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Camp of 5th Mass. Cavy.
Point Lookout, Md., Jany 8th. 1865.

My dear Mother

It suddenly occurs to me, just
as I set down, that in writing to you this
week I am not writing to the rest of the family
in London,– to-day you & Mary are in damp,
foggy England, but this letter will be read by
you in soft, bright Italy. What a pleasant
idea! Actually this piece of paper is going
to Italy, & what I am saying now will be
read on the banks of the Tiber on the shores of
the Mediterranean, or somewhere afar off, – probably
too at breakfast at a Tavern. Really, at this mo-
ment I feel very like H. Flaccus, S. Johnson
& other distinguished characters of antiquity. However
to return to the charge, – that is to find something
to say. I owe you letters an letters but where-
withal am I to answer them,- my debts I
confess, but I am fairly bankrupt, –I can't
even pay them in gossip, the small change of

a correspondence. However I will try to
hammer out something. I hope you really
didn't conceive a hope that I was coming
out to visit you again & to recover my broken
health under the balmy skies of Italy, – if so
you were doomed to disappointment. I am
still at Point Lookout, indulging freely in
the society of Africans & looking, not so much
after the welfare, as the safe-keeping, of certain
of our deluded Southern brethren. Life here
is comfortable but not exciting,- non indeed arou-
sing. In fact my only sensations of excitement
or amusement are derived from the drill
ground, where from time to time I cause
the regiment to attempt certain evolutions
about which it is supremely ignorant & there,
with mighty outward indignation & a profuse
airing of expletives, but with almost irrepressi-
ble inward amusement, I see the regiment
snarl itself hopelessly up & finally come to a
standstill only where confusion cannot be worse
confounded. This generally happens about twice every drill & is simply one way I adopt of
getting amusement out of Point Lookout,- a thing
hardly less intrinsically absurd than the idea of
getting blood out of a bed-post. It is here
that I chiefly indulge in the society of my
Africans, as to our deluded Southern brethren,
I only indulge in their society where, about
once a week, I am detailed as Field Officer
of the Day. This took place last Friday & I
saw the pleasures of being a prisoner of war in
wet weather, – for I rode through their pens
in a drenching rain. By the way, you drew a
wrong impression from my description if you
concluded that our prisoners were harshly
treated. War is cruel in all its parts, – a horrid
blessing sent on mankind in a shape curiously
like a curse,- & in all wars the purest form
of squalid misery to which Gods image is any-
where reduced has ever been found in the
depots of prisoners. Our war is no exception
to the rule, & yet our prisoners are treated
with all reasonable tenderness & care. Their lives are not thought precious, but neither are
those of our soldiers, & my experience & observa-
tion lead me to state, as the conclusion of my
best judgment, that our prisoners of war at
this point are, on the average the year round,
as little exposed & as well fed & the wear &
tear on their vital powers is as bearable, as is
the average of with our own soldiers in active cam—
paign. As to that pile of coffins which so
harrowed you, it is almost gone now, but I
must say I think your sympathies were
most unduly excited. Nelson, you know, for
years carried his coffin round in the cabin
of his ship. If the sight of a pile of coffins
is going to shock a man he’d better keep
out of the Army, – &, by the way, where wer
that very pile of coffins was the best possible
evidence that men did not die fast, for
when men die fast, the prejudice in favor
of coffins doesn't last long. For instance,
do you suppose Coffins would be used if
they were needed at the rate of ten a day?

However, impelled by your letter I thought
on Friday I would look into the matter of
our prisoners conditions. Accordingly I said to
myself, "In Hospitals one sees misery", & so to the
Hospitals I will go, " & to them I went at once.
I must confess, having done so, to a strong
sense, when I got through, of pleasure & pride
in the Christian spirit & forbearance of our Gov–
ernment. There was neither want nor misery
there! – I went through ward after ward,-
passing up & down the long rows of little beds on
each of which lay a sick prisoner, with the
long matted hair & wild look so peculiar
to Southern men. The wards were long,
wooden buildings, –one story high,– white washed
inside, warmed by stoves & scrupulously clean.
A Regular, military hospitals. The beds were
small & of iron, & each had its mattress, coarse
white sheets & pillow-case, & two blankets. Among
all these thousands the deaths average two or
three a day, & I saw but one man few men
who seemed very sick & but one who was dying.

The ward-masters & attendants were them-
selves prisoners & in answer to my inquiries
(for I came, you see, officially) all told me
that they were very comfortable & had everything which
could be expected. Evidently there was no mis-
ery or suffering there. I confess what I saw
greatly surprised me,– we could hardly take
more tender care of our own sick soldiers. After
the horrors of the Southern prisons, I doubt
if our countrymen (well as I think of them)
would support the treatment I have described,–
it is too much in the spirit of Christ for com-
mon men,- but abroad it should be known
in justice to this much libelled country. There
was more for a liberal American to be proud of in that hospital
than in the greatest achievement of our armies,–
there was to be found, & that too under circum–
stances of cruel aggravation, the true spirit
of Christianity infused into war.