from the poor boy's heart, and in feeble, tender tones he said, "It's all right with me, chaplain! I will trust in Christ! God will forgive me! I can die, now!"

"Sing on, chaplain!" I suggested, as he was about to pause, to make reply. "God is sending peace and light into the troubled soul of this poor boy, through these divine hymns, and your heavenly voice. Sing on! Don't stop!"

He continued to sing, but now chose a different style of hymn and tune, and burst forth into a most rapturous strain:

"Come, sing to me of heaven,
For I'm about to die:
Sing songs of holy ecstasy,
To waft my soul on high.
There'll be no sorrow there,
There'll he no sorrow there,
In heaven above, where all is love,
There'll be no sorrow there."

I looked down the ward, and saw that the wan faces of the men, contracted with pain, were brightening. I looked at the dying man beside me, and saw, underneath the deepening pallor of death, an almost radiant gleam.

With folded hands, and upturned gaze, almost entranced with his own music, the chaplain continued to sing:

When cold, the hand of death
Lies on my marble brow,
Break forth in songs of joyfulness,
Let heaven begin below.
There'll be no sorrow there," etc.

"Then to my raptured ear
Let one sweet song be given;
Let music charm me last on earth,
And greet me first in Heaven.
There'll be no sorrow there," etc.

A second and a third time he repeated the song, the exultant air suiting well the triumphant words. Patients, attendants, surgeons, all in the ward, glowed under the soaring melody, and the dying man's face grew rapturous. Then the chaplain was summoned away, by a call from his office. It was getting late in the afternoon, for I had tarried a couple of hours at this bedside, when my friends came from other wards of the hospital, to say that it was time to return.

"Don't go! stay!" whispered the fast sinking man. The words rushed to my memory, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me," and I promised to remain with him to the end. The end came sooner than any one thought. Before the sun went down, he had drifted to the immortal shore. The mutilated, lifeless corpse was carried to the dreary "deadhouse," and preparations made for burial next day.

I reached my friend's house, with my nervous system at its highest tension. I could not talk, eat, sleep, nor sit. All night I paced my room, living over and over the experiences of the day. And this was only my entrée into hospital life and work. I was not equal to it---I would withdraw I could not live in the midst of the agonies of war. And then I remembered that what I had witnessed in that ward of eighty men, was but a small segment of the physical anguish wrought by the battle of Fort Donelson,---that two thousand of our men were wounded, and twenty-five hundred of the enemy,---and that this battle might be multiplied by hundreds before the war ended.

And this war was but one of countless thousands which men had waged with one another, in which hundreds of millions had been slain transfixed with lances, hewn in pieces with battle-axes, torn in fragments with plunging shot, or deadly canister, or fiendish bombs, mowed down with raking fires of leaden sleet, engulfed in the explosion of subterranean mines, impaled on gleaming bayonets, dying on the field, of wounds, fever, neglect, forgotten, uncared for, a prey to the vulture, and devoured by the jackal and wild beast. While the mothers who bore these men, and the wives who loved them, lived on, suffering a prolonged death, finding the sweetness of life changed to cruel bitterness because of their bereavement. Never before had I attained a comprehension of what was meant by that one word "war."

Let me say that this instance which I have narrated, was the only case of fear of death I met in my visits to the hospitals. I often found men reluctant to die, because of families dependent on them or because of a natural tenacity to life or because, as they phrased it, "they did not want to be mustered out till the end of the war." But this man was the only one I ever met who was afraid to die. Over and over again I have listened to public narrations of horrible dying scenes in hospitals and on battle-fields---but I knew personally of but this one instance.

We spent some two or three weeks in the different hospitals of the city, visiting every ward, and communicating with every patient, doing for him whatever we could. I cannot recall a single cheerful or humorous event connected with the visit. There was gloom everywhere. St. Louis itself was under a cloud. The spirit of rebellion within it was intimidated, but not subdued. Business was depressed, stores were closed, and of its oldtime sociality and hospitableness there was no sign. The guns of the fortifications were pointed at the city, holding it to compulsory neutrality, if not loyalty.

Fifteen thousand troops in on of Bentoir Barracks, the great camp of rendezvous, and from other encampments while we were in St. Louis, and went down the river, on their way to the front. Many of them were without muskets, drill, or military experience. Some of the regiments had no surgeon, not a surgical instrument, nor a particle of medicine with them, while their officers were fresh from the plough the shop, the counting-room, or office, ignorant of military tactics, knowing nothing of military hygiene or sanitary laws. In this wholly unprepared condition, these raw, undisciplined soldiers were, in a few weeks, precipitated into the battle of "Pittsburg Landing," or "Shiloh "---one of the most desperate, hotly contested, and sanguinary fights of the whole war, when the two armies, for two days, stood up and fought, without intrenchments on either side.

Through whole long streets these regiments marched, on their way to the boats, with colors flying, and bands playing, in their first enthusiasm rending the air with their shouts; and not a face appeared at a door or window with a "Godspeed" in its look, not a woman waved her handkerchief in welcome, not a child shouted its pleasure. The closed houses frowned down on them, as if untenanted. and the few men who passed on the sidewalks drew their hats over their eyes, and slouched by sullenly. St. Louis, at that time, had no heart in the gigantic preparations of the government to conquer the rebellion.

To add to the general depression, the city was full of the relatives of the dead or wounded, waiting for their bodies to be given them for burial, or striving to nurse them back into health. Fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, were in the wards beside the men they loved, and who had passed through the hell of battle alive, but mangled and mutilated. How they fought death, inch by inch, for possession of these remnants of humanity! In every ward were dying men; in every dead-house were the coffinned dead, and the ambulance, standing near, was ready to take the cold sleepers to their last resting-places. The men whom no home friends visited looked with hungry eyes at the manifestations of affectionate interest bestowed on their comrades, and, after a few preliminaries, were included in the petting, soothing, and praising, that were always helpful to the poor fellows. In one hospital I found a patient, feeble and ghastly, packing a valise with the help of a convalescing comrade. He had received a furlough, and was going home for a month, and, despite his low physical condition, was full of courage. Three days later, I had occasion to pass through the same ward, and the man was just breathing his last.

