"When the surgeons had the wounded all placed, with as much comfort as seemed possible under the circumstances, on board the train, our detail of men would go from car to car, with soup made of beef-stock or fresh meat, full of potatoes, turnips, cabbage, and rice, with fresh bread and coffee, and, when stimulants were needed, with ale, milk-punch, or brandy. Water-pails were in great demand for use in the cars on the journey, and also empty bottles to take the place of canteens. All our whisky and brandy bottles were washed and filled up at the spring, and the boys went off carefully hugging their extemporized canteens, from which they would wet their wounds, or refresh themselves till the journey ended. I do not think that a man of the sixteen thousand who were transported during our stay, went from Gettysburg without a good meal. Rebels and Unionists together, they all had it, and were pleased and satisfied. 'Have you friends in the army, madam?' a rebel soldier, lying on the floor of the car, said to me, as I gave him some milk. 'Yes, my brother is on ——'s staff,' 'I thought so, ma'am. You can always tell; when people are good to soldiers they are sure to have friends in the army,' 'We are rebels, you know, ma'am,' another said. 'Do you treat rebels so?' It was strange to see the good brotherly feeling come over the soldiers, our own and the rebels, when side by side they lay in our tents. 'Hullo, boys! this is the pleasantest way to meet, isn't it? We are better friends when we are as close as this than a little farther off.' And then they would go over the battles together, 'We were here,' and 'you were there,' in the friendliest way.

"After each train of cars daily, for the three weeks we were in Gettysburg, trains of ambulances arrived too late—men who must spend the day with us until the five P. M. cars went, and men too late for the five P. M. train, who must spend the night till the ten A. M. cars went. All the men who came in this way, under our own immediate and particular attention, were given the best we had of care and food. The surgeon in charge of our camp, with his most faithful dresser and attendants, looked after all their wounds, which were often in a shocking state, particularly among the rebels. Every evening and morning they were dressed. Often the men would say, 'That feels good. I haven't had my wound so well dressed since I was hurt. Something cool to drink is the first thing asked for after the long, dusty drive; and pailfuls of tamarinds and water, 'a beautiful drink,' the men used to say, disappeared rapidly among them.

"After the men's wounds were attended to, we went round giving them clean clothes; had basins and soap and towels, and followed these with socks, slippers, shirts, drawers, and those coveted dressing-gowns. Such pride as they felt in them! comparing colors, and smiling all over as they lay in clean and comfortable rows, ready for supper,—'on dress parade,' they used to say. And then the milk, particularly if it were boiled and had a little whisky and sugar, and the bread, with butter on it, and jelly on the butter: how good it all was, and how lucky we felt ourselves in having the immense satisfaction of distributing these things, which all of you, hard at work in villages and cities, were getting ready and sending off, in faith.

"Canandaigua sent cologne with its other supplies, which went right to the noses and hearts of the men. 'That is good, now;'—'I'll take some of that;'—'worth a penny a sniff;' 'that kinder gives one life;'—and so on, all round the tents, as we tipped the bottles up on the clean handkerchiefs some one had sent, and when they were gone, over squares of cotton, on which the perfume took the place of hem,—'just as good, ma'am.' We varied our dinners with custard and baked rice puddings, scrambled eggs, codfish hash, corn-starch, and always as much soft bread, tea, coffee, or milk as they wanted. Two Massachusetts boys I especially remember for the satisfaction with which they ate their pudding. I carried a second plateful up to the cars, after they had been put in, and fed one of them till he was sure he had had enough. Young fellows they were, lying side by side, one with a right and one with a left arm gone.

"The Gettysburg women were kind and faithful to the wounded and their friends, and the town was full to overflowing of both. The first day, when Mrs. —— and I reached the place, we literally begged our bread from door to door; but the kind woman who at last gave us dinner would take no pay for it. 'No, ma'am, I shouldn't wish to have that sin on my soul when the war is over.' She, as well as others, had fed the strangers flocking into town daily, sometimes over fifty of them for each meal, and all for love and nothing for reward; and one night we forced a reluctant confession from our hostess that she was meaning to sleep on the floor that we might have a bed, her whole house being full. Of course we couldn't allow this self-sacrifice, and hunted up some other place to stay in. We did her no good, however, for we afterwards found that the bed was given up that night to some other stranger who arrived late and tired: 'An old lady, you know; and I couldn't let an old lady sleep on the floor.' Such acts of kindness and self-denial were almost entirely confined to the women.

"Few good things can be said of the Gettysburg farmers, and I only use Scripture language in calling them 'evil beasts.' One of this kind came creeping into our camp three weeks after the battle. He lived five miles only from the town, and had 'never seen a rebel.' He heard we had some of them, and had come down to see them. 'Boys,' we said,—marching him into the tent which happened to be full of rebels that day, waiting for the train,—'Boys, here's a man who never saw a rebel in his life, and wants to look at you;' and there he stood with his mouth wide open, and there they lay in rows, laughing at him, stupid old Dutchman. 'And why haven't you seen a rebel?' Mrs. —— said; 'why didn't you take your gun and help to drive them out of your town?' 'A feller might'er got hit!'—which reply was quite too much for the rebels; they roared with laughter at him, up and down the tent.

"One woman we saw, who was by no means Dutch, and whose pluck helped to redeem the other sex. She lived in a little house close up by the field where the hardest fighting was done,—a red-cheeked, strong, country girl. 'Were you frightened when the shells began flying?' 'Well, no. You see we was all a-baking bread around here for the soldiers, and had our dough a-rising. The neighbors they ran into their cellars, but I couldn't leave my bread. When the first shell came in at the window and crashed through the room, an officer came and said, 'You had better get out of this;' but I told him I could not leave my bread; and I stood working it till the third shell came through, and then I went down cellar; but' (triumphantly) 'I left my bread in the oven.' 'And why didn't you go before?' 'Oh, you see, if I had, the rebels would 'a' come in and daubed the dough all over the place.' And here she had stood, at the risk of unwelcome plums in her loaves, while great holes (which we saw) were made by shot and shell through and through the room in which she was working.

"The streets of Gettysburg were filled with the battle. People thought and talked of nothing else; even the children showed their little spites by calling to each other, 'Here, you rebel;' and mere scraps of boys amused themselves with percussion-caps and hammers. Hundreds of old muskets were piled on the pavements, the men who shouldered them a week before, lying underground now, or helping to fill the long trains of ambulances on their way from the field. The private houses of the town were, many of them, hospitals; the little red flags hung from the upper windows. Beside our own men at the Lodge, we all had soldiers scattered about whom we could help from our supplies; and nice little puddings and jellies, or an occasional chicken, were a great treat to men condemned by their wounds to stay in Gettysburg, and obliged to live on what the empty town could provide. There was a colonel in a shoe-shop, a captain just up the street, and a private round the corner whose young sister had possessed herself of him, overcoming the military rules in some way, and carrying him off to a little room, all by himself, where I found her doing her best with very little. She came afterward to our tent and got for him clean clothes, and good food, and all he wanted, and was perfectly happy in being his cook, washerwoman, medical cadet, and nurse. Besides such as these, we occasionally carried from our supplies something to the churches, which were filled with sick and wounded, and where men were dying,—men whose strong patience it was very hard to bear,—dying with thoughts of the old home far away, saying, as last words, for the women watching there and waiting with a patience equal in its strength, 'Tell her I love her.'

"Late one afternoon, too late for the cars, a train of ambulances arrived at our Lodge with over one hundred wounded rebels, to be cared for through the night. Only one among them seemed too weak and faint to take anything. He was badly hurt, and failing. I went to him after his wound was dressed, and found him lying on his blanket stretched over the straw,—a fair-haired, blue-eyed young lieutenant, with a face innocent enough for one of our own New England boys. I could not think of him as a rebel; he was too near heaven for that. He wanted nothing,—had not been willing to eat for days, his comrades said; but I coaxed him to try a little milk gruel, made nicely with lemon and brandy; and one of the satisfactions of our three weeks is the remembrance of the empty cup I took away afterward, and his perfect enjoyment of that supper. 'It was so good, the best thing he had had since he was wounded,'—and he thanked me so much, and talked about his 'good supper' for hours. Poor fellow, he had had no care, and it was a surprise and pleasure to find himself thought of; so, in a pleased, childlike way, he talked about it till midnight, the attendant told me, as long as he spoke of anything; for at midnight the change came, and from that time he only thought of the old days before he was a soldier, when he sang hymns in his father's church. He sang them now again in a clear, sweet voice. 'Lord, have mercy upon me;' and then songs without words—a sort of low intoning. His father was a Lutheran clergyman in South Carolina, one of the rebels told us in the morning, when we went into the tent, to find him sliding out of our care. All day long we watched him,—sometimes fighting his battles over, often singing his Lutheran chants, till, in at the tent-door, close to which he lay, looked a rebel soldier, just arrived with other prisoners. He started when he saw the lieutenant, and quickly kneeling down by him, called, 'Henry! Henry!' But Henry was looking at some one a great way off, and could not hear him. 'Do you know this soldier?' we said. 'Oh, yes, ma'am; and his brother is wounded and a prisoner, too, in the cars, now.' Two or three men started after him, found him, and half carried him from the cars to our tent. 'Henry' did not know him, though; and he threw himself down by his side on the straw, and for the rest of the day lay in a sort of apathy, without speaking, except to assure himself that he could stay with his brother, without the risk of being separated from his fellow-prisoners. And there the brothers lay, and there we strangers sat watching and listening to the strong, clear voice, singing, 'Lord, have mercy upon me.' The Lord had mercy; and at sunset I put my hand on the lieutenant's heart, to find it still. All night the brother lay close against the coffin, and in the morning went away with his comrades, leaving us to bury Henry, having 'confidence;' but first thanking us for what we had done, and giving us all that he had to show his gratitude,—the palmetto ornament from his brother's cap and a button from his coat. Dr. W. read the burial service that morning at the grave, and —— wrote his name on the little head-board: 'Lieutenant Rauch, Fourteenth Regiment South Carolina Volunteers.'

"In the field where we buried him, a number of colored freedmen, working for Government on the railroad, had their camp, and every night they took their recreation, after the heavy work of the day was over, in prayer-meetings. Such an 'inferior race,' you know! We went over one night and listened for an hour, while they sang, collected under the fly of a tent, a table in the middle where the leader sat, and benches all round the sides for the congregation—men only,—all very black and very earnest. They prayed with all their souls, as only black men and slaves can; for themselves and for the dear, white people who had come over to the meeting; and for 'Massa Lincoln,' for whom they seemed to have a reverential affection,—some of them a sort of worship, which confused Father Abraham and Massa Abraham in one general cry for blessings. Whatever else they asked for, they must have strength, and comfort, and blessing for 'Massa Lincoln.' Very little care was taken of these poor men. Those who were ill during our stay were looked after by one of the officers of the Commission. They were grateful for every little thing. Mrs. —— went into the town and hunted up several dozen bright handkerchiefs, hemmed them, and sent them over to be distributed the next night after meeting. They were put on the table in the tent, and one by one, the men came up to get them. Purple, and blue, and yellow the handkerchiefs were, and the desire of every man's heart fastened itself on a yellow one; they politely made way for each other, though,—one man standing back to let another pass up first, although he ran the risk of seeing the particular pumpkin-color that riveted his eyes taken from before them. When the distribution is over, each man tied his head up in his handkerchief, and they sang one more hymn, keeping time all round, with blue and purple and yellow nods, and thanking and blessing the white people in 'their basket and in their store,' as much as if the cotton handkerchiefs had all been gold leaf. One man came over to our tent next day, to say, 'Missus, was it you who sent me that present? I never had anything so beautiful in all my life before;' and he only had a blue one, too.

"Among our wounded soldiers one night, came an elderly man, sick, wounded, and crazy, singing and talking about home. We did what we could for him, and pleased him greatly with a present of a red flannel shirt, drawers, and red calico dressing-gown, all of which he needed, and in which he dressed himself up, and then wrote a letter to his wife, made it into a little book with gingham covers, and gave it to one of the gentlemen to mail for him. The next morning he was sent on with the company from the Lodge; and that evening two tired women came into our camp—his wife and sister, who hurried on from their home to meet him, arriving just too late. Fortunately we had the queer little gingham book to identify him by, and when some one said, 'It is the man, you know, who screamed so,' the poor wife was certain about him. He had been crazy before the war, but not for two years, now, she said. He had been fretting for home since he was hurt; and when the doctor told him there was no chance of his being sent there, he lost heart, and wrote to his wife to come and carry him away. It seemed almost hopeless for two lone women, who had never been out of their own little town, to succeed in finding a soldier among so many, sent in so many different directions; but we helped them as we could, and started them on their journey the next morning, back on their track, to use their common sense and Yankee privilege of questioning.

"A week after, Mrs. —— had a letter full of gratitude, and saying that the husband was found and secured for home. That same night we had had in our tents two fathers, with their wounded sons, and a nice old German mother with her boy. She had come in from Wisconsin, and brought with her a patchwork bed-quilt for her son, thinking he might have lost his blanket; and there he laid all covered up in his quilt, looking so homelike, and feeling so, too, no doubt, with his good old mother close at his side. She seemed bright and happy,—had three sons in the Army,—one had been killed,—this one wounded; yet she was so pleased with the tents, and the care she saw taken there of the soldiers, that, while taking her tea from a barrel-head as table, she said, 'Indeed, if she was a man, she'd be a soldier too, right off.'

"For this temporary sheltering and feeding of all these wounded men, Government could make no provision. There was nothing for them, if too late for the cars, except the open field and hunger, in preparation for their fatiguing journey. It is expected when the cars are ready that the men will be promptly sent to meet them, and Government cannot provide for mistakes and delays; so that, but for the Sanitary Commission's Lodge and comfortable supplies, for which the wounded are indebted to the hard workers at home, men badly hurt must have suffered night and day, while waiting for the 'next train.' We had on an average sixty of such men each night for three weeks under our care,—sometimes one hundred, sometimes only thirty; and with the 'delegation,' and the help of other gentlemen volunteers, who all worked devotedly for the men, the whole thing was a great success, and you and all of us can't help being thankful that we had a share, however small, in making it so. Sixteen thousand good meals were given; hundreds of men kept through the day, and twelve hundred sheltered at night, their wounds dressed, their supper and breakfast secured—rebels and all. You will not, I am sure, regret that these most wretched men, these 'enemies,' 'sick and in prison,' were helped and cared for through your supplies, though, certainly, they were not in your minds when you packed your barrels and boxes. The clothing we reserved for our own men, except now and then when a shivering rebel needed it; but in feeding them we could make no distinctions.

"Our three weeks were coming to an end; the work of transporting the wounded was nearly over; twice daily we had filled and emptied our tents, and twice fed the trains before the long journey. The men came in slowly at the last,—a lieutenant, all the way from Oregon, being among the very latest. He came down from the corps hospitals (now greatly improved), having lost one foot, poor fellow, dressed in a full suit of the Commission's cotton clothes, just as bright and as cheerful as the first man, and all the men that we received had been. We never heard a complaint. 'Would he like a little rice soup?' 'Well, no, thank you, ma'am;' hesitating and polite. 'You have a long ride before you, and had better take a little; I'll just bring it and you can try.' So the good, thick soup came. He took a very little in the spoon to please me, and afterwards the whole cupful to please himself. He 'did not think it was this kind of soup I meant. He had some in camp, and did not think he cared for any more; his "cook" was a very small boy, though, who just put some meat in a little water and stirred it round.' 'Would you like a handkerchief?' and I produced our last one, with a hem and cologne too. 'Oh, yes; that is what I need; I have lost mine, and was just borrowing this gentleman's.' So the lieutenant, the last man, was made comfortable, thanks to all of you, though he had but one foot to carry him on his long journey home.

"Four thousand soldiers, too badly hurt to be moved, were still left in Gettysburg, cared for kindly and well at the large, new Government hospital, with a Sanitary Commission attachment.

"Our work was over, our tents were struck, and we came away after a flourish of trumpets from two military bands who filed down to our door, and gave us a farewell 'Red, white, and blue.'"

One who knows Miss Woolsey well says of her, "Her sense, energy, lightness, and quickness of action; her thorough knowledge of the work, her amazing yet simple resources, her shy humility which made her regard her own work with impatience, almost with contempt—all this and much else make her memory a source of strength and tenderness which nothing can take away." Elsewhere, the same writer adds, "Strength and sweetness, sound practical sense, deep humility, merriment, playfulness, a most ready wit, an educated intelligence—were among her characteristics. Her work I consider to have been better than any which I saw in the service. It was thorough, but accomplished rapidly. She saw a need before others saw it, and she supplied it often by some ingenious contrivance which answered every purpose, though no one but Georgy would ever have dreamt of it. Her pity for the sufferings of the men was something pathetic in itself, but it was never morbid, never unwise, never derived from her own shock at the sight, always practical and healthy." Miss Woolsey remained in the service through the war, a part of the time in charge of hospitals, but during Grant's great campaign of the spring, summer, and autumn of 1864, she was most effectively engaged at the front, or rather at the great depots for the wounded, at Belle Plain, Port Royal, Fredericksburg, White House, and City Point. Miss Jane S. Woolsey, also served in general hospitals as lady superintendent until the close of the war, and afterward transferred her efforts to the work among the Freedmen at Richmond, Virginia.

A cousin of these ladies, Miss Sarah C. Woolsey, daughter of President Woolsey of Yale College, was also engaged during the greater part of the war in hospital and other philanthropic labors for the soldiers. She was for ten months assistant superintendent of the Portsmouth Grove General Hospital, and her winning manners, her tender and skilful care of the patients, and her unwearied efforts to do them good, made her a general favorite.



ANNA MARIA ROSS.

Anna Maria Ross, the subject of this sketch, was a native of Philadelphia, in which city the greater part of her life was spent, and in which, on the 22d of December, 1863, she passed to her eternal rest.

It was a very beautiful life of which we have now to speak—a life of earnest activity in every work of benevolence and Christian kindness. She had gathered about her, in her native city, scores of devoted friends, who loved her in life, and mourned her in death with the sentiments of a true bereavement.

Miss Ross was patriotic by inheritance, as well as through personal loyalty. Her maternal relatives were largely identified with the war of American Independence. Her mother's uncle, Jacob Root, held a captain's commission in the Continental army, and it is related of her great grandmother that she served voluntarily as a moulder in an establishment where bullets were manufactured to be used in the cause of freedom.

Her mother's name was Mary Root, a native of Chester County, Pennsylvania. Her father was William Ross, who emigrated early in life from the county of Derry, Ireland. There may have been nothing in her early manifestations of character to foreshow the noble womanhood into which she grew. There remains, at any rate, a small record of her earliest years. The wonderful powers which she developed in mature womanhood possess a greater interest for those who know her chiefly in connection with the labors which gave her so just a claim to the title of "The Soldier's Friend."

Endowed by nature with great vigor of mind and uncommon activity and energy, of striking and commanding personal appearance and pleasing address, she had been, before the war, remarkably successful in the prosecution of those works of charity and benevolence which made her life a blessing to mankind. Well-known to the public-spirited and humane of her native city, her claims to attention were fully recognized, and her appeals in behalf of the needy and suffering were never allowed to pass unheeded.

"I have little hope of success," she said once to her companion, in going upon an errand of mercy: "yet we may get one hundred dollars. The lady we are about to visit is not liberal, though wealthy. Let us pray that her heart may be opened to us. Many of my most earnest prayers have been made while hurrying along the street on such errands as this." The lady gave her three hundred dollars.

On one occasion she was at the house of a friend, when a family was incidentally mentioned as being in great poverty and affliction. The father had been attacked with what is known as "black small pox," and was quite destitute of the comforts and attentions which his situation required, some of the members of his own family having left the house from fear of the infection. The quick sympathies of Miss Ross readily responded to this tale of want and neglect. "While God gives me health and strength," she earnestly exclaimed, "no man shall thus suffer!" With no more delay than was required to place in a basket articles of necessity and comfort she hastened to the miserable dwelling; nor did she leave the poor sufferer until he was beyond the reach of human aid forever. And her thoughtful care ceased not even here. From her own friends she sought and obtained the means of giving him a respectable burial.

The lady to whom the writer is indebted for the above incident, relates that on the day when all that was mortal of Anna Maria Ross was consigned to its kindred dust, as she was entering a street-car, the conductor remarked, "I suppose you have been to see the last of Miss Ross." Upon her replying in the affirmative, he added, while tears flowed down his cheeks, "I did not know her, but she watched over my wife for four weeks when she had a terrible sickness. She was almost an entire stranger to her when she came and offered her assistance."

Her work for the soldier was chiefly performed in connection with the institution known as the Cooper Shop Hospital, a branch of the famous Cooper Shop Refreshment Saloon, for Soldiers. Miss Ross was appointed Lady Principal of this Institution, and devoted herself to it with an energy that never wearied. Day and night she was at her post—watching while others slept, dressing with her own hands the most loathsome wounds; winning the love and admiration of all with whom she was associated. Her tasks were arduous, her sympathies were drawn upon to the utmost, her responsibilities were great.

One who knew her well, and often saw her within the walls of the "Cooper Shop," thus gives us some incidents of her work there. The benevolence expressed in her glowing countenance, and the words of hearty welcome with which she greeted a humble coadjutor in her loving labors, will never be forgotten. It was impossible not to be impressed at once by the tender earnestness with which she engaged in her self-imposed duties, and her active interest in everything which concerned the well-being of those committed to her charge. When they were about to leave her watchful care forever, a sister's thoughtfulness was exhibited in her preparations for their comfort and convenience. The wardrobe of the departing soldier was carefully inspected, and everything needful was supplied. It was her custom also to furnish to each one who left, a sum of money, "that he might have something of his own" to meet any unexpected necessity by the way. And if the donation-box at the entrance of the hospital chanced to be empty, her own purse made good the deficiency. The writer well remembers the anxious countenance with which she was met one morning by Miss Ross, when about taking her place for the day's duty. "I am so sorry!" was her exclamation. "When C—— left for Virginia last night I forgot, in the confusion, to give him money; and I am afraid that he has nothing of his own, for he had not received his pay. I thought of it after I was in bed, and it disturbed my sleep."

The tenderness of Miss Ross's nature was never more touchingly exhibited than in the case of Lieutenant B——, of Saratoga, New York. He was brought to the hospital by his father for a few days' rest before proceeding to his home. Mortally wounded, he failed so rapidly that he could not be removed. During two days and nights of agonizing suffering Miss Ross scarcely left his side, and while she bathed his burning brow and moistened his parched lips she mingled with these tender offices words of Christian hope and consolation. "Call me Anna," she said, "and tell me all which your heart prompts you to say." And as life ebbed away he poured into her sympathizing ear the confidences which his mother, alas! could not receive. With tearful eyes and sorrowing heart this new-found friend watched by him to the last—then closed the heavy eyes, and smoothed the raven locks, and sent the quiet form, lovely even in death, to her who waited its arrival in bitter anguish.

To those who best knew the subject of this sketch, it seems a hopeless task to enumerate the instances of unselfish devotion to the good of others with which that noble life was filled. It was the same tale again and again repeated. Alike the pain, the anxiety, the care; alike the support, the encouragement, the consolation. No marvel was it that the sinking soldier, far from home and friends, mistook the gentle ministry for that which marks earth's strongest tie, and at her approach, whispered "mother."

It would be impossible to enumerate a tithe of the special instances of her kindly ministrations, but there are some that so vividly illustrate prominent points in her character that we cannot refrain from the record. One of these marked traits was her perseverance in the accomplishment of any plan for the good of her charges, and may well be mentioned here.

For a long time an Eastern soldier, named D——, was an inmate of her hospital, and as, though improving, his recovery was slow, and it seemed unlikely that he would soon be fit for service in the ranks, she got him the appointment of hospital steward, and he remained where he could still have care.

After the battle of Gettysburg he relapsed, and from over-work and over-wrought feeling, sank into almost hopeless depression. The death of a beloved child, and an intense passionate longing to revisit his home and family, aided this deep grief, and gave it a force and power that threatened to deprive him of life or reason. It was at this crisis that with her accustomed energy Miss Ross directed all her efforts toward restoring him to his family. After the preliminary steps had been taken she applied to the captain of a Boston steamer, but he refused to receive a sick passenger on account of the want of suitable accommodations. The case was urgent. He must go or die. "There is no room," repeated the captain.

"Give him a place upon the floor," was the rejoinder, "and I will furnish everything needful." "But a sick man cannot have proper attendance under such circumstances," persisted the captain. "I will go with him if necessary," she replied, "and will take the entire charge of his comfort." "Miss Ross, I am sorry to refuse you, but I cannot comply with your request. This answer must be final."

What was to be done? The unsuccessful pleader covered her face with her hands for a few moments; then raising her head said, slowly and sadly, "Captain ——, I have had many letters from the friends of New England soldiers, thanking me with overflowing hearts for restoring to them the dearly loved husband, son, or brother while yet alive. From D.'s wife I shall receive no such message. This is his only chance of life. He cannot bear the journey by land. He must go by water or die. He will die here—far from friends and home." This appeal could not be resisted. "I will take him, Miss Ross," was the answer; "but it must be only upon the condition that you will promise not to ask such a favor of me again whatever the case may be." "Never!" was the quick reply, "never will I bind myself by such a promise while an Eastern soldier needs a friend or a passage to his home! You are the first man to whom I should apply." "Then let him come without a promise. You have conquered; I will do for him all that can be done."

Could such friendship fail to win the hearts of those to whom this inestimable woman gave the cheerful service of her life's best days? "Do you want to see Florence Nightingale?" said one, who had not yet left the nursing care which brought him back to life and hope, to a companion whom he met. "If you do, just come to our hospital and see Miss Ross."

This was the only reward she craved—a word of thoughtful gratitude from those she sought to serve; and in this was lost all remembrance of days of toil and nights of weariness. So from week to week and from month to month the self-consecration grew more complete—the self-forgetfulness more perfect. But the life spent in the service of others was drawing near its end. The busy hands were soon to be folded, the heavy eyelids forever closed, the weary feet were hastening to their rest.

The spring of 1863 found Miss Ross still occupied in the weary round of her labors at the hospital. She had most remarkable strength and vigor of constitution, and that, with every other gift and talent she possessed was unsparingly used for the promotion of any good cause to which she was devoted. During this spring, in addition to all her other and engrossing labors, she was very busy in promoting the interests of a large fair for the purpose of aiding in the establishment of a permanent Home for discharged soldiers, who were incapacitated for active labor. She canvassed the city of Philadelphia, and also traveled in different parts of Pennsylvania and New Jersey in order to obtain assistance in this important undertaking. "Is it not wrong," a friend once asked, "that you should do so much, while so many are doing nothing?" "Oh, there are hundreds who would gladly work as I do," was her reply, "but they have not my powers of endurance."

