Chapter II: Part 2

“If you will mind what I say now, and try to be very still, when you have less fever, I will talk to you and tell you all you want to know.”

“I’ll be dead then, and I want to know before I die.”

Very sure that any excitement at present must be injurious, after several ineffectual attempts to divert his mind, I deemed it best to leave him, making an excuse of other duties, and promising to return if he would try to keep quiet. The surgeon’s report was favorable; the change in him was quite unexpected, and recovery was possible, though by no means probable.

I left him alone, purposely, for some hours; but the moment I re-entered the ward he exclaimed, “Now you will tell me.”

Judging it better to quiet his mind, I sat down and spoke to him quietly and gently of his home. Home! the talisman which charms away all pain and soothes all sorrow. Should any one ask how to reach the men? how gain an influence over them? I would reply by pointing them to Napoleon’s policy, or later, to our own Burnside, and let the fields of Roanoke and Newbern bear witness to the success of the experiment. Attack the centre. Storm the heart. Make a man speak of his home. Listen, while he tells with bitter self-reproach, how he enlisted without consent; and how, since then, the night wind’s wail seems mourning mother’s moan; listen to the tearful tale of the loneliness of some brave-hearted wife, who sent her treasure forth, and battles nobly on at home; (which is the harder strife?) or of the parting hour, and clinging clasp of little arms round that rough neck, which would not be undone, and which may never tighten there again. And once more listen, as I did yesterday, to an account of a return home, on a furlough, of one bronzed and weather-beaten by severe service and exposure; the joyful expectation; the journey; the gradual approach to the well-known gate; every detail dwelt upon and lingered over; “And, if you’ll believe it, my Charlie didn’t know me! I couldn’t stand it nohow;” and the tears which will not be repressed, fall thickly on the crutches at his side. Lead a man, I say, to tell you such things as these, and he can never again feel towards you as a stranger; he will bring you his letters, or tell you their contents, with a feeling that you know the persons therein mentioned, and will sympathize with either his joy or sorrow. The citadel is won; he has put the key into your hands which you may fit at any moment to the lock of his heart, and enter at will; thus is a bond established between you, for the proper improvement of which you will be responsible in the sight of God.

But this victory, like many another we have won, is a very partial one; the fortress may be gained, but the difficulty is to hold it, and garrison it with the troops that we would fain see there. Golden Charity, the commander-in-chief of our forces, has had, and will yet have, many a weary battle to wage, ere She can obtain even a foothold in such unwonted quarters; but with the all-important aid of Her staff officers, Faith and Hope, we look for final success, even though we may not be permitted to see it.

But do not imagine that poor Ennis has been the victim of this digression. After a few moments’ conversation, the eager, excited tone died away, and he told me quietly that he had been brought up in “the woods of Jersey;” had driven a team there, and worked on a farm; spoke of his ignorance with pain; the great grief seemed to be that he could not read; if he should live, wouldn’t I teach him?

“Nobody never taught me nothing; will God mind, if I should die?”

“Did your mother never teach you your letters?”

“She don’t know ’em herself.”

A little more talk, and the sentences became broken, the words disconnected, and ere long I left him in a natural, comfortable sleep.

He suffered terribly from pain in his head, and the doctor had forbidden all unnecessary noise in the ward. I was therefore not a little surprised the next morning as I approached the door, to hear loud, noisy singing, laughing and talking alternately, such as I had never at any time heard since I had visited the hospital.

I paused at the door, hesitating to enter, and knowing the state in which I had left Ennis, both provoked and indignant. Just at that moment, one of the orderlies came out, and to my question as to the meaning of the disturbance, informed me that a new case of violent fever and delirium had just been brought in, and as the other wards were crowded, it had been a necessity to place him here. Thus re-assured, I walked in, when Wilson at once came up to me with, “Oh, Miss ---- if you would only try. This man’s out of his head--he can’t live--and the doctor ordered us to find out where his friends are, if possible, and let them know. He has a good deal of money in his knapsack, and we should like to know what to do with it; if his friends are far off, they couldn’t be here in time, but we can’t tell.”

“Has he had no intervals of consciousness?” I asked, not caring to show how I shrank from the task.

“None, and he won’t have till he goes into a stupor, and then the game’s up.”

I was too much worried at the time to ask whether an “interval of consciousness” was supposed to exist during a stupor, as his words seemed to imply, and merely said,

“But if you have tried in vain, what object is there in my speaking to him?”

As I spoke, a burst of noisy, insane laughter came from his lips, and rang discordantly through the ward; he tried to spring from his bed, but was forcibly held on each side.