"What has happened?" I inquired. "Wasn't the poor fellow able to make the journey after all?"

"His furlough was revoked for some reason; and he immediately fell back on the bed in a faint, and hasn't rallied yet."

He never rallied, but died from the removal of the stimulus of the promised visit home.

A young captain in the officers' ward interested me greatly, and I went daily to visit him. A refined and delicate fellow, with a very sensitive nervous organization, he had suffered severely. He had endured two amputations of the arm, which still refused to heal, and a third was ordered. He. had become so reduced that the surgeon feared the result, and so informed his patient. Then the young officer telegraphed the girl who was to be his wife, and who had only delayed coming to him because of his earnest entreaty that she would not encounter the horrors of a hospital unless he sent for her. She came as fast as the lightning express could bring her; and, at her own desire, before he submitted to another operation, they were married by the chaplain. The arm was removed to the shoulder. For a day or two there was hope of him, and then he sank rapidly.

I entered the ward about two hours before his death, and found his three days' bride ministering to him with inexpressible tenderness. There were no tears on her cheek, no lamentations on her lip, but her face shone with unnatural brightness, and she seemed to be lifted above the depression of her surroundings. Mrs.------and myself were about to pass them by, not thinking best to intrude on the sacredness of their privacy or sorrow. But the look in the husband's eyes invited us, and we moved softly towards the couch of death. He was conscious and understood what was said, but could only speak in occasional whispers.

"You are ready to go?" asked Mrs.------, my hostess, who had seen much of him, and whom he welcomed with a smile.

For answer, he looked at his young wife, who was gazing in his face. She understood him, and answered:

"Yes, we are both ready---he, to go, and I, to stay." And, turning to us, she added, "When he enlisted, I gave him to God and the country. I expected this, and am prepared for it."

The next morning I met her embarking for home with the body of her beloved. Her own relatives were a married sister, and a brother in the Army of the Potomac. She was taking the coffined remains to the widowed mother of the dead man, who lived near Centralia, Ill., and who had two other sons in the army, and a son-in-law. The exaltation of her spirit still upbore her, and I saw that nature would not assert itself till her duties to the dead were over.

I BECOME ACCUSTOMED TO HÔSPITAL WORK---FILTH AND DISCOMFORT, NEGLECT AND SUFFERING---LEAVES FROM MY EXPERIENCE---MESSAGES FROM THE DYING TO LOVED ONES AT HOME.

Cairo an immense Basin, partially filled---Skilful Pilotage needed---Comfortless Hospitals---"My Wife came this Morning"---"Bring me a drink from the Spring"---The "Brick Hospital" a Marvel of Excellence---"Sisters of the Holy Cross" its Nurses---The young rebel Prisoner---Longing for his Mother---"Philip Sidneys" in every Hospital---Mary Safford my Companion the second Time---Her Method of Work---Her Memorandum Book and Baskets---Something for every one---" You are the good Fairy of the Hospitals"---Men crying for Milk---Mourning the Loss of "Mother Bickerdyke"---Wounded Soldier from "Island No. Ten"---Noble Letter from his Wife---"The Children needed him more than I"---Eulogy of Mary Safford---Her Career since the War---Professor in the Boston University School of Medicine.

ROM St. Louis we went to Cairo, Ill., where were other hospitals, overflowing with the sick and wounded. It was by no means a lovely place at that time. Every one visiting it bestowed on it a passing anathema. A levee built up around the south and west protected it from the overflow of the Mississippi and Ohio. From the levee the town looked like an immense basin, of which the levee formed the sides and rim. It was partially filled with water; and the incessant activity of the steam-pumps alone saved it from inundation. Vile odors assailed the olfactories, as one walked the streets. If it chanced to rain, one was in a condition to obey the New Testament injunction, to "be steadfast and immovable"; for the glutinous, tenacious mud held one by both feet, making locomotion anything but agreeable. How to find my way to any given point was a problem; for the paths were fearfully circuitous, and skilful pilotage was necessary.

Go where I would, this was "the order of exercises." I went down a flight of crazy stairs, across a bit of plank walk, around a slough of unknown depth, behind somebody's barn, across somebody's back yard, over an extempore bridge of scantling that bent with my weight, then into mud, at the risk of losing rubbers, boots, and I sometimes feared for my feet, and, at last, ferried over a miniature lake in a skiff, I reached my destination. "Living in Cairo converts us soldiers into sailors," said the soldier who rowed me from the "Brick Hospital." "Yes," said. another, "the children born in this town are web-footed." They certainly ought to be.

My object in visiting Cairo was to see the hospitals---not the town. I first visited the regimental hospitals, never very attractive institutions. There were some half-dozen of them, established in small dwelling-houses, carriage-houses, sheds, or other accessible places. Were I to describe them as I saw them, the account would be discredited. Compressed within their narrow limits were more filth and discomfort, neglect and suffering, than would have sufficed to defile and demoralize ten times as much space. The fetid odor of typhoid fever, erysipelas, dysentery, measles, and healing wounds, was rendered more nauseating by unclean beds and unwashed bodies; while from the kitchen, which opened into the hospital wards, came the smell of boiling meat and coffee, befouling still more the air of the unventilated apartments.

