In conclusion, I must regret the necessity of any mention of self; but the nature of the subject requires this, and without it, very frequently the point to be established would be lost. I have omitted many incidents from this very objection, but it would be unjust to the cause which I have at heart to do more, and I must therefore trust that the reader will believe me, when I say that any such allusion arises from necessity, not taste. AUGUST, 1863. FLORIAN.--A soldier, didst thou say, Horatio? What! Is’t from the ranks you mean? Faugh! HORATIO.--Marry, I did! A soldier and a man; and, being a soldier, all the manlier, maybe. We “Faugh!” and turn our precious noses to the wind, As breath from ranks, perforce must be rank breath; But, mark, my lord, God made the ranks, and more, God died for those same ranks, as well as men of rank. OLD PLAY. NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. INTRODUCTION. 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: