The next day I made another visit to the hospitals on the “Heights.” Mr. Marvin, A. C. C. delegate, accompanied me. The heat was oppressive. The perspiration dropped profusely from our faces while climbing that long hill with our loaded baskets. We found a large number of new arrivals. In the open air, near one of the hospitals, amputations were being performed, and, from the pile of dissevered limbs near by, it was evident that the number was fearfully large. A young man in one of the wards, who had just been brought from the amputating-table, and had sufficiently recovered from the effects of chloroform to realize his loss, was most bitterly deploring it. To him his loss was irreparable. All efforts to pacify him were made in vain; he gave himself up to weeping, lamenting his great misfortune.
But his was an exceptional case. The language of the wounded was oftener in accordance with the spirit of the following touching poem:
“The knife was still; the surgeon bore
The shattered arm away;
Upon his bed, in painless sleep,
The noble hero lay.
He woke, but saw the vacant place
Where arm of his had lain,
Then faintly spoke: ‘Oh! let me see
My strong right arm again.’