“Perhaps it’s no good, miss, but it seemed our last chance, and if you’d just try?”

Here was a trial. And yet, had I enlisted only for sunny weather? Was I to shrink at the first chance of service? Nevertheless, I did shrink, and, I fear, very visibly, too; but I felt I must go forward, or deserve to be stricken from the rolls. Could the exact springs of all our actions be known, I fear it would too often be seen that they arise in many cases from motives which we should be most unwilling to confess; so in this case, I sincerely believe that it was the shame of uttering the simple truth “I am afraid of him,” which led me straight to his bedside, far more than the benevolent wish of informing distant relatives of his dying condition.

“Have you ever heard him mention any of his family at any time?” said I to Wilson, as we crossed the ward, half to keep him with me, and half to know how to address this dreaded, wild-looking creature.

“Yes, he did say something once about a sister, but if we ask him anything further, he bursts out singing or laughing, and it’s no use.”

The power of the eye I had frequently heard of, and also that a single, direct question, often steadies the unbalanced mind. I could but try them now. I had an indistinct impression, as I drew near, that it would be easier to face the hottest fire of the fiercest foe in the field, than the glare of those eyes; but, trying to look at him steadily, I said, slowly and distinctly,

“What is your sister’s name?”

He looked at me for a moment, surprised and perfectly silent, and then, to my utter amazement, replied with equal distinctness, “Susanna Weaver.”

“Where does she live?”

“Westchester, Pennsylvania.”

This was so evidently a success, that I ventured further, though doubtful of the result.

“How do you direct your letters?” No hesitation,

“Mrs. Susanna Weaver, care of James Weaver, shoemaker, Westchester, Pennsylvania.”

As he uttered the last word, a man who had just come in, came up to me.

“What he says, ma’am, ain’t no use; he’s out of his head, and he don’t mean it.”

I said nothing in reply, but was satisfied as to the truth of my own conclusions, when, two days afterwards, I walked in to see the veritable Susanna, wife of James Weaver, shoemaker, portly, patronizing, and polite, fanning her apparently insensible brother, and applying ice to his temples, for the dreaded stupor had come on.

My poor Ennis lay for a long time in a low, exhausted state; but the doctor gave hope, and at length he began perceptibly to improve. His eagerness to be taught--more especially upon religious subjects--continued; there was something so simple and childlike about him; so touching in the terror which he felt with regard to death; so winning in his weakness, so gentle in his goodness, or his aims after it, that I could not help becoming deeply interested in him. He knew that there was a God--a Being to be dreaded in his view--a Life after death; beyond this--nothing. Our blessed Lord’s life and death, His work on earth, His giving His life for us, all seemed new and strange ideas which he could with difficulty grasp. Never can I forget the intense interest with which he followed me, step by step, through the dark and dread story of The Last Week; I almost feared the excitement which burned in his eager eyes, till, as I closed, his pent-up feelings found vent in the words, “It was too bad!” His powers of language were limited, not so his powers of feeling; and I imagine that we, to whom that mighty mystery is so familiar from childhood, can scarcely conceive its effect when heard for the first time. He took perfect delight in hearing and learning the prayers from the Prayer-book, and would ask for them constantly. And here I must speak of the wonderful power which seems to live, in the short, terse nature of our matchless Collects, to stay a weak and wandering mind; “the soul by sickness all unwound” cannot bear many words; but the concentration of devotion, in many of those short, earnest sentences, seems to meet every longing and to supply every want. As Ennis so greatly needed instruction, at my request a clergyman, who had frequently visited the hospital, and whose ministrations were always peculiarly acceptable to the men, came often and spent much time with him.[2] At one time, when I was not on duty, he sent for me. “Why did you want me, Ennis, the ladies who are here are so very kind to you, and do everything you can want?”

[2] This was, of course, before the Government appointment of
our present faithful and efficient Chaplain, whose earnest and
self-denying labors render any such service quite needless.

“Not you, but I do so want that pretty prayer you know.” The “Prayer for a sick person” from our Prayer-book. I doubt whether any one was ever more gratified, by being told that they were not wanted personally, but merely for what they could bring.

I must return here, for a little while, to my old friend, whose delirium and stupor, to the wonder alike of physicians and nurses, passed off, after many weeks of tedious suffering, during which time I had talked to him, read to him, and written letters at his dictation, quite unconscious that he was still very much under the influence of fever. His sister remained till she saw that he would probably live, and then was obliged to return to her home. He could carry on a perfectly rational conversation, although always inclined to excitement; and it was quite evident, from the whole tone of his remarks, that his “hoary hairs” were anything but a “crown of righteousness.” I link these two cases together because they were so linked, strangely enough, from the beginning, and still more in the end, and so must ever remain in my mind.