The fair in which she was so actively interested took place in June, and a large sum was added to the fund previously obtained for the benefit of the "Soldiers' Home." The work now progressed rapidly, and the personal aid and influence of Miss Ross were exerted to forward it in every possible way. Yet while deeply absorbed in the promotion of this object, which was very near to her heart, she found time to brighten, with characteristic tenderness and devotion, the last hours of the Rev. Dr. Clay, the aged and revered minister of the ancient church, in which the marriage of her parents had taken place so many years before. With his own family she watched beside his bed, and with them received his parting blessing.

The waning year found the noble undertaking, the object of so many prayers and the goal of such ardent desire, near a prosperous completion. A suitable building had been obtained, and many busy days were occupied in the delightful task of furnishing it. At the close of a day spent in this manner, the friend who had been Miss Ross's companion proposed that the remaining purchases should be deferred to another time, urging, in addition to her extreme fatigue, that many of the stores were closed. "Come to South Street with me," she replied. "They keep open there until twelve o'clock, and we may find exactly what we want." The long walk was taken, and when the desired articles were secured she yielded to her friend's entreaties, and at a late hour sought her home. As she pursued her solitary way came there no foreshadowing of what was to be? no whisper of the hastening summons? no token of the quick release? Wearily were the steps ascended, which echoed for the last time the familiar tread. Slowly the door closed through which she should pass on angelic mission nevermore. Was there no warning?

"I am tired," she said, "and so cold that I feel as if I never could be warm again." It was an unusual complaint for her to whom fatigue had seemed almost unknown before. But it was very natural that exhaustion should follow a day of such excessive labor, and she would soon be refreshed. So thought those who loved her, unconscious of the threatening danger. The heavy chill retained its grasp, the resistless torpor of paralysis crept slowly on, and then complete insensibility. In this utter helplessness, which baffled every effort of human skill, night wore away, and morning dawned. There was no change and days passed before the veil was lifted.

She could not believe that her work was all done on earth and death near, "but," she said, "God has willed it—His will be done." There was no apparent mental struggle. Well she knew that she had done her uttermost, and that God was capable of placing in the field other laborers, and perhaps better ones than she; and she uttered no meaningless words when, without a murmur, she resigned herself to His will.

A few words of fond farewell, she calmly spoke to the weeping friends about her. Then with fainter and fainter breathing, life fled so gently that they knew not when the shadowy vale was passed. So, silently and peacefully the Death-angel had visited her, and upon her features lay the calm loveliness of perfect rest.

On the 22d of December, 1863, the friends, and sharers of her labors were assembled at the dedication of the Soldiers' Home. It was the crowning work of her life, and it was completed; and thus, at the same hour, this earthly crown was laid upon her dying brow, and the freed soul put on the crown of a glorious immortality.

Her funeral was attended by a sorrowing multitude, all of whom had known, and many, yea, most of whom, had been blest by her labors. For even they are blest to whom it has happened to know and appreciate a character like hers.

They made her a tomb, in the beautiful Monument Cemetery, beneath the shadow of a stately cedar. Nature itself, in the desolation of advancing winter, seemed to join in the lament that such loveliness and worth was lost to earth.

But with returning summer, the branches of her overshadowing cedar are melodious with the song of birds, while roses and many flowering plants scatter fragrance to every passing breeze as their petals falling hide the dark soil beneath. The hands of friends have planted these—an odorous tribute to the memory of her they loved and mourn, and have raised beside, in the enduring marble, a more lasting testimony of her worth.

The tomb is of pure white marble, surmounted by a tablet of the same, which in alto relievo, represents a female figure ministering to a soldier, who lies upon a couch. Beneath, is this inscription:

ERECTED BY HER FRIENDS

IN MEMORY OF ANNA M. ROSS, DIED, DECEMBER 22, 1863.

Her piety was fruitful of good works. The friendless child, the fugitive slave, and the victim of intemperance were ever objects of her tenderest solicitude.

When civil war disclosed its horrors, she dedicated her life to the sick and wounded soldiers of her country, and died a martyr to Humanity and Patriotism.

So closes the brief and imperfect record of a beautiful life; but the light of its lovely example yet remains.



MRS. G. T. M. DAVIS.

Among the large number of the ladies of New York city who distinguished themselves for their devotion to the welfare of the soldiers of our army, of whom so many in all forms of suffering were brought there during the war, it seems almost invidious to select any individual. But it is perhaps less so in the case of the subject of this sketch, than of many others, since from the very beginning of the war till long after its close, she quietly sacrificed the ease and luxury of her life to devote herself untiringly, and almost without respite, to the duties thus voluntarily assumed and faithfully performed.

Mrs. Davis is the wife of Colonel G. T. M. Davis, who served with great distinction in the Mexican war, but who, having entered into commercial pursuits, is not at present connected with the army. Her maiden name was Pomeroy, and she is a native of Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Her brother, Robert Pomeroy, Esq., of that town, a wealthy manufacturer, was noted for his liberal benefactions during the war, and with all his family omitted no occasion of showing his devotion to his country and to its wounded and suffering defenders. His daughter, near the close of the war, became the wife of one of the most distinguished young officers in the service, General Bartlett.

General Bartlett, at twenty-two, and fresh from the classic precincts of Harvard, entered the service as a private. He rose rapidly through the genius and force of his commanding character. He lost a leg, we believe at the siege of Yorktown, left the service, until partially recovered, when he again re-entered it as the Colonel of the Forty-ninth Massachusetts Regiment, which was raised in Berkshire County. For months he rode at the head of his regiment with his crutch attached to the back of his saddle. It was after his return from the South-west, (where the gallant Forty-ninth distinguished itself at Port Hudson, Plain's Stone, and other hard-won fields), with a maimed arm, that he was rewarded with the hand of one of Berkshire's fairest daughters, a member of this patriotic family. Several other young men, members of the same family, have also greatly distinguished themselves in the service of their country.

At the very outset of the war, or as soon as the sick among the volunteers who were pouring into New York, demanded relief, Mrs. Davis began to devote time and care to them. Daily leaving her elegant home, she sought out and ministered to her country's suffering defenders, at the various temporary barracks erected for their accommodation.

When the Park Barracks Ladies' Association was formed, she became its Secretary, and so continued for a long period, most faithful and energetic in her ministrations. This association included in its work the Hospital on Bedloe's Island, and Mrs. Davis was one of the first who commenced making regular visits there.

Most of the men brought to Bedloe's Island in the earlier part of the war, were sick with the various diseases consequent upon the unaccustomed climate and the unwonted exposure they had encountered. They needed a very careful and regular diet, one which the army rations, though perhaps suitable and sufficient for men in health, were unable to supply. It was but natural that these ladies, full of the warm sympathy which prompted them to the unusual tasks they had undertaken, should shrink from seeing a half-convalescent fever patient fed with hard-bread and salt pork, or the greasy soups of which pork was the basis. They brought delicacies, often prepared by their own hands or in their own kitchens, and were undoubtedly injudicious, sometimes, in their administration. Out of this arose the newspaper controversy between the public and the surgeons in charge, at Bedloe's Island, which is probably yet fresh in many minds. It was characterized by a good deal of acrimony.

Mrs. Davis avers that neither she nor her friends gave food to the patients without the consent of the physicians. The affair terminated, as is well-known, by the removal of the surgeon in charge.

The Ladies Park Barracks' Association was, as a body, opposed to extending its benefactions beyond New York and its immediate vicinity. Mrs. Davis was of a different opinion, and was, beside, not altogether pleased with the management of the association. She therefore, after a time, relinquished her official connection with it, though never for one instant relaxing her efforts for the same general object.

For a long series of months Mrs. Davis repaired almost daily to the large General Hospital at David's Island, where thousands of sick and wounded men were sometimes congregated. Here she and her chief associates, Mrs. Chapman, and Miss Morris, established the most amicable relations with the surgeon in charge, Dr. McDougall, and were welcomed by him, as valued coadjutors.

On the opening of the Soldiers' Rest, in Howard Street, an association of ladies was formed to aid in administering to the comfort of the poor fellows who tarried there during their transit through the city, or were received in the well-conducted hospital connected with the institution. Of this association Mrs. Davis was the Secretary, during the whole term of its existence.

This association, as well as the institution itself, was admirably conducted, and perhaps performed as much real and beneficial work as any other in the vicinity of New York. It was continued in existence till several months after the close of the war.

Besides her visits at David's Island and Howard Street, which were most assiduous, Mrs. Davis as often as possible visited the Central Park, or Mount St. Vincent Hospital, the Ladies' Home Hospital, at the corner of Lexington Avenue and Fifty-first Street, and the New England Rooms in Broadway. At all of these she was welcomed, and her efforts most gratefully received. Seldom indeed did a day pass, during the long four years of the war, and for months after the suspension of hostilities, that her kind face was not seen in one or more of the hospitals.

Her social position, as well as her genuine dignity of manners enforced the respect of all the officials, and won their regard. Her untiring devotion and kindness earned her the almost worshipping affection of the thousands of sufferers to whom she ministered.

Letters still reach her, at intervals, from the men who owe, perhaps life, certainly relief and comfort to her cherishing care. Ignorant men, they may be, little accustomed to the amenities of life, capable only of composing the strangely-worded, ill-spelled letters they send, but the gratitude they express is so abundant and so genuine, that one overlooks the uncouthness of manner, and the unattractive appearance of the epistles. And seldom does she travel but at the most unexpected points scarred and maimed veterans present themselves before her, and with the deepest respect beg the privilege of once more offering their thanks. She may have forgotten the faces, that in the great procession of suffering flitted briefly before her, but they will never forget the face that bent above their couch of pain.

The native county of Mrs. Davis, Berkshire, Massachusetts, was famous for the abundance and excellence of the supplies it continually sent forward to the sick and suffering soldiers. The appeals of Mrs. Davis to the women of Berkshire, were numerous and always effective. Her letters were exceedingly graphic and spirited, and were published frequently in the county papers, reaching not only the villages in the teeming valleys but the scattered farm-houses among the hills; and they continually gave impulse and direction to the noble charities of those women, who, in their quiet homes, had already sent forth their dearest and best to the service of the country.

Mrs. Davis for herself disclaims all merit, but has no word of praise too much for these. They made the real sacrifices, these women who from their small means gave so much, who rose before the sun, alike in the cold of winter and the heat of summer, who performed the most menial tasks and the hardest toil that they might save for the soldiers, that they might gain time to work for the soldiers. It was they who gave much, not the lady who laid aside only the soft pleasures of a luxurious life, whose well-trained servants left no task unfinished during her absence, whose bath, and dress, and dinner were always ready on her return from the tour of visiting, who gave only what was not missed from her abundance, and made no sacrifice but that of her personal ease. So speaks Mrs. Davis, in noble self-depreciation of herself and her class. There is a variety of gifts. God and her country will decide whose work was most worthy.



MISS MARY J. SAFFORD

Miss Mary J. Safford, is a native of New England, having been born in Vermont, though her parents, very worthy people, early emigrated to the West, and settled in Northern Illinois, in which State she has since resided, making her home most of the time in Crete, Joliet, Shawneetown and Cairo; the last named place is her present home.

Miss Safford, early in life, evinced an unusual thirst for knowledge, and gave evidence of an intellect of a superior order; and, with an energy and zeal seldom known, she devoted every moment to the attainment of an education, the cultivation of her mind—and the gaining of such information as the means at hand afforded. Her love of the beautiful and good was at once marked, and every opportunity made use of to satisfy her desires in these directions.

Her good deeds date from the days of her childhood, and the remarkably high sense of duty of which she is possessed, makes her continually in search of some object of charity upon which to exert her beneficence and kindly care.

The commencement of the late rebellion, found her a resident of Cairo, Illinois, and immediately upon the arrival of the Union soldiers there, she set about organizing and establishing temporary hospitals throughout the different regiments, in order that the sick might have immediate and proper care and attention until better and more permanent arrangements could be effected. Every day found her a visitor and a laborer among these sick soldiers, scores of whom now bear fresh in their memories the petite form, and gentle and loving face of that good angel of mercy to whom they are indebted, through her kind and watchful care and nursing, for the lives they are now enjoying.

The morning after the battle of Belmont, found her,—the only lady—early on the field, fearlessly penetrating far into the enemies' lines, with her handkerchief tied upon a little stick, and waving above her head as a flag of truce,—ministering to the wounded, which our army had been compelled to leave behind, to some extent—and many a Union soldier owes his life to her almost superhuman efforts on that occasion. She continued her labors with the wounded after their removal to the hospitals, supplying every want in her power, and giving words of comfort and cheer to every heart.

As soon as the news of the terrible battle of Pittsburg Landing reached her, she gathered together a supply of lints and bandages, and provided herself with such stimulants and other supplies as might be required, not forgetting a good share of delicacies, and hastened to the scene of suffering and carnage, where she toiled incessantly day and night in her pilgrimage of love and mission of mercy for more than three weeks, and then only returned with a steamboat-load of the wounded on their way to the general hospitals. She continued her labors among the hospitals at Cairo and the neighborhood, constantly visiting from one to the other. Any day she could be seen on her errands of mercy passing along the streets with her little basket loaded with delicacies, or reading-matter, or accompanied with an attendant carrying ample supplies to those who had made known to her their desire for some favorite dish or relish. On Christmas day, 1861, there were some twenty-five regiments stationed at Cairo, and on that day she visited all the camps, and presented to every sick soldier some little useful present or token. The number of sad hearts that she made glad that day no one will ever know save He who knoweth all things. Her zeal and energy in this good work was so far in excess of her physical abilities, that she labored beyond her endurance, and her health finally became so much impaired that she was induced to leave the work and make a tour in Europe, where at this writing she still is, though an invalid. Her good deeds even followed her in her travels in a foreign land, and no sooner had the German States become involved in war, than she was called upon and consulted as to the establishment of hospital regulations and appointments there—and even urged to take charge of and establish and direct the whole system.

Mrs. Mary A. Livermore, of the Northwestern Sanitary Commission, who has known as much of Miss Safford's work, as any one connected with the service, writes thus of her:

"Miss Safford commenced her labors immediately, when Cairo was occupied. I think she was the very first woman who went into the camps and hospitals, in the country; I know she was in the West. There was no system, no organization, nothing to do with. She systematized everything in Cairo, furnished necessaries with her own means, or rather with her brother's, who is wealthy; went daily to the work, and though surgeons and authorities everywhere were opposed to her efforts, she disarmed all opposition by her sweetness and grace and beauty. She did just what she pleased. At Pittsburg Landing, where she was found in advance of other women, she was hailed by dying soldiers, who did not know her name, but had seen her at Cairo, as the 'Cairo Angel.' She came up with boat-load after boat-load of sick and wounded soldiers who were taken to hospitals at Cairo, Paducah, St. Louis, etc., cooking all the while for them, dressing wounds, singing to them, and praying with them. She did not undress on the way up from Pittsburg Landing, but worked incessantly.

"She was very frail, as petite as a girl of twelve summers, and utterly unaccustomed to hardships. Sleeping in hospital tents, working on pestilential boats, giving up everything to this life, carrying the sorrows of the country, and the burdens of the soldier on her heart like personal griefs, with none of the aids in the work that came afterwards, she broke down at the end of the first eighteen months, and will never again be well. Her brother sent her immediately to Paris, where she underwent the severest treatment for the cure of the injury to the spine, occasioned by her life in the army and hospitals. The physicians subsequently prescribed travel, and she has been since that time in Europe. She is highly educated, speaks French and German as well as English, and some Italian. She is the most indomitable little creature living, heroic, uncomplaining, self-forgetful, and will yet 'die in harness.' When the war broke out in Italy, she was in Florence, and at Madame Mario's invitation, immediately went to work to assist the Italian ladies in preparing for the sick and wounded of their soldiers. In Norway, she was devising ways and means to assist poor girls to emigrate to America, where they had relatives—and so everywhere. She must be counted among those who have given up health, and ultimately life for the country."

We add also the following extracts from a letter from Cairo, published in one of the Chicago papers, early in the war.

AN ANGEL AT CAIRO.

"I cannot close this letter from Cairo without a passing word of one whose name is mentioned by thousands of our soldiers with gratitude and blessing. Miss Mary Safford is a resident of this town, whose life since the beginning of the war, has been devoted to the amelioration of the soldier's lot, and his comfort in the hospitals. She is a young lady, petite in figure, unpretending, but highly cultivated, by no means officious, and so wholly unconscious of her excellencies, and the great work she is achieving, that I fear this public allusion to her may pain her modest nature. Her sweet, young face, full of benevolence, pleasant voice, and winning manner instate her in every one's heart directly; and the more one sees her, the more he admires her great soul and her noble nature. Not a day elapses but she is found in the hospitals, unless indeed she is absent on an errand of mercy up the Tennessee, or to the hospitals in Kentucky.

"Every sick and wounded soldier in Cairo knows and loves her; and as she enters the ward, every pale face brightens at her approach. As she passes along, she inquires of each one how he has passed the night, if he is well supplied with reading matter, and if there is anything she can do for him. All tell her their story frankly—the man old enough to be her father, and the boy of fifteen, who should be out of the army, and home with his mother. One thinks he would like a baked apple if the doctor will allow it—another a rice pudding, such as she can make—a third a tumbler of buttermilk—a fourth wishes nothing, is discouraged, thinks he shall die, and breaks down utterly, in tears, and him she soothes and encourages, till he resolves for her sake, to keep up a good heart, and hold on to life a little longer—a fifth wants her to write to his wife—a sixth is afraid to die, and with him, and for him, her devout spirit wrestles, till light shines through the dark valley—a seventh desires her to sit by him and read, and so on. Every request is attended to, be it ever so trivial, and when she goes again, if the doctor has sanctioned the gratification of the sick man's wish, the buttermilk, baked apple, rice pudding, etc., are carried along. Doctors, nurses, medical directors, and army officers, are all her true friends; and so judicious and trustworthy is she, that the Chicago Sanitary Commission have given her carte blanche to draw on their stores at Cairo for anything she may need in her errands of mercy. She is performing a noble work, and that too in the quietest and most unconscious manner. Said a sick soldier from the back woods, in the splendid hospital at Mound City, who was transferred thither from one of the miserable regimental hospitals at Cairo, 'I'm taken care of here a heap better than I was at Cairo; but I'd rather be there than here, for the sake of seeing that little gal that used to come in every day to see us. I tell you what, she's an angel, if there is any.' To this latter assertion we say amen! most heartily."

Miss Safford is the sister of A. B. Safford, Esq., a well-known and highly respected banker at Cairo, Illinois, and of Hon. A. P. K. Safford of Nevada.



MRS. LYDIA G. PARRISH.

At the outbreak of hostilities Mrs. Parrish was residing at Media, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. Her husband, Dr. Joseph Parrish, had charge of an institution established there for idiots, or those of feeble mental capacity, and it cannot be doubted that Mrs. Parrish, with her kindly and benevolent instincts, and desire for usefulness, found there an ample sphere for her efforts, and a welcome occupation.

But as in the case of thousands of others, all over the country, Mrs. Parrish found the current of her life and its occupations marvellously changed, by the war. There was a new call for the efforts of woman, such an one as in our country, or in the world, had never been made. English women had set the example of sacrifice and work for their countrymen in arms, but their efforts were on a limited scale, and bore but a very small proportion to the great uprising of loyal women in our country, and their varied, grand persistent labors during the late civil war in America. Not a class, or grade, or rank, of our countrywomen, but was represented in this work. The humble dweller in the fishing cabins on the bleak and desolate coast, the woman of the prairie, and of the cities, the wife and daughter of the mechanic, and the farmer, of the merchant, and the professional man, the lady from the mansion of wealth, proud perhaps of her old name, of her culture and refinement—all met and labored together, bound by one common bond of patriotism and of sympathy.

Mrs. Parrish was one of the first to lay her talents and her efforts upon the altar of her country. In 1861, and almost as soon as the need of woman's self-sacrificing labors became apparent, she volunteered her services in behalf of the sick and wounded soldiers of the Union.

She visited Washington while the army was yet at the capital and in its vicinity. Her husband, Dr. Parrish, had become connected with the newly organized Sanitary Commission, and in company with him and other gentlemen similarly connected, she examined the different forts, barracks, camps, and hospitals then occupied by our troops, for the purpose of ascertaining their condition, and selecting a suitable sphere for the work in which she intended to engage.

On the first day of 1862, she commenced her hospital labors, selecting for that purpose the Georgetown Seminary Hospital. She wrote letters for the patients, read to them, and gave to them all the aid and comfort in her power; and she was thus enabled to learn their real wants, and to seek the means of supplying them. Their needs were many, and awakened all her sympathies and incited her to ever-renewed effort. After one day's trial of these new scenes, she wrote thus in her journal, January 2, 1862: "My heart is so oppressed with the sight of suffering I see around me that I am almost unfitted for usefulness; such sights are new to me. I feel the need of some resource, where I may apply for delicacies and comforts, which are positively necessary. The Sanitary Commission is rapidly becoming the sinew of strength for the sick and wounded, and I will go to their store-rooms." Application was made to the Commission, and readily and promptly responded to. She was authorized to draw from their stores, and was promised aid and protection from the organization.

Both camps and hospitals were rapidly filling up; the weather was inclement and the roads bad, but at the solicitation of other earnest workers, she made occasional visits to camps in the country, and distributed clothing, books and comforts of various kinds. The "Berdan Sharp-shooters" were encamped a few miles from the city, and needed immediate assistance. She was requested by the Secretary of the Commission to "visit the camps, make observations, inquire into their needs, and report to the Commission." She reached the camp through almost impassable roads, and was received by the officers with respect and consideration, upon announcing the object of her visit. She made calls upon the men in hospitals and quarters, returned to Washington, reported "two hundred sick, tents and streets needing police, small pox breaking out, men discouraged, and officers unable to procure the necessary aid, that she had distributed a few jellies to the sick, checker boards to a few of the tents, and made a requisition for supplies to meet the pressing want." This little effort was the means of affording speedy relief to many suffering men. She did not however feel at liberty to abandon her hospital service, as we learn from a note in her diary, that "this outside work does not seem to be my mission. I have become thoroughly interested in my daily rounds at the city hospitals, particularly at Georgetown Seminary, where my heart and energies are fully enlisted." She passed several weeks in this service, going from bed to bed with her little stores, which she dispensed under instructions from the surgeon, without being known by name to the many recipients of her attention and care.

The stores of the Commission were not then as ample as they afterward became, when its noble aims had become more fully understood, and its grand mission of benevolence more widely known, and the sick and wounded were in need of many things not obtainable from either this source or the Government supplies. Mrs. Parrish determined, therefore, to return to her northern home and endeavor to interest the people of her neighborhood in the cause she had so much at heart. She found the people ready to respond liberally to her appeals, and soon returned to Washington well satisfied with the success of her efforts.

She felt now that her time, and if need be her life, must be consecrated to this work, and as her diary expresses it, she "could not remain at home," and that if she could be of service in her new sphere of labor she "must return."

After her brief absence, she re-entered the Georgetown Seminary Hospital. Death had removed some of her former patients, others had returned to duty, but others whom she left there welcomed her with enthusiasm as the "orange lady," a title she had unconsciously earned from the fact that she had been in the habit of distributing oranges freely to such of the patients as were allowed to have them.

The experience of life often shows us the importance of little acts which so frequently have an entirely disproportionate result. Mrs. Parrish found this true in her hospital ministrations. Little gifts and attentions often opened the way to the closed hearts of those to whom she ministered, and enabled her to reach the innermost concealed thought-life of her patients.

A soldier sat in his chair, wrapped in his blanket, forlorn, haggard from disease, sullen, selfish in expression, and shrinking from her notice as she passed him. To her morning salutation, he would return only a cold recognition. He seemed to be bristling with defenses against encroachment. And thus it remained till one day a small gift penetrated to the very citadel of his fortress.

"Shall I read to you?" she commenced, kindly, to which he replied, surlily, "Don't want reading." "Shall I write to any of your friends?" she continued. "I hav'n't any friends," he said in the sourest tone. Repulsed, but not baffled, she presently, and in the same kind manner, took an orange from her basket, and gently asked him if he would accept it. There was a perceptible brightening of his face, but he only answered, in the same surly tone, as he held forth his hand, "Don't care if I do."

And yet, in a little time, his sullen spirit yielded—he spread all his troubles before the friend he had so long repulsed, and opening his heart, showed that what had seemed so selfish and moody in him, arose from a deep sense of loneliness and discouragement, which disappeared the moment the orange had unlocked his heart, and admitted her to his confidence and affection.

About six weeks she spent thus in alternate visits to the various hospitals in the vicinity of Washington, though her labors were principally confined to the Georgetown Hospital, where they commenced, and where her last visit was made.

As her home duties called her at that time, she returned thither, briefly. Soon after she reached home, she received a letter from one of her former patients to whom she had given her address, requesting her to call at the Broad and Cherry Street Hospital, in Philadelphia. She did so, and on entering the building found herself surrounded by familiar faces. Her old Washington friends had just arrived, and welcomed her with cordial greetings. The stronger ones approached her with outstretched hands—some, too feeble to rise, covered their faces and wept with joy—she was the only person known to them in all the great lonely city. The surgeon-in-charge, observing this scene, urged her to visit the hospital often, where her presence was sure to do the men great good.

During her stay at home she assisted in organizing a Ladies' Aid Society at Chester. She was appointed Directress for the township where she resided, and as the hospital was about to be located near Chester, she, with others, directed her attention to preparing and furnishing it. Sewing-circles were formed, and as a result of the efforts made, by the time the soldiers arrived, a plentiful supply of nice clothing, delicacies, etc., etc., was ready for them.

Mrs. Parrish united with other women of the vicinity in organizing a corps of volunteer nurses, who continued to perform their duties with regularity and faithfulness until some time after, a new order dispensed with their services.

Her labors during the summer and autumn of 1862 visibly affected her health, and were the cause of a severe illness which continued for several weeks.

Her health being at length restored, she went to Washington, spent a few days in visiting the hospitals there, and then, with a pass sent her by Major-General Sumner, from Falmouth, she joined Mrs. Dr. Harris and started, January 17th, 1863, for Falmouth via Acquia Creek.

The army was in motion and much confusion existed, but they found comfortable quarters at the Lacy House, where they were under the protection of the General and his staff.

Here Mrs. Parrish found much to do, there being a great deal of sickness among the troops. The weather was stormy, and the movement of the army was impeded; and though she underwent much privation for want of suitable food, and on account of the inclement season she continued faithful at her post and accomplished much good.

