ncouragement to the women nurses appointed by Miss Dix, and receiving a
paltry stipend from the Government, were most gratefully appreciated by
those self-denying, hard-working, and often sorely-tried women--many of
them the peers in culture, refinement and intellect of any lady in the
land, but treated with harshness and discourtesy by boy-surgeons, who
lacked the breeding or instincts of the gentleman. Her genuine modesty
and humility have led her, as well as her sisters, to deprecate any
notoriety or public notice of their work, which they persist in
regarding as unworthy of record; but so will it not be regarded by the
soldiers who have been rescued from inevitable death by their persistent
toil, nor by a nation grateful for the services rendered to its brave
defenders.

Mrs. Robert S. Howland was the wife of a clergyman, and an earnest
worker in the hospitals and in the Metropolitan Sanitary Fair, and her
friends believed that her over-exertion in the preparation and
attendance upon that fair, contributed to shorten a life as precious and
beautiful as was ever offered upon the altar of patriotism. Mrs. Howland
possessed rare poetic genius, and some of her effusions, suggested by
incidents of army or hospital life, are worthy of preservation as among
the choicest gems of poetry elicited by the war. "A Rainy Day in Camp,"
"A Message from the Army," etc., are poems which many of our readers
will recall with interest and pleasure. A shorter one of equal merit and
popularity, we copy not only for its brevity, but because it expresses
so fully the perfect peace which filled her heart as completely as it
did that of the subject of the poem:

IN THE HOSPITAL.

"S. S----, a Massachusetts Sergeant, worn out with heavy marches,
wounds and camp disease, died in ---- General Hospital, in
November, 1863, in 'perfect peace.' Some who witnessed daily his
wonderful sweet patience and content, through great languor and
weariness, fancied sometimes they 'could already see the brilliant
particles of a halo in the air about his head.'

"I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care.
Whether my waking find
Me here--or THERE!

"A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving Breast.

"My good right-hand forgets
Its cunning now--
To march the weary march
I know not how.