"The few torches light up the spectacle. All around on the wharf, on the ground, out on side places, etc., the men are lying on blankets and old quilts, with the bloody rags bound round heads, arms, legs, etc. The attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also,--only a few hard-worked transportation men and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by the ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is called to back up and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings,--a few groans that cannot be repressed, and occasionally a scream of pain, as they lift a man into the ambulance. "To-day, as I write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days. "The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is generally supposed,--I should say nine tenths are native-born. Among the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois men. As usual, there are all sorts of wounds. Some of the men are fearfully burnt from the explosion of artillery caissons. One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was, perhaps, worse than usual. Amputations are going on,--the attendants are dressing wounds. As you pass by, you must be on your guard where you look. I saw, the other day, a gentleman--a visitor, apparently, from curiosity--in one of the wards stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing, etc. He turned pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen on the floor." An episode,--the death of a New York soldier:--