_Tuesday afternoon._ Mother, it seems to be certain that Meade has gained
the day, and that the battles there in Pennsylvania have been about as
terrible as any in the war--I think the killed and wounded there on both
sides were as many as eighteen or twenty thousand--in one place, four or
five acres, there were a thousand dead at daybreak on Saturday morning.
Mother, one's heart grows sick of war, after all, when you see what it
really is; every once in a while I feel so horrified and disgusted--it
seems to me like a great slaughter-house and the men mutually butchering
each other--then I feel how impossible it appears, again, to retire from
this contest, until we have carried our points (it is cruel to be so
tossed from pillar to post in one's judgment). Washington is a pleasant
place in some respects--it has the finest trees, and plenty of them
everywhere, on the streets and grounds. The Capitol grounds, though small,
have the finest cultivated trees I ever see--there is a great variety, and
not one but is in perfect condition. After I finish this letter I am going
out there for an hour's recreation. The great sights of Washington are the
public buildings, the wide streets, the public grounds, the trees, the
Smithsonian institute and grounds. I go to the latter occasionally--the
institute is an old fogy concern, but the grounds are fine. Sometimes I go
up to Georgetown, about two and a half miles up the Potomac, an old
town--just opposite it in the river is an island, where the niggers have
their first Washington reg't encamped. They make a good show, are often
seen in the streets of Washington in squads. Since they have begun to
carry arms, the Secesh here and in Georgetown (about three fifths) are not
insulting to them as formerly.
One of the things here always on the go is long trains of army
wagons--sometimes they will stream along all day; it almost seems as if
there was nothing else but army wagons and ambulances. They have great
camps here in every direction, of army wagons, teamsters, ambulance camps,
etc.; some of them are permanent, and have small hospitals. I go to them
(as no one else goes; ladies would not venture). I sometimes have the
luck to give some of the drivers a great deal of comfort and help. Indeed,
mother, there are camps here of everything--I went once or twice to the
contraband camp, to the hospital, etc., but I could not bring myself to go
again--when I meet black men or boys among my own hospitals, I use them
kindly, give them something, etc.--I believe I told you that I do the same
to the wounded Rebels, too--but as there is a limit to one's sinews and
endurance and sympathies, etc., I have got in the way, after going
lightly, as it were, all through the wards of a hospital, and trying to
give a word of cheer, if nothing else, to every one, then confining my
special attentions to the few where the investment seems to tell best, and
who want it most. Mother, I have real pride in telling you that I have the
consciousness of saving quite a number of lives by saving them from giving
up--and being a good deal with them; the men say it is so, and the doctors
say it is so--and I will candidly confess I can see it is true, though I
say it of myself. I know you will like to hear it, mother, so I tell you.
I am finishing this in Major Hapgood's office, about 1 o'clock--it is
pretty warm, but has not cleared off yet. The trees look so well from
where I am, and the Potomac--it is a noble river; I see it several miles,
and the Arlington heights. Mother, I see some of the 47th Brooklyn every
day or two; the reg't is on the heights back of Arlington house, a fine
camp ground. O Matty, I have just thought of you--dear sister, how are
you getting along? Jeff, I will write you truly. Good-bye for the
present, dearest mother, and all.