Several weeks passed by, during which I was not at the hospital; and when I returned, what was my surprise to find our patient up, dressed, and seated by the stove. “Why, Jackson, is it possible? How glad I am to see you so much better.”

He looked at me without a sign of recognition, rose, bowed, but said nothing.

“Don’t you remember me, or what is the matter?” said I, thoroughly puzzled.

“I never saw you before, ma’am, did I? Never to my knowledge.”

“Well done for you, Jackson!” and “That’s a good one, isn’t it?” burst from more than one of the men, with a hearty laugh.

He looked troubled and bewildered. I saw the whole thing at once. “Never mind, Jackson,” said I, “you have been very ill,--as ill as it was possible to be to recover, and you remember nothing of that time; I suppose it seems like a long dream.”

Such was precisely the case. Even the weeks when I had supposed him perfectly conscious, were all a blank; he had not the slightest recollection even of being brought in, and of nothing afterwards until the weeks during which I had been away.

My pale, attenuated boy, too, was changed into the round, ruddy young soldier, looking particularly well in his uniform. As is so frequently the case in typhoid fevers, he had gained flesh rapidly, as he recovered, and felt all the buoyancy and brightness of a thorough convalescence. I could not avoid comparing and contrasting the two cases. Both brought in with the same disease; in the same apparently hopeless state; the same surprise excited by the recovery of each; but here the parallel ceased. The one, scarcely more than a child,--a beardless boy, with smooth, polished brow, rising with all the vigor of youth from this terrible illness, and throwing off the disease as completely as though it had never touched him. The other, worn and scarred by life’s conflicts more than by time; his brow deeply furrowed more by excess than years; his hair prematurely whitened, rising, it is true, from the disease, but how?--without spirit, energy, or any sort of spring; wearily dragging one foot after the other; listlessly and languidly sitting hour after hour upon his bed, scarcely noticing or speaking to any one. His time of life would of necessity give a slower convalescence, but there was far more against him than this: a constitution broken and ruined, as we soon found, by bad habits, which he renewed as soon as permitted to go out, producing, of course, a relapse. Long before I knew this, I was conscious that I could never overcome my repugnance to the man; at first I attributed the feeling to the extreme dread of him I had felt at our first meeting, and which I could not forget; but I soon became convinced that there was a stronger reason. If inward purity writes itself upon the outward form, (and who can question that it does?) the converse is equally true. There is a sort of instinct, or rather--for that is too low a term--a sort of spiritual consciousness, which warns us when evil is near; that part of our being puts forth feelers, as it were, moral antennæ, which extend themselves in congenial soil, but recoil at the touch of corruption of any sort.

Ennis soon brought me a spelling-book, given him by one of the men, and claimed my promise to teach him to read. Most faithfully he studied, but just as we were priding ourselves upon our progress, and he was triumphantly mastering the mysteries of “It is he,” “I am in,” the order came, and by a strange chance, Jackson and he were to go on to Washington together, to rejoin their different regiments. This I exceedingly regretted, as I looked upon Jackson as very far from a desirable companion or example for a young boy like Ennis. This feeling was confirmed, when, on the morning of their departure, Jackson came to bid me goodbye, with unsteady step and bloodshot eye. I spoke as I felt, strongly and sternly, as I could not but feel towards one so lately raised from the very gate of death, and thus requiting the Love and Mercy which had spared him. I know not, and it matters not what I said, but when I spoke of the fearful responsibility which would rest upon his soul, should he lead that child committed to his care into sin, he looked surprised and startled, and promised me, in the most solemn manner, that he should come to no evil through him. It would have eased my heart of a heavy load, could I have relied more implicitly upon that promise; but, after all, such feelings are but a want of Faith; because the visible guard was the last that I should have chosen for him. I forgot that that young boy went forth attended by a bright, unseen Guard, to guide and protect him through every step of his way. And so we parted. Weeks have formed themselves into months, and months have formed themselves into a year, but I have never heard of them, or even seen their names, and cannot tell whether they are numbered among the living or the dead.

I can scarcely tell why it is, but there are no cases, in all the memories of hospital life, which stand out so clearly stereoscoped upon my brain, as the two of which I have just spoken.

BROWNING.