In December of the same year she accompanied her husband, with the Medical Director of the Department of Virginia and North Carolina, on a tour of inspection to the hospitals of Yorktown, Fortress Monroe, Norfolk, Portsmouth, and Newbern, North Carolina. While at Old Point she learned that there was about to be an exchange of prisoners, and desiring to render some services in this direction obtained permission from General Butler to proceed, in company with a friend, Miss L. C. on the flag-of-truce boat to City Point, witness the exchange, and render such aid as was possible to our men on their return passage.

There were five hundred Confederate prisoners on board, who, as her journal records, "sang our National airs, and seemed to be a jolly and happy healthy company."

Our men were in a very different condition—"sick and weary," and needing the Sanitary Commission supplies, which had been brought for them, yet shouting with feeble voices their gladness at being once more under the old flag, and in freedom. Mrs. Parrish fed and comforted these poor men as best she could, till the steamer anchored off Old Point again.

It had been intended to continue the exchange much further, but a dispute arising concerning the treatment of negro prisoners, the operations of the cartel were arrested, and the exchange suspended. She found, therefore, no further need of her services in this direction, and so returned home.

For many months to come, as one of the managers of the women's branch of the United States Sanitary Commission, she found ample employment in preparation for the great Philadelphia Fair, in which arduous service she continued until its close, in July, 1864. The exhausting labors of these months, and the heat of the weather during the continuance of the Fair, made it necessary for her to have a respite for the remainder of the summer.

It was in the early winter of this year that she accompanied her husband on a tour of inspection to the hospitals of Annapolis, and became so interested in the condition of the returned prisoners, who needed so much done for them in the way of personal care, that she gladly consented, at the solicitation of the medical officers and agent of the Commission, to serve there for a season.

Of the usefulness of her work among the prisoners, testimony is abundant. What she saw, and what she did, is most touchingly set forth in the following letters from her pen, extracted from the Bulletin of the United States Sanitary Commission:

ANNAPOLIS, December 1, 1864.

"The steamer Constitution arrived this morning with seven hundred and six men, one hundred and twenty-five of whom were sent immediately to hospitals, being too ill to enjoy more than the sight of their 'promised land.' Many indeed, were in a dying condition. Some had died a short time before the arrival of the boat. Those who were able, proceeded to the high ground above the landing, and after being divided into battalions, each was conducted in turn to the Government store-house, under charge of Captain Davis, who furnished each man with a new suit of clothes recorded his name, regiment and company. They then passed out to another building near by, where warm water, soap, towels, brushes and combs awaited them.

"After their ablutions they returned to the open space in front of the building, to look around and enjoy the realities of their new life. Here they were furnished with paper, envelopes, sharpened pencils, hymn-books and tracts from the Sanitary Commission, and sat down to communicate the glad news of their freedom to friends at home. In about two hours most of the men who were able, had sealed their letters and deposited them in a large mail bag which was furnished, and they were soon sent on their way to hundreds of anxious kindred and friends.

"Captain Davis very kindly invited me to accompany him to another building, to witness the administration of the food. Several cauldrons containing nice coffee, piles of new white bread, and stands covered with meat, met the eye. Three dealers were in attendance. The first gave to each soldier a loaf of bread, the second a slice of boiled meat, the third, dipping the new tin-cup from the hand of each, into the coffee cauldron, dealt out hot coffee; and how it was all received I am unable to describe. The feeble ones reached out their emaciated hands to receive gladly, that which they were scarcely able to carry, and with brightening faces and grateful expressions went on their way. The stouter ones of the party, however, must have their jokes, and such expressions as the following passed freely among them: 'No stockade about this bread,' 'This is no confederate dodge,' etc. One fellow, whose skin was nearly black from exposure, said, 'That's more bread than I've seen for two months.' Another, 'That settles a man's plate.' A bright-eyed boy of eighteen, whose young spirit had not been completely crushed out in rebeldom, could not refrain from a hurrah, and cried out, 'Hurrah for Uncle Sam, hurrah! No Confederacy about this bread.' One poor feeble fellow, almost too faint to hold his loaded plate, muttered out, 'Why, this looks as if we were going to live, there's no grains of corn for a man to swallow whole in this loaf.' Thus the words of cheer and hope came from almost every tongue, as they received their rations and walked away, each with his 'thank you, thank you;' and sat down upon the ground, which forcibly reminded me of the Scripture account where the multitude sat down in companies, 'and did eat and were filled.'

"Ambulances came afterwards to take those who were unable to walk to Camp Parole, which is two miles distant. One poor man, who was making his way behind all the rest to reach the ambulance, thought it would leave him, and with a most anxious and pitiful expression, cried out, 'Oh, wait for me!' I think I shall never forget his look of distress. When he reached the wagon he was too feeble to step in, but Captain Davis, and Rev. J. A. Whitaker, Sanitary Commission agent, assisted him till he was placed by the side of his companions, who were not in much better condition than himself. When he was seated, he was so thankful, that he wept like a child, and those who stood by to aid him could do no less. Soldiers—brave soldiers, officers and all, were moved to tears. That must be a sad discipline which not only wastes the manly form till the sign of humanity is nearly obliterated, but breaks the manly spirit till it is as tender as a child's."

"December 6, 1864.

"The St. John's College Hospital, is under the management of Dr. Palmer, surgeon-in-charge, and his executive officer, Dr. Tremaine. These gentlemen are worthy of praise for the systematic arrangement of its cleanly apartments, and for the very kind attention they bestow on their seven hundred patients. I visited the hospital a day or two ago, and, from what I saw there, can assure the relatives at home, that the sufferers are well provided for. If they could only be seen, how comfortable they look in their neat white-spread beds, much pain would be spared them. One of the surgeons informed me that all the appliances are bestowed either by the Government or the Sanitary Commission.

"As I passed through the different wards, I noticed that each one was well supplied with rocking-chairs, and alluding to the great comfort they must be to the invalids, the surgeon replied: 'Yes, this is one of the rich gifts made to us by the Sanitary Commission.' An invalid took up the words and remarked: 'I think it's likely that all about me is from the Sanitary, for I see my flannel shirt, this wrapper, and pretty much all I've got on, has the stamp of the United States Sanitary Commission on it.'

"The diet kitchen is under the care of Miss Rich, who, with her assistants, was busy preparing delicacies of various kinds, for two hundred patients who were not able to go to the convalescent's table. The whole atmosphere was filled with the odor of savory viands. On the stove I counted mutton-chops, beef-steaks, oysters, chicken, milk, tea, and other very palatable articles cooking. A man stood by a table, buttering nicely toasted bread; before him were eight to ten rows of the staff of life, rising up like pillars of strength to support the inner man. The chief cook in this department, informed me that he buttered twelve hundred slices of bread, or toast daily, for the diet patients, and prepared eighty-six different dishes at each meal. While in conversation with this good-natured person, the butcher brought in a supply of meat, amounting, he informed me, to one hundred pounds per day for the so-called diet kitchen, though this did not sound much like it. Before we left this attractively clean place the oysterman was met emptying his cans. Upon inquiring how many oysters he had, he replied, 'Six gallons is my every day deposit here;' and oh! they were so inexpressibly fine-looking, I could not resist robbing some poor fellow of one large bivalve to ascertain their quality. Next we were shown the store-room, where there was a good supply of Sanitary stores, pads, pillows, shirts, drawers, arm-slings, stock of crutches, fans, and other comforts, which, the doctor said, had been deposited by the United States Sanitary Commission Agent. These were useful articles that were not furnished by the Government.

"The executive officer having given us permission to find our way among the patients, we passed several hours most profitably and interestingly, conversing with those who had none to cheer them for many months, and writing letters for those who were too feeble to use the pen. When the day closed our labors we felt like the disciple of old, who said, 'Master, it is good to be here,' and wished that we might set up our tabernacle and glorify the Lord by doing good to the sick, the lame, and those who had been in prison."

"December 8, 1864.

"No human tongue or pen can ever describe the horrible suffering we have witnessed this day.

"I was early at the landing, eight and a-half o'clock in the morning, before the boat threw out her ropes for security. The first one brought two hundred bad cases, which the Naval surgeon told me should properly go to the hospital near by, were it not that others were coming, every one of whom was in the most wretched condition imaginable. They were, therefore, sent in ambulances to Camp Parole hospital, distant two miles, after being washed and fed at the barracks.

"In a short time another boat-load drew near, and oh! such a scene of suffering humanity I desire never to behold again. The whole deck was a bed of straw for our exhausted, starved, emaciated, dying fellow-creatures. Of the five hundred and fifty that left Savannah, the surgeon informed me not over two hundred would survive; fifty had died on the passage; three died while the boat was coming to the land. I saw five men dying as they were carried on stretchers from the boat to the Naval Hospital. The stretcher-bearers were ordered by Surgeon D. Vanderkieft to pause a moment that the names of the dying men might be obtained. To the credit of the officers and their assistants it should be known that everything was done in the most systematic and careful manner. Each stretcher had four attendants, who stood in line and came up promptly, one after the other, to receive the sufferers as they were carried off the boat. There was no confusion, no noise; all acted with perfect military order. Ah! it was a solemn funeral service to many a brave soldier, that was thus being performed by kind hearts and hands.

"Some had become insane; their wild gaze, and clenched teeth convinced the observer that reason had fled; others were idiotic; a few lying in spasms; perhaps the realization of the hope long cherished, yet oft deferred, or the welcome sound of the music, sent forth by the military band, was more than their exhausted nature could bear. When blankets were thrown over them, no one would have supposed that a human form lay beneath, save for the small prominences which the bony head and feet indicated. Oh! God of justice, what retribution awaits the perpetrators of such slow and awful murder.

"The hair of some was matted together, like beasts of the stall which lie down in their own filth. Vermin are over them in abundance. Nearly every man was darkened by scurvy, or black with rough scales, and with scorbutic sores. One in particular was reduced to the merest skeleton; his face, neck, and feet covered with thick, green mould. A number who had Government clothes given them on the boat were too feeble to put them on, and were carried ashore partially dressed, hugging their clothing with a death-grasp that they could not be persuaded to yield. It was not unfrequent to hear a man feebly call, as he was laid on a stretcher, "Don't take my clothes;" "Oh, save my new shoes;" "Don't let my socks go back to Andersonville." In their wild death-struggle, with bony arms and hands extended, they would hold up their new socks, that could not be put on because of their swollen limbs, saying 'Save 'em till I get home.' In a little while, however, the souls of many were released from their worn-out frames, and borne to that higher home where all things are registered for a great day of account.

"Let our friends at home have open purses and willing hands to keep up the supplies for the great demand that must necessarily be made upon them. Much more must yet be done.

"Thousands now languish in Southern prisons, that may yet be brought thus far toward home. Let every Aid Society be more diligent, that the stores of the Sanitary Commission may not fail in this great work."

Her services at Annapolis were cut short, and prematurely discontinued; for returning to her home for a short stay, to make preparations for a longer sojourn at Annapolis, she was again attacked by illness, which rendered it impossible for her to go thither again.

On her recovery, knowing that an immense amount of ignorance existed among officers and men concerning the operations of the Sanitary Commission, she compiled a somewhat elaborate, yet carefully condensed statement of its plans and workings, together with a great amount of useful information in relation to the facilities embraced in its system of special relief, giving a list of all Homes and Lodges, and telling how to secure back pay for soldiers, on furlough or discharged, bounties, pensions, etc., etc. Bound up with this, is a choice collection of hymns, adapted to the soldier's use, the whole forming a neat little volume of convenient size for the pocket.

The manuscript was submitted to the committee, accepted, and one hundred thousand copies ordered to be printed for gratuitous distribution in all the hospitals and camps. The "Soldiers' Friend," as it was called, was soon distributed in the different departments and posts of the army, and was even found in the Southern hospitals and prisons, while it was the pocket companion of men in the trenches, as well as of those in quarters and hospital. Many thousands were instructed by this little directory, where to find the lodges, homes and pension offices of the Commission, and were guarded against imposture and loss. So urgent was the demand for it, and so useful was it, that the committee ordered a second edition.

Perhaps no work published by the Sanitary Commission has been of more real and practical use than this little volume, or has had so large a circulation. It was the last public work performed for the Commission by Mrs. Parrish. At the close of the war her labors did not end; but transferring her efforts to the amelioration of the condition of the freedmen, she still found herself actively engaged in a work growing directly out of the war.



MRS. ANNIE WITTENMEYER

Mrs. Annie Wittenmeyer, who, during the early part of the war was widely known as the State Sanitary Agent of Iowa, and afterward as the originator of the Diet Kitchens, which being attached to hospitals proved of the greatest benefit as an adjunct of the medical treatment, was at the outbreak of the rebellion, residing in quiet seclusion at Keokuk. With the menace of armed treason to the safety of her country's institutions, she felt all her patriotic instincts and sentiments arousing to activity. She laid aside her favorite intellectual pursuits, and prepared herself to do what a woman might in the emergency which called into existence a great army, and taxed the Government far beyond its immediate ability in the matter of Hospital Supplies and the proper provision for, and care of the sick and wounded.

Early in 1861 rumors of the sufferings of the volunteer soldiery, called so suddenly to the field, and from healthy northern climates to encounter the unwholesome and miasmatic exhalations of more southern regions, as well as the pain of badly-dressed wounds, began to thrill and grieve the hearts which had willingly though sadly sent them forth in their country's defense. Mrs. Wittenmeyer saw at once that a field of usefulness opened before her. Her first movement was to write letters to every town in her State urging patriotic women in every locality to organize themselves into Aid Societies, and commence systematically the work of supplying the imperative needs of the suffering soldiers. These appeals, and the intense sympathy and patriotism that inspired the hearts of the women of the North, proved quite sufficient. In Iowa the earlier Reports were addressed to her, and societies throughout the State forwarded their goods to the Keokuk Aid Society with which she was connected. As the agent of this society Mrs. Wittenmeyer went to the field and distributed these supplies.

Thus her work had its inception—and being still the chosen agent of distribution, she gave herself no rest. In fact, from the summer of 1861 until the close of the war, she was continually and actively employed in some department of labor for the soldiers, and did not allow herself so much as one week for rest.

From June, 1861, to April 1st, 1862, she had received and distributed goods to the value of $6,000. From that to July 1st, $12,564, and from that until September 25th, 1862, $2,000, making a total of $20,564 received before her appointment of that date by the Legislature as State Agent. From that time until her resignation of the office, January 13th, 1864, she received $115,876.93. Thus, in about two years and a half, she received and distributed more than $136,000 worth of goods and sanitary stores contributed for the benefit of suffering soldiers.

But while laboring so constantly in the army, Mrs. Wittenmeyer did not overlook the needs of the destitute at home. In October, 1863, a number of benevolent individuals, of whom she was one, called a Convention of Aid Societies, which had for its foremost object to take some steps toward providing for the wants of the orphans of soldiers. That Convention led to the establishment of the Iowa Soldiers' Orphans' Home, an Institution of which the State is now justly proud, and which is bestowing upon hundreds of children bountiful care and protection.

While laboring in the hospitals at Chattanooga in the winter of 1863-4, Mrs. Wittenmeyer matured her long-cherished plan for supplying food for the lowest class of hospital patients, and this led to the establishment of Diet Kitchens. Believing her idea could be better carried out by the Christian Commission, than under any other auspices, she soon after resigned her position as State agent, and became connected with that organization.

From a little work entitled "Christ in the Army," composed of sketches by different individuals, and published by the Christian Commission, and from the Fourth Report of the Maryland Branch of the Christian Commission, we make the following extracts, relative to Mrs. Wittenmeyer's labors in this sphere of effort:

"The sick and wounded suffer greatly from the imperfect cooking of the soldier nurses. To remedy this evil, a number of ladies have offered themselves as delegates of the Christian Commission, and arrangements have been made with the medical authorities to establish Diet Kitchens, where suitable food may be prepared by ladies' hands for our sick soldiers,—the Government furnishing the staple articles, and the Christian Commission providing the ladies and the delicacies and cordials. One of these at Knoxville is thus described by a correspondent of The Lutheran:—

"There have been several large hospitals in this city, but recently they have been all consolidated into one. In connection with this hospital is a 'Special Diet Kitchen.' Many of our readers will doubtless wonder what these 'Special Diet Kitchens' are. They have been originated by Mrs. Annie Wittenmeyer, of Keokuk, formerly State Sanitary Agent of Iowa. In her arduous labors in the Army of the Cumberland, she met with a large number of patients who suffered for want of suitably prepared, delicate and nutritious food. None of the benevolent institutions in connection with the army have been able to reach this class of persons. She says, in her report to the General Assembly of the State: 'This matter has given me serious and anxious thought for the past year, but I have recently submitted to the Christian Commission a plan by which I believe this class of patients may be reached and relieved. The plan proposed, is the establishment of "Special Diet Kitchens," in connection with that Commission, to be superintended by earnest, prudent Christian women, who will secure the distribution of proper food to this class of patients—taking such delicate articles of food as our good people supply to the very bed-sides of the poor languishing soldiers, and administering, with words of encouragement and sympathy, to their pressing wants; such persons to co-operate with the surgeons in all their efforts for the sick.' This plan of operations has been sanctioned and adopted by the United States Christian Commission. There is one in successful operation at Nashville, under the direction, I believe, of a daughter of the Honorable J. K. Moorehead, of Pittsburg. The one here is under the direction of Mrs. R. E. Conrad, of Keokuk, Iowa, and her two sisters. They are doing a great and good work now in Knoxville. From three to five hundred patients are thus daily supplied with delicate food, who would otherwise have scarcely anything to eat. The success of their labors has demonstrated beyond a doubt the practicability of the plan of Mrs. Wittenmeyer. The good resulting from their arduous labor proves that much can be done by these special efforts to rescue those who are laid upon languishing beds of sickness and pain, and have passed almost beyond the reach of ordinary means. The great need we have in connection with these 'Diet Kitchens,' is the want of canned fruits, jellies, preserves, etc. If our good people, who have already done so much, will provide these necessary means, they will be distributed to the most needy, and in such a way as to accomplish the most good."