[Boston—Wednesday, 10 October 1866]
Wednesday—a kind of light has come to show me how it is better (yes perhaps happier) by far to live and make use of poetry such as some people can concentrate into poems, than to live only for such concentration. It is well the light has come, for I have a little family of 5 now and 4 below stairs for a few days.
Dear Mr Bartol came yesterday bringing exquisite grapes from his own vine, and told us of Miss Gilson who was so famous in the hospitals. A rebel soldier made a vow she should be his heir and sent her $900.
She described to our friend the first amputation she assisted in saying “when the blood spurted into my face I felt body and soul sink within me, but a strength was given to me then and I conquered once for all.” We are to know her better. Her story of the pudding also, that she gave it on alternate days to our men and to the rebels there never being enough on one day for all, showed judgment, but when the news of the terrible assassination came and it was the rebels day to have the pudding, she felt she must conquer a feeling which arose in herself not to give it them—she was hardly sure of herself when she found cooks and waiters in rebellion, “they should not have it” but by her tender persuasion she made them all feel as she did and even on that saddest day the rebels had their pudding. What a victory that was.
Good Mr Little came in beaming with excellence, bringing a large basket of pears. His kindness is like sunshine, warming everything by unconscious heart.