This morning, as I opened the door of the ladies’ room at the hospital, I found M., as usual, before me at her post busily working. She greeted me with “Mr. ---- (our chaplain) has just been in, to say that Browning is to be baptized this morning, and he would like us to be present; so we shall have to be prompt with our work.”

This Browning was a striking instance of the mercy and long-suffering of our dear Lord and Master. After a wholly irreligious life, he had entered the army, (though quite advanced in years,) at the breaking out of the rebellion, where, instead of being struck down by a bullet, a long and suffering illness in the hospital had been graciously granted to him; it had borne its fruit, and this day, the brow furrowed by sin, and the hair whitened in the service of another master, are to be moistened by baptismal waters.

He has been perfectly blind for many days, and is evidently sinking. At the appointed hour we gather around his bed, the Chaplain, the Surgeon in charge, (whose presence and interest in the occasion impress the men far more than he imagines,) M., and myself. The holy words are pronounced, and he is enlisted as “Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto his life’s end;” that end, which, alas! seems so very near. As we approach to speak to him, he looks up, no longer with the blank, vacant gaze of sightless eyes, which he has worn for so many days, but with a bright smile of recognition, saying, in a tone almost of surprise, “Friends, dear friends, God has given me light.” I thought he alluded to the light which had just dawned upon his spirit, but not so; it seemed as though the inward illumination had indeed extended to his physical frame; sight was restored to the darkened eye of the body also, and mercifully continued during the few remaining days of his life. To the many, this fact will appear a strange coincidence; to the few, something more.

Scarcely has the closing prayer ascended; scarcely have we turned to leave the bedside, when there is a bustle--an excitement--a sudden stir. “A man dying in the third ward; come quickly, come, won’t you?”

We hasten to the spot, and to our surprise find that the Angel of Death is before us. A man, whom we had been watching for some time, ill with that terrible scourge--the Chickahominy fever--and whom we had left not half an hour since, apparently in no danger, by some strange change is suddenly and certainly dying. His sister, who has been watching him, night and day, had left him to prepare some drink for him; in her absence he had attempted to rise from his pillow; the effort was too much, and he had, as she imagined, fainted.

But to any eye, whose sad lot it has been to watch that dark, cold, grey shadow, once seen, never forgotten, marvellous in its mystery, strange in its stern solemnity, as it slowly settles on some loved face; to any ear, that has listened to those long, convulsive breaths, with their longer and more dreadful intervals, it could not but be evident that this was no fainting, but the terrible sundering of soul and body. Man’s hand here was powerless. In answer to the sister’s agonized appeal to the surgeon, brandy is offered, but in vain; and we stand silently and sadly waiting till the dread struggle shall be ended. And still we stand, and still we wait. It seems as though something held and chained the soul to earth; it cannot part--it cannot burst its earthly case.

One by that bed whispers to the chaplain--

“The Last Prayer.”

We kneel once more, and once more the wonderful words of the Prayer-book speak for us in our hour of need. It is enough. The cord is broken--the chain is loosed; the soul seems to rise upon the wings of those solemn words; for ere they are done, a broken-hearted sister feels that she is alone.

It is not desirable to enter upon any description of the sorrowful scene of excited and undisciplined grief which followed; three hours afterwards, we succeeded in inducing her to take an anodyne and go to bed. Character, mental training, and spiritual attainment, are never more clearly shown than in the manner in which a great sorrow is borne; much, of course, depends upon temperament, but as a rule, I think we may safely affirm, that the most violent outward expression has the least inward root; that the griefs which crush and slowly sap life, are seldom noisily and vehemently vented in their first freshness.

That night, as I sat where the soft shadows of summer moonlight played peacefully in and out among grand old trees, my thoughts naturally clung to the scenes through which I had been passing, and dwelt upon those two who had both, though so differently, that day “entered into Life;” the one, through the Golden Gate of Baptism; the other, through “the grave and gate of death;” and in the calmness of that still night, the fervent wish arose, that they might both attain a “joyful resurrection, for His merits, Who died, and was buried, and rose again for us.”

THE TWO ANGELS.

U. S. A. HOSPITAL, August, 1862.

’Tis a hospital ward, and the sun’s cheerful rays
Light up many a bed of pain,
As the sufferers, seeking so sadly for ease,
Turn wearily once and again.

A small group is gathered round one of the beds,
Come with me, and stand by its side,
Whilst the voice of the Priest softly sounds on the air
As he pours the Baptismal tide.

By pillows supported, in sore strife for breath,
See one enter that Army within;
Whose Captain accepts all the maim’d and the halt,
Whose service is no worth to Him.

