Life in a hospital! When and where? Now and here. Now, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three; here, in this good city of Philadelphia, whose generous outpouring of her sons, for the cause, nearest all our hearts, can only be matched by the loving tenderness with which she receives and cherishes them, on their return, maimed and mutilated, to their homes amongst us. Every one, who knows anything of the subject at the present moment, is well aware, that no matter where it may be situated, whether opened at the first need, or the creation of yesterday, still “our Hospital” will be, to the speaker, the most perfect in arrangement, discipline, and ventilation; the medical staff connected with it the most efficient, skilful and faithful; the corps of subordinates the most competent, systematic and thorough. Such is human nature, and we all find the weakness a pardonable one.

How natural it seems to be here! How naturally we accept this strange daily life! And yet, how unnatural it would have seemed two years ago, could we have lifted but one little corner of that mystic veil, which so blessedly prevents even a glimpse of the coming hour; how unnatural, I say, would it have seemed to us, to be standing, as we are at the present moment, in a little domain of our own, consecrated exclusively to us; turning to all sorts of utterly unwonted avocations; any and every sort of service which may bring comfort or aid to those who were strangers to us, till this very day, and after a few to-morrows, will, in all probability, be strangers to us forevermore.

And yet, how glad we are to do it, and they to have it done. “Stop there, my friend,” you say. “‘And they to have it done.’ Is that so? Are the men quite as glad to have it done, as you to do it?” Ah, you have heard that cry. I too have heard it, and will tell you frankly, and as far as possible, impartially, my own conclusion, after careful examination of that point:

“Women are not needed in these hospitals.”

“Depend upon it, ladies are a bore here.”

“The men are victimized.”

All these and many similar remarks have I heard, and they have led me earnestly to look at the question in all its bearings. The petty jealousy of man and his work; the narrowness and littleness of mind which bristles with indignant anger at the suggestion of man’s superiority, are all unworthy of the great cause we have at heart. But one question is before us. Are the facts so, or are they not? If, after every effort honestly to get at the truth, it shall appear that there really is no need of woman and her work; that these enormous collections of suffering and dying human beings, massed together by this ruthless rebellion, with its wretched results, actually and positively, may be carried on better, more practically, more systematically, without her aid and co-operation, then let her promptly and decidedly retire; let her do it without anger, without clamor, without bitterness; she is not needed. If this be so, let her turn into some other channel the love and tenderness which she longs to lavish on those who are giving their heart’s blood to defend and protect her.

If this be so, I say; but if on the other hand it shall appear that her presence is not productive of disorder; not distasteful to the men; that she is not only sanctioned, but welcomed by the authorities in charge, then let her go “right onward,” unmindful of coldness, calumny, or comment from the world outside, strong in the consciousness of singleness of aim and purity of purpose. And, more than this, if the Dread Day may show, that through her kneeling at the bedside of one sinning soul, through her teaching of

the dark Door of Death has been changed into the White Gate of Life Everlasting, shall it not then be granted that women were needed?

This is not the time or place to enter upon the great question of woman’s mission. She has her work, and the time is coming when she shall be permitted to do it. God, in His own marvellous way, is, even now, causing the dawn of that blessed day to break, when, rising above prejudice and party spirit, she shall be allowed to take her true place, and be, in the highest sense of the word, a “Sister” to the suffering and the sorrowful; to assert and claim her “rights,” the only rights of which a woman may justly be proud.

Anxious, as I have said, to discover whether our presence in the hospital was really acceptable or not, I have closely watched the countenances of the men on the entrance of the lady visitors. I speak not now of myself, for I am merely one, and a most insignificant one, among many; but I can truly say, that at all such times I have never, but once, seen other than an expression of pleasure, and the warm greeting is apparently most sincere. The one instance to which I allude, is certainly no argument against the presence of ladies; it extended to every one who approached his bedside, and was produced by intense physical anguish, acting on a highly nervous organization. I merely name it now, because it is, as I have said, the sole instance in which we were not welcomed and urged to stay. And yet, the very words, in that suffering, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched,” proved that it was no dislike to us personally, but merely that terrible state, too well known to any one of a very nervous temperament, when even the stirring of the air by the bedside seems a pain. Subsequent events, which I have noted elsewhere, show this to have been the case.

At the time of the visit of the Surgeon-General of the United States to inspect the hospitals, it was rumored, though wholly without foundation, that his object was to change the organization and remove the ladies. The burst of feeling with which this rumor was received was more than gratifying, it was convincing, and proved that if the men were “victimized” they were quite unconscious of it. Only a day or two since, as I was sitting by one of our sick men, M. passed with some preparation in her hand, which she had just made. He turned to me, and pointing to her, said, “I don’t think all our angels are in heaven, do you?”

The same feeling, though not always expressed in the same words, seems to be entertained by one and all. “Tell me,” said I to one the other day, “if I am in your way?”

“In our way!” said he, “is the green grass in our way?”

“No, for you walk over it, and I have no wish to be trampled on.”

He looked disappointed. “I didn’t mean that, Miss, I meant its presence always cools and refreshes us, and I thought you’d understand.”

“I did quite understand, and thank you,” I said, sorry that I had pained him by rejecting the well-meant expression of feeling.

Any one who seriously desires to ascertain the truth, (and to such only do I address myself) will believe that these instances are not recorded for the sake of retailing compliments, but as proofs of a far deeper feeling, which, there can be little doubt, does exist in the hearts of the men amongst whom we are appointed to minister.