The nurses were convalescent soldiers, wan, thin, weak, and requiring nursing themselves; and, though they were kind to their comrades, they were wholly worthless as nurses. I saw no signs of a surgeon in these poor hospitals, although the patients told me a doctor had visited them one, two, or three days before, the statements varying in the different hospitals. Nor were there any signs of woman's presence, save in one instance, where a poor fellow, with mingled tears and laughter, told me that "his wife had come that morning, and now he believed he should get well, although the night before he had utterly given up hope."

And, to be sure, I soon met his wife---a cheery, active little woman, under whose vigorous sweeping and scrubbing, and purifying, a dingy corner chamber was growing sweet and clean. And when she opened her trunk for my inspection, and showed the coarse, but clean sheets, shirts, drawers, and socks, she had brought, with "a new horse blanket for a rug, when he put his feet on the floor," I could easily believe her assurance that, "with the cleanliness, and the sun shining through the clear window-panes, and her to make his tea and gruel, he'd almost think himself at home in a day or two."

It gave me the heartache to see the patient sufferers in these hospitals, for they seemed left to their fate. They were very young, homesick, and ready to break down into a flood of weeping at the firs word of sympathy. The sick men were always more despondent than those who were wounded. For under the wasting of camp diseases they became, mentally as weak as children; while the men wounded in battle were heroes, and were toned up to fortitude. One fine fellow, not yet twenty, was raving in the delirium of brain fever. He fancied himself at home with his mother, to whom he incessantly appealed for "a drink of water right from the spring at the back of the house, the coldest and clearest in all Illinois."

He was sponged with tepid water, his tangled hair smoothed, his burning head bathed, and his stiff, filthy clothing changed for clean garments from the depot of the Chicago Sanitary Commission located in the town. He dropped off into a quiet sleep immediately, which lasted for several hours. Similar beneficial results followed similar small ministrations in all these wretched hospitals. Residents of Cairo were so tortured with the neglect and suffering of these hospitals that they were finally broken up, at their instance, and the patients transferred to the excellent "General Hospitals." The men always rebelled at being sent away from their regiments, and preferred to risk the chances of suffering and neglect with their comrades to any promise of better care, and wiser nursing, separated from them.

There was one General Hospital in Cairo, called by the people the "Brick Hospital." Here the "Sisters of the Holy Cross" were employed as nurses, one or more to each ward. Here were order, comfort, cleanliness, and good nursing. The food was cooked in a kitchen outside the hospital. Surgeons were detailed to every ward, who visited their patients twice daily, and more frequently if necessary. The apothecary's room was supplied with an ample store of medicines and surgical appliances, and the store-room possessed an abundance of clothing and delicacies for the sick.

It was a sad sight to pass through the wards and see row after row of narrow beds, with white, worn, still faces pressed against the white pillows. And it gave one a heartache to take each man b the hand, and listen to his simple story., and to hear his anxieties for wife and children, of whom he received no tidings, or for the dear mother, whom he could hardly name without tears.

A young man from West Virginia, a rebel prisoner, must have possessed the highest type of manly beauty, in health. He was battling for life, for he hoped to see his mother once more, who was on her way to him. There was something very winning in the lad's manner and spirit; and surgeons, nurses, and sick comrades, were deeply interested in him. Oh, how he longed for his mother's presence! "Do you really believe she will get here before I die?" he inquired anxiously, giving the date of her leaving home and her distance from him. I sought to buoy up his sinking spirits, and, sitting beside him, talked to him as if he were my own son. "If I had been home in Western Virginia I shouldn't have got into this hospital. My mother is a Union woman; but my uncle in Tennessee, for whom I was clerking, was a secessionist, and I had to go into the Confederate service."

In every ward the men greeted me gladly. They stretched out their hands to take mine; they talked freely of their homes, their friends, and regiments. Over and over again, with indescribable pathos, I was told by the poor fellows: "I've got a good mother at home, one of the best of mothers. She'd come to me if she knew I was in the hospital; but I don't want to worry her, and I'll write her when I get well." The Christ-like patience of the men surprised me. I had been accustomed, as are most women, to think men more impatient in sickness, more exacting, and less manageable than women. But this was not true of these soldiers in hospital. They complained little, endured much, were grateful for the least kindness, and as a rule were very unselfish. There were Philip Sidneys in every hospital, who refused comforts and ministrations offered them, in behalf of some more suffering comrade.

My second visit to the Cairo hospitals, was made in company with Miss Mary Safford, then a resident of Cairo. She commenced her labors immediately when Cairo was occupied by our troops. If she was not the first woman in the country to enter upon hospital and camp relief; she was certainly the first in the West. There was no system, no organization, knowledge what to do, and no means with which to work. As far as possible she brought order out of chaos, systematized the first rude hospitals, and with her own means, aided by a wealthy brother, furnished necessaries, when they could be obtained in no other way.

Surgeons and officers everywhere opposed her, but she disarmed them by the sweetness of her manner and her speech; and she did what she pleased. She was very frail, petite in figure as a girl of twelve summers, and utterly unaccustomed to hardship. She threw herself into hospital work with such energy, and forgetfulness of self, that she broke down utterly before the end of the second year of the war. Had not her friends sent her out of the country, till the war was over, she would have fallen a martyr to her patriotic devotion. She was in a Paris hospital for months, under the care of the most eminent surgeons of the world, receiving surgical treatment for injuries incurred in those two years of over-work.

Every sick and wounded soldier in Cairo, or on the hospital boats, at the time of my visit, knew her and loved her. With a memorandum book in one hand, and a large basket of delicacies in the other, while a porter followed with a still larger basket, we entered the wards. They had a vastly more comfortable appearance than on the occasion of my first visit. The vigorous complaints entered against them, and, more than all, a realistic description of them that found its way into the Chicago papers, had wrought reforms. The baskets were packed with articles of sick-diet, prepared by Miss Safford and labelled with the name of the hospital and number of the ward and bed.