O, wonderful Mercy, unspeakable Love!
Who gave all His best for our sake;
The few faded fragments and dregs of lost life,
When offered, at latest, will take.

Holy words are pronounced, and his brow with wet Cross,
Is sparkling with strange, wondrous light;
Whence comes It? We see by that awe-stricken face
That no longer, as erst, is it night.

There are moments in life, when, from earthly thoughts freed,
To our sight purer vision is given;
Can we doubt that bright Presence--the Angel of Life--
As It floats thro’ the air, is from Heaven?

White Wings are extended--no poet’s mere dream--
But truly protecting that head;
And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls,
As we kneel by that hospital bed.

A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir!
Some one’s dying! oh! come quickly, come!
We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand,
With its summons so swift to his Home.

The Angel of Death hovers close o’er the bed;
The shadow falls dark on the face;
And a chill and a hush rests on everything round,
Each man standing still in his place.

Yet still the soul lingers, earth bound, as it seems,
Till a voice whispers low, “The Last Prayer;”
And those words--those grand words of our Mother, The Church--
Rise clearly and calm on the air.

It seems as they rise, to Faith’s eye, thro’ the space
A path for the soul they have cleft;
For we know, ere Amen’s last vibration is done,
With the body alone we are left.

In the wards of Life’s Hospital, thus are the threads,
Of Death and of Life intertwined;
Grant, Lord, in our hour of need, that our souls
Such vision of Angels may find!

BROWN.

“Alas, long-suffering and most patient God,
Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us,
Than even to have made us!”

“How you can endure that man, is a mystery to me,” said M., to me one morning, as, in going through the wards, I paused at the bedside of one of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not answer what was the truth, “I cannot endure him,” for I had resolved on testing to the uttermost, my theory, most firmly held, that there is some good in every one--some key to the heart--some avenue by which the soul may be reached--some smouldering spark of good in darkest depths of evil; and more than this, we were not there to choose interesting cases, but to minister to all. Truly there was little room here for the romantic interest with which we are charged with investing our men. Originally of very low origin, bad habits, probably increased by the exposure of camp life, had sunk him lower; and I confess to a feeling of shame at the unconquerable disgust with which I approached him; but he was sick and suffering, and I tried to fix my mind upon the fact, rather than upon the cause which had produced it.

Several months of visiting, however, proved one point, that he certainly had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even after many trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and said, pointing to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night; I can’t sleep, and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read the text in large letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth,” &c. “Do you think there could ever be _joy_ over me?” The utter depression of the look, the hopelessness of the tone, and the mournful shake of the head, were touching in the extreme.

He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek for strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house; he got better, got a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.”

A severe illness followed; this occurred again and again; the necessity for air and exercise gained him occasionally a pass from the surgeons, always followed by the same sad result. The men despised him, treated him accordingly, and his case seemed hopeless. One day, one of our poor men, who was in a dying condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad--it was one of those sick longings, which, of course, we were anxious to gratify. Permission gained to send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side, and said, “Will you go to the market and get it for him?” Brown, who was standing near, sprang eagerly forward, “Oh! do let me go for you; I won’t be a minute, and the doctor said a walk would be good for me.” The sad doubt in my mind must have written itself upon my face, for its effect was reflected by the deep pain and wounded expression in his own. My resolution was taken instantly, and I resolved to risk it. Holding the money to him, I said, “Take it, then, and come back quickly.” The blood rushed to his face, and the beaming look of gratitude made me sure that this was the best mode of treating him. Men are too often just what they are assumed to be; treat them as men of honor, such they will be; treat them as knaves, such also they will be. I mean not to affirm that there is no such thing as abstract truth or principle; far from it; but I do mean to say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more is gained by treating men as though we trusted, than as though we doubted. It is the unconscious tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and virtue. They would fain be or appear to be, all that we think them; and who can tell how far we may aid a sinking soul by the kind word of hopeful trust; or, on the other hand, by assuming a man to be utterly degraded, help to make him become so, in reality?

And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere the doubt returned. He had been doing better lately. I had thrown him into temptation; would he have strength to avoid it? Visions of illness, disgrace, suffering, and the guard-house, filled my mind. These thoughts were not dissipated by M.’s sudden question,

“Who did you send for that fish? How long he stays!”

With something of a pang of conscience, although quite aware that I had acted from the best motives, I said, courageously,

“I sent Brown; it is not so very long.”

“Brown! Oh! how could you? You know what will happen?”

As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, my anxiety is not relieved, though concealed. The minutes grow to hours, and still no tidings of him. Another trial; the wardmaster appears.

