I have known him
for nearly a year, transferr'd from hospital to hospital. He was badly
wounded in the thigh at Hatcher's Run, February 6, '65.
James E. Ragan, Atlanta, Georgia; 2d United States Infantry. Union
folks. Brother impress'd, deserted, died; now no folks, left alone in
the world, is in a singularly nervous state; came in hospital with
intermittent fever.
Walk slowly around the ward, observing, and to see if I can do
anything. Two or three are lying very low with consumption, cannot
recover; some with old wounds; one with both feet frozen off, so that
on one only the heel remains. The supper is being given out: the
liquid call'd tea, a thick slice of bread, and some stew'd apples.
That was about the last I saw of the regular army hospitals.
[ILLUSTRATION Here is a portrait of E.H. from life, by Henry Inman, in
New York, about 1827 or '28. The painting was finely copper-plated
in 1830, and the present is a fac simile. Looks as I saw him in the
following narrative.]
The time was signalized by the _separation_ of the society of Friends,
so greatly talked of--and continuing yet--but so little really
explain'd. (All I give of this separation is in a Note following.)
Notes (_such as they are) founded on_
ELIAS HICKS
_Prefatory Note_--As myself a little boy hearing so much of E.H., at
that time, long ago, in Suffolk and Queens and Kings counties--and
more than once personally seeing the old man--and my dear, dear father
and mother faithful listeners to him at the meetings--I remember how
I dream'd to write perhaps a piece about E.
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