The effect of her presence was magical. It was like a breath of spring borne into the bare, whitewashed rooms---like a burst of sunlight. Every face brightened, and every man, who was able, half raised himself from his bed or chair, as in homage, or expectation. It would be difficult to imagine a more cheery vision than her kindly presence, or a sweeter sound than her educated, tender voice, as she moved from bed to bed, speaking to each one. Now she addressed one in German, a blue-eyed boy from Holland---and then she chattered in French to another, made superlatively happy by being addressed in his native tongue.

The baskets were unpacked. One received the plain rice pudding which the surgeon had allowed, there was currant jelly for an acid drink, for the fevered thirst of another; a bit of nicely broiled salt codfish for a third; plain molasses gingerbread for a fourth; a cup of boiled custard for a fifth; half a dozen delicious soda crackers for a sixth; "gum-drops" for the irritating cough of a seventh; baked apples for an eighth; cans of oysters to be divided among several, and so on, as each one's appetite or caprice had suggested. One man wished to make horse-nets, while his amputated limb was healing, and she had brought him the materials. Another had informed her of his skill in wood-carving, but he had no tools to work with, and she had brought them in the basket.

From the same capacious depths she drew forth paper, envelopes, postage stamps, pencils, ink, Atlantic Monthlies, Chicago Tribunes, checkers and a folding checker-board, a jack-knife, needles, thread, scissors, buttons, music books, for the musically inclined, of whom there were many in every hospital; a "waxed end" and a shoemaker's awl, for one to sew lip rents in his boots; knitting-needles and red yarn, for one who wished to knit his boy some "reins" for play, every promise was remembered by Miss Safford.

"Oh, Miss Safford!" said one bright young fellow, "you are the good fairy of this hospital! Can't you bring me the invisible seven-leagued boots when you come again, so that I can just step into Milwaukee and see what a certain little woman and her baby are doing, in whom I am interested?"

One hospital thoroughly visited, Miss Safford. departed, leaving it full of sunshine, despite its rudeness and discomforts, and hastened home, rejoining me in a short time in "Hospital No 2," with a fresh instalment of baskets and goodies---and so on through the whole number. The visiting done for that day, she hurried home with her filled memorandum book, in which had been noted the wants and wishes for the next day, and began an the marketing, purchasing, cooking, packing, and arranging. Was it wonderful the delicate little woman broke down, almost hopelessly, at the end of two years?

In one ward, two men were weeping bitterly;. and when she inquired the cause, it appeared that the surgeon had given them permission to drink a tumbler of milk, night and morning. But the hospital funds were lacking for its purchase, and "French Maria," the milk-woman, who had just passed through the ward, had refused to let them have it on credit. This was too much for the fortitude of the feeble sufferers, and they were weeping like children. Miss Safford hurried out, and, recalling the milk-maiden, obtained the milk for the day, directing her to leave the same quantity every day, and come to her for payment. In another hospital, the men were all in the dumps. Every one looked sad. "What has happened?" inquired Miss Safford. "Mother Bickerdyke went. down the river this morning, and we shall all die now," was the disconsolate answer. No wonder they mourned the loss of "Mother Bickerdyke," who more than any other person, in the beginning, assisted in the regeneration of the badly managed hospitals of Cairo.

As we were making the tour of the hospitals, a tall and stalwart man was brought in on a stretcher, who had been shot the night before on one of the gunboats stationed at Island Number Ten. It was not a dangerous wound apparently---only a little hole in the left side, that I could more than cover with the tip of my smallest finger---but the grand-looking man was dying.

"Can we do anything for you?" one of us inquired, after the surgeon had examined him, and he had been placed in bed.

"Too late! too late!" was his only reply, slightly shaking his head.

"Have you no friends to whom you wish me to write?"

He drew from an inside vest pocket---for his clothing was not removed---a letter, enclosing a photograph of a most lovely woman. "You wish me to write to the person who has sent you this letter?"

He nodded slightly, and feebly whispered, "My wife."

Bowing her head, and folding her hands, Miss Safford offered a brief touching prayer in behalf of the dying man, bending low over him that he might hear her softly spoken words. Her voice faltered a little, as she remembered in her prayer the far-absent wife, so near bereavement---"Amen!" responded the dying man, in a distinct voice, and then we left him with the attendant, to minister to others. Lifting the photograph, he gazed at it earnestly for a few moments, pressed it to his lips, and then clasped it in both hands. When I returned to his bed, some twenty minutes later, he was still looking upward, his hands still clasping the photograph, and his face was irradiated with the most heavenly smile I have ever seen on any face. I spoke to him, but he seemed not to hear, and there was a far-away look in the gaze, as though his vision reached beyond my ken.

I stood still, awestruck. The wardmaster approached, and laid his finger, on the wrist. "He is dead!" he whispered.

THE DYING SOLDIER.---THE LAST LETTER FROM HOME "He drew from an inside pocket a letter including a photograph of a most lovely woman, and feebly whispered, "My wife." I spoke to him, but he seemed not to hear, and there was a far-away look in the gaze, as if his vision reached beyond my ken. The wardmaster approached, and laid his finger on the wrist. "He is dead," he whispered.

The duty of writing the widowed wife was assigned me, and I took the letter and photograph. Ah, what a letter was that which the dying man had placed in my hands! He had evidently not replied to it, for it had been only just received, and had not the worn look of having been carried long in the pocket. It was from his wife, informing her husband of the death, on the same day, of their two children, three and five years old. It was the letter of a superior woman, who wrote nobly and tenderly, hiding her own grief, in her desire to comfort her husband.

