“Oh! yes. The splints that came with all those things, yesterday, from the Sanitary Commission. God bless that Sanitary Commission—what should we do without it? Our soldiers here have quite as much reason to be grateful as those in the field. Look at those shelves—all that wine, those jellies, preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as well as these cushions, pads, and splints. They send us, constantly, fresh eggs, butter, lard, and such perishable articles as must be consumed at once. Here, King, take these splints, and then come back, will you, for some pickles I want to send to your men.”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if I can get down again; but Joe is going away on a furlough, to-day, and I am to be wardmaster till his return.”
“Shall your ‘blood boil’ more, or less, King, in your new position?”
Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the stairs? No more fear for him; he is only making himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to see him returned to his regiment. Very tired, are you, of the study of character? I have about a dozen more men here that I should like to show you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, now, quite aware that you feel amply satisfied with your hospital diet to-day.
OUR GETTYSBURG MEN.
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 a distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,—our homes laid waste, and ourselves fugitives—all these things live too freshly in the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that most memorable “Fourth” just passed?—the earnestness with which our cry to heaven went up for success to our arms—the pause of those long morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible suspense—and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved. Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him—as a people we had acknowledged the weakness of a human arm—as a people we had poured forth our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us?