“G---- wants to know if you’ve got his fish? you promised to send at once.”

“Not yet,” I said, “but I hope I shall very soon.”

A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he left the ladies’ room, I heard one of the men say to him,

“G----’ll get no fish to-day. Do you know who she sent? Brown, if you’ll believe it.”

A prolonged whistle. “Didn’t she know?”

“She might have, by this time, one would think.”

Heart sick, I turned away; my theory of trust henceforth must have exceptions. I had led another into sin, and he must suffer for my fault. Just at this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it is true, but with exercise alone,--that was quite plain--and handing me the money, pants out,

“I’ve been clean to the wharf, and couldn’t get a bit; I determined you should have it, and I’ve been through every market I knowed on, but not a blessed scrap could I find.”

“How glad I am!” broke involuntarily from my lips; and I was only recalled to the inappropriateness of the reply, by his look of puzzled wonder, and “What was it you said, miss?”

“Nothing,” I answered; “thank you for the trouble you have taken;” and he left me, much mystified by my evident delight at the failure of his errand.

The truth of his statement was verified by a lady, who (her carriage at the door) offered to see if she could be more successful. She returned, some time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and assuring me that it was quite impossible to procure any shad that day, at any price, as there was none in the market.

“They tell me, that I should not love
Where I cannot esteem;
But do not fear them, for to me
False wisdom doth it seem.

“Nay,--rather I should love thee more
The farther thou dost rove;
For what Prayers are effectual,
If not the Prayers of Love?”

DARLINGTON.

“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter within the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was beating with unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and dusty streets. The city in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always seem to me synonymous terms. It is on days like these, when the town seems so close and crowded, the heated air so heavy and impure, that I long to have the hospitals or their occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor sufferer may be beguiled from the thought of his pain by the sweet sights and sounds ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town sky can ever attain, let it try its best, broken by fair, floating masses of white clouds, their forms ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful than the last; the glad, grateful green of woods and dells, which, like a loved presence, ever unconsciously soothes and satisfies; the soft, springing wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile,--these for the eye; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful chime with which that little babbling brook plays its accompaniment in “little sharps and trebles” to the chorus of voices overhead; no discord there--not one false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but all pure, perfect harmony.

Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for purposes of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia Medica can offer? And yet there are men living on this earth who tell you, aye, even as though they were in earnest in the assertion, too, that they do not love the country--they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope that retributive justice may bestow upon them a summer’s campaign in one of our city hospitals.

“Have you seen our new lot of wounded?”

“No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?”

“Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds; worse than we’ve had yet--two of them can hardly live; but take care of one of them, when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you go within a mile of his bed.”

This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was upon the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was somewhat alarming, as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; however, “forewarned, forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene little different from usual, save that the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have been added to the number, as they evidently stand much closer than they do ordinarily. I pass on to the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, my attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful tune, whistled in a voice of uncommon sweetness. It comes from that bed where that poor arm is bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it; the men who are cheerful, are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He stops as I come up.

“I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so much as I feared, when I saw your bandages.”

He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that large drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his one free hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over his whole frame.

One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ----, you don’t know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here; he says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he tries to whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.”

Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute suffering, or a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to Robinson for a confirmation of this singular statement, the large tears are in his eyes, and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says, “Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind of makes me forget the pain, and think I’m at home again, where I’m always whistling. Nothing like keeping up a good heart. It don’t always ache like this--only in spells--it’ll stop after a bit. Never mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad as poor Darlington there.”

There seemed to me something touching in the extreme, in this earnest effort to subdue suffering by whistling up the bright memories of home, in the midst of such intense physical anguish, and in the endeavor to treat his own case as lightly as possible. Well has it been said, “Character is seen through small openings;” and as he appeared in this conversation, such did we find him always. Gentle, unselfish, and bearing his terrible suffering with a beautiful patience, ere long he became a general favorite throughout the whole hospital; and during the tedious months of close and constant nursing which his case required, every one seemed glad to help him and wait upon him at all times. But this is anticipating, for no doubt he will appear again, as for a long time he was one of our prime objects of interest, from the constant attention as to diet and delicacies which his case required.

As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a scrutinizing glance, in hopes of just seeing the formidable object whom I had been warned to avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my presence has stopped the whistling, nothing is heard but the men talking in an undertone, or an occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come from some one asleep and suffering. Suddenly, in my tour, I pause before a bed, struck by the expression of intense anguish on a sweet, young face, white as the pillow it rests upon; his fair hair tossed from the pale brow, which is painfully contracted, and his long, thin, taper fingers, white as the face, move convulsively as he sleeps. He is evidently badly wounded, for a hoop raises the clothes from his bandaged limb. Who can he be? Evidently those hands, even allowing for illness and loss of blood, have never seen rough service, and belong to some one of a higher class than we usually see as a Private here; for although we proudly acknowledge that some of the best blood of the country is now in the ranks, still it has not, as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its presence in this hospital. There is a sort of fascination about that face, and I stand gazing at him and wondering over him till Richards, one of our old attachés, comes up.

“Oh! he’s asleep, poor fellow, at last; that accounts for it; the boys are all wondering how you got so close; he’s in a great way, when he’s awake. He couldn’t bear you that near without screaming.”

“Surely this can’t be the man Foster said was ‘as cross as thunder?’” said I, thinking it utterly impossible that here was indeed the dreaded object I had been seeking.

“Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but somehow I don’t think he means to be cross; only, you see he suffers so with that mashed-up limb, that he’s afraid they’ll touch him when they come near, and he calls out sudden like, and so they call him cross; but he’s as grateful as can be, for any little thing you do for him.”

“Is he very badly wounded?”

“Oh! yes. The doctors would have taken his leg right off, but they say he’s too weak to stand it; you never saw such a sight; he and Robinson, there, are an awful pair to look at.”

“Is this Darlington? I heard Robinson say that Darlington was worse than he was.”

“Yes, ma’am; the doctor says he’s not worse, only they take it different. You see, poor Tom here, frets all the time, and don’t give himself no chance; but that fellow over there’ll worry through yet, if pluck can do it.”

This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon himself. He assured me that Robinson’s wound had appeared quite as dangerous--indeed, at one time, even more so; but his quiet, placid disposition aided his recovery immensely; while the terribly nervous temperament, and high state of nervous irritability of poor Darlington, were equally against him.

“I’m glad enough he’s sleeping,” added Richards, “for he’s been here for three days, and this is the first time, night or day, that I’ve caught him with his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors give him. It’s worry, worry, worry from morning to night about his sister; he wants so to see her, and says if she were only here, she could come near his bed and it wouldn’t hurt him.”

“Where does she live? Why don’t they send for her? he can’t live.”

“Away off in Michigan; and he won’t even have her told that he’s sick; he says wait till he’s better, and then he’ll write; but he won’t have her frightened. If he could only forget her for a little while, it’s my notion he’d do better; but I tell him none of the boys here make half the fuss after their wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy! he’s just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather guess they must have thought a sight of him at home,--at least, he does of them,--too much for his own good, that’s certain; this terrible fretting after home, when they’re sick, does the boys a lot of harm.”

Knowing that Richards’ one talent was garrulity, I left him and went to our room, thinking that perhaps we might prepare something to tempt poor Darlington’s appetite; for the surgeon told us it was vital to keep up his strength, and yet he could scarcely be persuaded to touch anything which had been brought him.

As I well knew, from the state they described him to be in, that the sight of a stranger could not be agreeable to him, we sent everything we made for him through Richards, who constituted himself his body-guard from the moment of his entering the hospital, and a most faithful and untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I say that garrulity is his only talent; he developed then and there a gift for nursing for which those who best loved Darlington can never be too grateful. Days passed on, and I soon found that (as I had supposed) what the men termed “crossness,” was but the sad querulousness produced by suffering, and the state of which I have spoken.

While Robinson evidently gained,--though his attacks of pain were still marked by his own peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard in the ladies’ room, and always knew how to interpret,--Darlington was as evidently losing; and all hopes of amputation were necessarily abandoned. I could feel nothing but the most intense pity for him, and longing to comfort him; but it seemed impossible. M. said to me one day, “It certainly seems best, from what we see and hear of Darlington, to send, not take, his nourishment to him; and yet, perhaps our presence might be more welcome; but I hesitate, because the sight of any one coming near him seems to throw him into such a nervous state.”

“Yes,” said I, “any one but Richards; doesn’t it seem a strange fancy?”

And so we went on, for a week or more longer; for our interest in the case was so great, that even when not on duty at the hospital, we felt that we must know its progress. One day the surgeon came to me and begged me to try to cheer up Darlington, he was so down-hearted, would taste no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless some change could be made in his feelings. I went to his bedside at once, to see if he were awake, for much of the time he was kept under the effect of anodyne, to deaden the excessive pain. For many a long day did that look of deep, profound wretchedness haunt me, as he raised his soft, clear blue eyes to mine, and said, in the most earnest, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched.” Any one who had ever suffered realized that there was no crossness here; physical suffering, acute and intense, was written in every line of his face, sounded in every tone of his voice, and most earnestly did I long to soothe him.

Without answering, I drew back, and laid my cold hands on his burning brow. His whole expression changed. “You like it,” I said; “I am so glad; we have all been wishing so much to do something to comfort you.”

A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed over the poor white face, followed the next moment by the painful contraction of the muscles from suffering.

“But I want _her_!”

“Ah!” said I, “that sister! No one can take her place; we will write, and she can soon be here; she would come further than from Michigan, I am sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as you do.”

With more energy than I had ever seen in him, he lifted his head from the pillow, saying eagerly, “Never, never write to her; I wouldn’t have her see me so for all----”

But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden increase of pain, faintness came on; strong stimulants and the doctor’s presence were needed, and I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a beginning.

The next day, when I came to him, he looked much sunken, and seemed altogether lower than I had yet seen him. He smiled, however, and tried to lift his hand, and point to his head.

“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on his throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be better; let me get you some.”

He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded strangely weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat it.

“No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.”

“They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really hers, and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so long to be.”

“That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see on this earth again.”

This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he had alluded to being better--to getting home--to writing himself to her; but now it seemed he felt and realized his state.

These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for I never saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to leave home for a short time, and when I returned he was at peace, and calmly laid to rest.

“Out of the darkness, into the light:
No more sickness, no more sighing;
No more suffering, self-denying;
No more weakness, no more pain;
Never a weary soul again;
No more clouds, and no more night;--
Out of the darkness into the light.”

Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of his last hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,--watched by him, comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his latest breath. With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair for the poor sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away home.

She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I had left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child; talked to her quietly--sent messages to his home--gave particular directions as to his funeral--saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to know everything had been carefully attended to, and that they would see that it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out; his body was wrapped in the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead said over him; his faithful nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following him to his grave,--in one of the lots generously given by one of the cemeteries in the neighborhood of the city. It was a great comfort to know that he looked at Death without fear; his mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply upon the subject, during many of those long hours when we had supposed him to be in a stupor. He expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy. He passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.

“And, comforted, I praised the grace
Which him had led to be
An early seeker of That Face
Which he should early see.”

Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole thing, was to see the deep, real, unostentatious grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if he had lost a son. This was a strange case altogether. Richards was a man who had been in the English army; tall, fine-looking, with a military air and bearing, which had impressed me much when he first came to the hospital; but I soon found that his habits were bad, and that any permission to go out was sure to be followed by a night in the guard-house, and days in bed. And yet a kinder heart could scarcely be found. He had devoted himself to more than one of the men, and watched them night after night till their death. In one instance, when one man whom he had been nursing was to be taken home, here in the city, he obtained permission to go with him and nurse him, sitting up with him and watching him till his death. As at such times he always remained perfectly sober, it was suggested to make him nurse, (his disease rendering a return to his regiment impossible,) with the hope that the good influence over him which this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; but this would not do; he could not be trusted unless he had a special interest in the man he was nursing, and what was necessary to create such interest he alone knew. Whatever the qualities were, Darlington possessed them in the highest degree. He seemed to attract him from the first, and the love was warmly returned. Darlington thought no one could move him, no one could feed him, no one could dress his wound but “Uncle Richards, dear Uncle Richards,” as he called him; and often have I wondered at the tender love which seemed to exist between them. Those who were present told me that it was truly wonderful to watch Richards all through that last day, kneeling at his bedside, praying with him, repeating text after text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for them. One of the last things Darlington said was, “Where is dear Uncle Richards? I want to put my arms round his neck, and thank him for all his goodness and kindness to me.”

And yet this is the man of whom some one said to me, only a day or two since, “Why do you speak to that worthless fellow?”

One day, in my next week at the hospital, Richards came to me, and with the usual salute, which he never forgets, said, “Miss ----, you used to care for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about him? The world seems so lonely to me, now he’s gone.”

I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing-box, in the corner of the hospital entry, I listened to his story. He gave me every detail of his illness, most of them already familiar to me; told, with evident pride, how the poor fellow thought nobody but himself could do anything for him.

“You mind, miss, don’t you, how the first day you saw him, I told you he didn’t mean to be cross, though the boys thought him so? Well, he told me before he died, how sorry he was they had thought so, but they could never know what agony it was to him to see them come near him; but now he felt that he ought to have tried to bear it all more patiently. Poor Tom! there’s not been many like him here, and there’ll never be any like him to me,” and hard, heavy sobs shook his whole frame.