"I do not feel that we have lost our children," thus she wrote; "they are ours still, and will be ours forever. Their brief life was all sunshine, and by their early departure they are spared all experience of sorrow and wrong. They can never know the keen heartache that you and I must. suffer at their loss. It must be well with them. Their change of being must be an advance, a continuance of existence on a higher plane. And some time, my dear Harry, we shall rejoin them. I sometimes fear, my darling, that you may meet them before I shall. Their death has taken from me all the fear of dying, which, you know, has so greatly distressed me. I can never fear to follow where my children have led. I have an interest in that other life, whatever it may be, an attraction towards it, of which I knew nothing before. Oh, my dear Harry, do not mourn too much! I wish I were with you, to share with you, not alone my hope, but the great conceptions of that other life which have come to me."

I enclosed to the bereaved wife her own letter and photograph taken from the dead hands of her husband, and told her all I knew of his death. A correspondence ensued, which stretched itself along the next three years. In the depth of her triple bereavement, the saddened woman found comfort in the belief that her children and husband were united. "I sometimes believe the children needed him more than I," was her frequent assertion.

While writing of Miss Safford, let me add the testimony of one of the captains of the Fifty-Seventh Illinois Volunteers, which regiment was badly cut up, a few days later, at the battle of Shiloh.

"God bless Mary Safford!" he writes. "She saved my life. When I was wounded at Shiloh I was carried on board the hospital boat, where she was in attendance. My wound got to bleeding, and, though I was faint from loss of blood, I did not know what was the matter. She found it out, for she slipped in a pool of blood beside my bed, and called a surgeon to me, just in time to save my life. Gracious! how that little woman worked! She was everywhere, doing everything, straightening out affairs, soothing and comforting, and sometimes praying, dressing wounds, cooking and nursing, and keeping the laggards at their work. For herself; she seemed to live on air.

"And she had grit, too, I tell you. They brought Sam Houston's son aboard, wounded, a rebel officer, wearing the Confederate uniform, and ordered one of the privates removed from a comfortable berth he had to make room for this young traitor. You should have seen Miss Safford! She straightened up, as if she were ten feet tall, and declared, in a grand way, that 'the humblest Union soldier should not be removed to make room for a rebel officer, not if that officer were General Lee himself!' She stood by the berth, and looked so resolute that they were glad to find another berth for Sam Houston's son. I do not wonder that all the boys called her 'the Cairo angel!' She did as she pleased everywhere, and the biggest sort of men obeyed her. She was the only one that seemed to know what to do on that boat."

Many another Union soldier in the West owes his life to Mary Safford, and is proud to acknowledge it. After the battle of Belmont, she was the first to go on the field, in the face of the enemy's guns, which ploughed the ground around her with their plunging shot. Tying her handkerchief to a stick, she waved it above her head, as a flag of truce, and continued her ministrations to the wounded, whose sufferings were aggravated by a keen wintry wind sweeping over them. When war broke out in Italy, she was in Florence, and, at the invitation of Madame Mario, immediately joined the Italian ladies in their preparations for sick and wounded soldiers. So ingrained is her inclination to help the needy, that in Norway, Switzerland, and Germany, I heard of her devising ways and means for the assistance of poor girls who desired to emigrate to America, where they could find employment, and had relatives.

Her experiences during the war undoubtedly decided her future career. Returning from Europe with improved health, she determined to fit herself for medical practice. Graduating from a medical college in the city of New York, she returned to Europe, enlarging her knowledge in studies at Zurich and Vienna, where she had especial advantages in clinics She is to-day one of the Professors in the Boston University School of Medicine, where she takes high rank as lecturer, physician, and surgeon. Her home life is as charming as though she were not a professional woman. Her residence is in a delightful part of the city of Boston, where she passes the brief leisure of her busy life, with the children of her love and adoption. But neither the charm of her home and family, nor her literary and professional labors, render her oblivious to the demands of the poor and friendless, who are sure to find in her "a present help in time of trouble." She listens patiently and tenderly to all who need her assistance, and the humblest have reason to bless God for the life of this grand, good woman.

AWAITING THE BATTLE OF SHILOH---PREPARATIONS FOR THE WOUNDED---AWFUL SLAUGHTER---VARIED PHASES OF HOSPITAL LIFE---" MISSING."

A Perfect Military Hospital---"Mother Angela," the Lady" Supérieure "---"White-winged Sun-bonnets"---Battle of Shiloh---Appalling Slaughter on Both Sides---Rebel Prisoners' Ward---"You-uns is very good to we-uns!"---The Rebel Surgeon's Fear---Meet an Old Acquaintance among the Rebel Wounded---The Valiant Eleventh Illinois---Great Prejudice against Protestant Nurses---The "Sisters" preferred---" They never see anything, nor hear anything, and tell no Tales!"---Good General Strong, Post Commander at Cairo---Am sent to St. Louis for Invalid Soldiers---Turner's "Descriptive List" Missing---Found in the Clerk's Office---General Curtis discharges him---He also Furloughs young Brackett---Great Jollification in the Ward---They accompany me to Chicago.

ROM Cairo we proceeded to Mound City, Paducah, Bird's Point, and other places where hospitals were established. Except in Mound City, everything was in a chaotic condition, compared with the completer arrangements afterwards made. The hospital at Mound City occupied a block of brick stores, built before the war, to accommodate the prospective commerce of the town. They had not been occupied, and, as the blockade of the Mississippi rendered it uncertain when they would be needed for their legitimate use, they were turned over to the Medical Department for hospital use. At the time of my visit, the Mound City Hospital was considered the best military hospital in the United States. This was due to the administrative talent of Dr. E. S. Franklin, of Dubuque, Iowa, who, despite paucity of means and material, transformed the rough block of stores into a superb hospital accommodating one thousand patients. Fifteen hundred had been T crowded into it by dint of close packing.

The most thorough system was maintained in every department. There were an exact time and place for everything. Every person was assigned to a particular department of work, and held responsible for its perfect performance. If any one proved a shirk, incompetent, or insubordinate, he was sent off on the next boat. A Shaker-like cleanliness and sweetness of atmosphere pervaded the various wards, the sheets and pillows were of immaculate whiteness, and the patients who were convalescing were cheerful and contented. The "Sisters of the Holy Cross" were employed as nurses, and by their skill, quietness, gentleness, and tenderness, were invaluable in the sick-wards. Every patient gave hearty testimony to the kindness and skill of the "Sisters."

"Mother Angela" was the matron, the " Supérieure," of these "Sisters "---a gifted lady, of rare cultivation and executive ability, with winning sweetness of manner. She was a member of the Ewing family, and a cousin of Mrs. and General Sherman. The "Sisters" had nearly broken up their famous schools at South Bend, Ind., to answer the demand for nurses. If I had ever felt prejudice against these "Sisters" as nurses, my experience with them during the war would have dissipated it entirely. The world has known no nobler and no more heroic women than those found in the ranks of the Catholic Sisterhoods. But I often sympathized with some of the sick men, who frequently expressed a wish for a reform in the "headgear" of the "Sisters." "Why can't they take off those white-winged sun-bonnets in the ward?" asked one. "Sun-bonnets!" sneered another of the irreverent critics; "they're a cross between a white sun-bonnet and a broken-down umbrella; and there's no name that describes them."

It was very evident from preparations that another great battle was impending. Indeed, the surgeons admitted this. During the previous week the hospital beds had been emptied of all who were well enough to be furloughed, or sent back to their regiments. Over six hundred beds were awaiting occupancy by the wounded of the next battle, and another hospital was being fitted up rapidly with accommodations for five hundred more. Orders had been received at the rooms of the Commission in Cairo for supplies to be in readiness for twenty thousand wounded men; and shipments of battle-relief stores were arriving from Chicago in unprecedented quantities.

The battle came off at Shiloh before I reached home. The enemy, seventy thousand strong, swept down on the Union forces, greatly inferior in numbers, in an unbroken, overwhelming rush. It surprised them, and put them to flight like a flock of sheep, before they had time to form in line of battle. General Grant was at Savannah, several miles down the Tennessee river, when the fight began. But General Johnston, Commander of the rebel forces, was on the field, directing the movements of his army, and hurling it against the flying and disorderly masses of the North. Step by step, the Union army was driven towards the river; and General Beauregard's promise to "drive the whole Northern army into the Tennessee" seemed sure of fulfilment. The close of the first day's conflict, a balmy, beautiful Sunday in April, found the Union forces broken, despondent, and exhausted; while the enemy were confident, and waited for the morning to complete their triumph.

The next day, with General Grant in command, our men retrieved their losses of the day before. Guns were recaptured, lost ground was won again, and the batteries of the enemy, wrested from their possession, were turned on them with murderous fire. Contesting the ground, inch by inch, fighting valiantly and with desperation, the enemy were driven from the field, and moved off towards Corinth, where the next struggle was to be made for possession of the valley of the Mississippi. The close of the of the day before, and the costly victory remained with our troops. Ten thousand dead lay on the field, "the blue" and the gray" sleeping together, for the enemy had left their dead for our men to bury. Among them lay dead horses in harness, broken caissons, abandoned blankets and muskets, scattered drums and haversacks. Trees, whose branches had been wrenched off by bursting shells, looked as if Titans had been hurling thunderbolts among them. The air was heavy with the sulphurous breath of gunpowder, and tainted with the smell of blood.

The loss on each side was fourteen thousand in killed, wounded, and missing,---a mighty slaughter, and an appalling amount of suffering, for which no adequate preparation could be made. All the means of relief of the Northwest were called into active service, and yet there were unavoidable neglect and suffering. Following so quickly on the carnage of Donelson, there was scarcely a hamlet in the whole Northwest that was not in mourning for its dead. And the notes of rejoicing for the severely won victory were mingled with the sound of the tolling bell, and muffled drum, heard everywhere.

I hastened to Chicago to assist in the work which the battle of Shiloh precipitated on the Commission. But I remained at Mound City long enough to visit every ward of the hospitals, and to converse with every patient. Without an exception, all testified to the excellence of the care they received, and to the kindness of their treatment. One ward was devoted entirely to wounded rebel prisoners, taken at Fort Donelson. Most of them were unlettered farmers' sons, innocent even of the alphabet. Their speech was almost unintelligible at times; for they talked a patois, made up in part of negro gibberish and in part of barbarous English.

"You-uns is very good to we-uns," said one of the convalescents, clad in a uniform of butternut jean. "How much furderer Norf do you-uns come from?"

"'Spect I've got t' tote a crutch round in ole Mississip' the balance o' my life,---I do," said another, à-propos to nothing.

"This 'ere grub's better'n th' ole woman's bacon and hominy," was the eulogium of a third, as he tasted his soup.

Two of the boys, who were superior to the other in bearing and intelligence, were but sixteen an eighteen years of age. They were from Mississippi

Each had a fearfully crushed and mutilated leg. Dr. Franklin had saved both from amputation, and had patched and pieced and fitted together the broken bones, and torn ligaments, as one would mend a damaged specimen of bric-à-brac or rare china. The boys were very grateful, and delighted to recount, to any who would listen, the story of Dr. Franklin's skill. Although the lads were more intelligent than their comrades, they had no adequate conception of the magnitude of the war, nor of the circumstances that led to it. They drifted along with the current, and enlisted because the rest did.

Dr. Hall, the surgeon of their regiment, had allowed himself to be captured that he might take care of "the boys." He frankly confessed that he never imagined rebel prisoners would fare as well as our own wounded men, and "he feared things might be different in a reverse of circumstances." Ah, the poor fellows in Libby Prison and at Andersonville "found things" very "different!" Dr. Hall was from Mississippi, a gentlemanly and cultivated man. He declared himself opposed to secession in the abstract, and sought to hinder his state from rushing out of the federal compact, "but when Mississippi went out of the Union, honor compelled him to go with her." He spoke mournfully of this fratricidal war, but avowed himself ready to fight for the South as long as the war lasted.

A young captain, wearing the Confederate gray, kept his dark eyes upon me, following me, as I went hither and thither, with intense scrutiny. Wondering why I was an object of interest, I commenced a conversation with him.

"I have met you before," he said, after a little preliminary conversation. "You do not remember me? It is not strange," he continued, "for it is twenty years since I saw. you on St. Leon plantation, in Mecklenburg county, Va., and then I was a boy ten years old." He had enlisted in Mississippi, as had most of the men in the ward. I recalled him as a bright little playmate of one of my pupils in southern Virginia, whose home was on a neighboring plantation. He was a rabid secessionist, and did not hesitate to avow his convictions in the most defiant manner.

Two boys belonging to the valiant Eleventh Illinois were in another ward, still suffering, from the terrible wounds of the Fort Donelson battle. There were eighty-five in their company when they went into battle, but only seven came out alive and unharmed. They were shot down the day before the surrender, having been beaten back nearly two miles, fighting all the way, and were thought to be mortally wounded. Their uniforms, new the day before the battle, were stripped off by their inhuman enemies, whom they saw pillaging, and plundering the dead and dying. Nearly risked, the poor fellows managed to creep under both their blankets, lying as closely as possible to each other for warmth, and in this *ay lay neglected for forty-eight hours.

"What will you do when you get well?" I inquired.

"Going back to our regiment to fight!" was the plucky answer. "Hiram and I went in for three years, but I think' we'll stay through the war. We've got an account to settle with 'these rebs now. We sha'n't forget in a hurry how the Eleventh Illinois was cut up at Donelson." Never were there greater loyalty and bravery than were shown by our young soldiers. It was to me a perpetual wonder, while their Titanic endurance of suffering compelled my admiration.

I found everywhere, at this time, the greatest prejudice against Protestant women nurses. Medical directors, surgeons, and even wardmasters, openly declared they would not have them in the service, and that only the "Sisters" of the Catholic Church should receive appointments. I sought for the cause of this decision. "Your Protestant nurses are always finding some mare's-nest or other," said one of the surgeons, "that they can't let alone. They all write for the papers, and the story finds its way into print, and directly we are in hot water. Now, the 'Sisters' never see anything they ought not to see, nor hear anything they ought not to hear, and they never write for the papers---and the result is we get along very comfortably with them." It was futile to combat their prejudices, or to attempt to show them that they lacked the power to enforce their decisions. I contented myself with declining to take any part in filling the hospitals and boats with Catholic Sisters, as I was entreated, nor would I consent to do anything to discourage the detailing of Protestant nurses.

On my way home, I met at Centralia more than a dozen Protestant nurses, en route for the hospitals. They were women of nearly middle age, serious, practical women, sensibly dressed, with no other baggage than a necessary change of clothing in a valise. All were women of experience, had been carefully examined and properly detailed. They bore with them letters of recommendation, and written assignments to their respective posts, signed in due form by Dorothy Dix, who was authorized to detail women nurses by the Secretary of War.

I told them the little chance they had for employment, and assured them they would be unwelcome, and would undoubtedly, be sent back. They listened as though they heard not.

"Our husbands, sons, and brothers need us, and want us, if the surgeons do not. If we are sent from one post, we shall go to another. And if the medical authorities are determined to employ Catholic Sisters, to the exclusion of Protestant nurses, we shall appeal to the Secretary of War."

The Protestant nurses carried the day, chiefly. because of their good sense and worth, and hundreds went to the front before the end of the war, welcomed by both surgeons and patients, and rendering invaluable service

General Strong was the post commander at Cairo, and I met him there, when returning home. I shall always retain a tender memory of him, for, though not a man of military genius, he sympathized with the soldiers, whether in the field, in camp, or in hospital. I was indebted to him for many favors, which he granted for the sake of humanity---for the sympathy he felt for suffering everywhere. The last time I met him was at St.. Louis, about eighteen months before the close of the war, when he gave me his always ready help, and saved at that time the life of one of our Chicago boys.

Among the thirty-four young men who enlisted on the same day from the "Church of the Redeemer," in Chicago, was one, a universal favorite, who should have been rejected because of physical disability, but whose patriotism and ambition would not allow him to remain behind, when his companions enlisted. They all went into the Chicago Mercantile Battery. After many ups and downs, and much hard service, he broke down utterly, and was sent with a sick comrade to the "House of Refuge Hospital" in St. Louis. He could never again be well, sank rapidly, and was certain to die soon in the hospital, if not discharged and sent home. This was the message that came to his friends and acquaintances---and everybody loved him. Immediate steps were taken to procure his discharge from the service, and his return to his home.

Three or four gentlemen of standing went to St. Louis, one after another, but though it was conceded by all the medical authorities that young Turner ought to be discharged on account of hopeless invalidism, each in turn came back without him. There was something wrong with his papers that forbade his release, and as an order had just been issued forbidding furloughs, they were unable to take him to his home, that he might have the privilege of dying with his kindred. Finally, I was besought to undertake his discharge, and though it seemed absurd for me to attempt what three or four influential men had failed to accomplish, the intercession in his behalf was so urgent, and my own interest in him so tender, that I went on the errand although hopeless of success.

The hindrance to the discharge of the young man, was occasioned by the loss of his "descriptive list." An order had been sent to his command for another, but as the battery was in the field, moving from place to place, it might be months before the order was answered. Young Turner denied the truth of this statement, as did Brackett, his sick comrade, and both declared the surgeon mistaken. They were young men of great intelligence and business training, and not likely to be in the wrong. They belonged in the same battery, had come together to the same hospital, were located in adjoining beds in the same ward, and asserted, again and again, that they surrendered their descriptive lists to the hospital clerk at the same time.

I was confident, from my long acquaintance with both, that they were correct, and that Turner's missing list must be found, if at all, in the hospital office. So I returned to the surgeon, and told my story, and expressed my belief that the lost list was somewhere in the office. The face of the young clerk flushed a little with annoyance, but he politely drew from a-pigeonhole the lists of "Ward D," filed alphabetically, and, standing beside me, began to turn them over, while I read aloud the name endorsed on the back of each.

Stop!" I cried, as a familiar name met my eye.

"No," said the clerk, "that name has cheated all Turner's friends who have been down here. His name is Lowell D. Turner, and this, you see, is Loring D. Turner."

"Open it, let's see the inside." He did, and there the name was correctly written, but inaccurately engrossed on the back. This was the long-looked for list. I had had just such an experience before.

It was plain sailing now. The surgeon made out the certificate of disability, and sent a military messenger with me to the medical director. He promptly wrote an order for the discharge papers, which the messenger boy received, and then he and I moved on to the headquarters of the Department, where they were to be filled out, and the work would be done. There I was halted. A pert little lieutenant, who sat smoking in the office, with his heels higher than his head, fell back on his dignity and "red tape," and declared these papers could not be made out in precedence of others, which it would take two weeks to dispose of, unless General Curtis, now the Commander of the Department, gave an order for them to receive immediate attention. And with evident satisfaction he informed me that General Curtis was holding a meeting with his staff officers, and had given positive orders not to admit any one to his room until four in the afternoon. All the time, I knew that the bribe of a dollar would remove the scruples of the lieutenant, and procure for me the rapid filling out of my papers. I had had previous experience in this line also.

I went out of the room, into the hail, and was standing still, trying to think what next to do, when General Strong happened to pass. He immediately came to me with extended hands, and beaming face, with his oft-asked question on his lips,

"My dear madam, what can I do for you?"

"General Strong, if you can obtain me an interview of five minutes with General Curtis, you will make me the most grateful woman in St. Louis."

"Come with me!" Up stairs, and down stairs, and through almost interminable halls, he led the way, and I followed. Every guard saluted him courteously, and allowed us to pass, until we reached General Curtis' room. A word of explanation to the guard, and he opened the door, when General Strong led me in, where General Curtis was sitting in solemn conclave with the officers of his staff. I had met the General in Helena, Ark.; and to my great relief he remembered me, and rose to meet me, calling me by name. I made known my errand, and obtained a written permission from him to take poor Turner to Chicago that afternoon.

"Can I do anything more for you?" asked the General, so kindly that I ventured to ask a fifteen days' furlough for Brackett, the sick comrade, whose family also lived in: Chicago, promising to take charge of both, and to see them safely delivered to their kindred. Happy woman was I, for that, too, was granted, and the furlough was placed in my hands.

"General Strong, you can never measure the good you have done!" I said to him, when we were outside General Curtis' room. "You have probably saved the life of a noble young fellow, and have made two households happy, by the great favor you have granted me."

"I am very happy, madam, to have served them and you. It will be something pleasant for me to remember, on my death-bed." A very brief time afterwards, the good man came to his death-bed. If the memory of his humanities did not then lighten the dark valley, he surely heard the One Voice welcoming him to heaven---" Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!"

I hurried back to "Ward D," in the "house of Refuge Hospital;" at some distance from the heart of the city. It was past noon and the train left for Chicago at three o'clock. As I opened the door of the ward, every soldier who was sitting up looked at me scrutinizingly. They all knew my errand; all had come to love young Turner, and had buoyed him up, during my absence, with the prediction that he would certainly see his friends the next morning.

"Oh, I'm afraid you haven't got Lowell's discharge!" said young Brackett, at his usual post beside Turner, who sat propped in bed; "you look dreadful glum!"

"You know I told you not to indulge in any expectations of my success."

Poor Turner gasped, turned a deadlier white, and would have fallen over had I not caught him. "My dear boy, don't do so silly a thing as to faint---you are no longer a soldier! You are to go to Chicago with me this afternoon, and here is General Curtis' order. Your discharge papers and back pay will be sent to you!"

"Bully for you, Turner!" Was the first unconventional congratulation from a neighboring bed, and in a moment there was a tempest of cheers and rejoicing surging about Turner's cot. Brackett was quiet, but very tender towards his feeble comrade, congratulating him with eyes full of tears.

"General Curtis was so kind as to grant you a furlough of fifteen days, Brackett: do you want to spend your time in St. Louis, or in Chicago? I have transportation for you, if you want to go."

Now, there was a commotion in the ward. Most of the men were convalescent and in good spirits. Brackett looked at me as one dazed for a moment, and then threw his arms around my neck and kissed me, as if I were his mother. Two or three of the men turned somersaults on their bed---another called for three cheers, for me, General Curtis, and Turner, and Brackett. And half a dozen organized themselves into a band, and promenaded the ward, one playing a bugle, another a bagpipe, another a double bass drum, another a flute, all in admirable pantomime, and in mimicry of the tones of the various instruments.

The excitement was too much for Turner. He fainted several times before we left St. Louis, and I watched him through the night in the sleeping-car, hardly expecting he would live to reach his friends. But he did, and was nursed by them into such tolerable health, that, after two years' residence in the Minnesota pineries, he ventured to propose to the girl whom he had long loved, and they were married. Ten years of blissful wedded life were theirs, when he succumbed to the pulmonary trouble which had so long menaced him---and his young wife followed him, two years later, dying of the same disease.