[At one time Miss Johnson seems to have entertained the idea of
writing for publication a series of articles entitled "Voices from a
Sick-room." Whether she ever wrote more than one or not I cannot say.
The following is the only one we can find among her manuscripts, and
it is so thrillingly interesting as to make us wish for more. It is
dated Sept. 5, 1859.]
Draw the curtains--shut out the light of heaven; the inner world is so
full of darkness that the sunshine of the outer world becomes painful
by contrast. Hush, little bird! don't sing to-day. There--all is dark
and still. Now, O wretched heart, exult in thy wretchedness; draw the
dark, heavy curtains of despair around thee; shut out the light of
hope and love; hush the voice of praise and thanksgiving. Think of all
thou hast suffered; think of thy present misery; crowd the future with
black-robed phantoms; people every nook and corner with horrible
faces, and over all let the thunder crash and bellow, and the winds
moan and shriek, as they moan and shriek only when the great are
dying.
Ah, what sad havoc do sickness and pain make of the poor body; but
sadder still when they trample on the bright inhabitant within, and
make it a slave to tremble at their bidding! "Bring chains--bring
chains," cries the fell destroyer; and ere she has time to rally her
forces around her, or even think of resistance, the poor Soul has
become a helpless captive, and Disease wears a smile of triumph upon
her ghastly cheek, and again lifts up her voice to shout "victory."
And a complete victory it is: Self-control, Pride, Ambition--all are
humbled; Hope is shrouded in sackcloth, and if she ever speaks it is
only to whisper: "There is one secret passage by which thou mayest yet
escape, but it winds through the kingdom of Death and the Grave."
Reason herself grows pale and trembles, lest she lose her throne; for
the thousands of obedient servants, which have never before disputed
her authority, are all up in arms against her. Every nerve begins to
quiver and vibrate; the whole body is in commotion; and no wonder the
trembling Soul sits down amid the ruins of her former self and makes
the whole place doleful with her cries and lamentations.
Don't chide her: she is no criminal waiting the demands of justice,
but a prisoner of war, and therefore should be dealt kindly with.
Don't gaze at her through her prison bars, as though she were a wild
beast caged, or some curious object kept only for a show; but go to
her enveloped in the mantle of love, upon your lips the honey-dew of
human kindness, and in your heart the melting tenderness of Christian
affection. Don't tell her she is escaping many trials and temptations
to which she would be exposed if she came in contact with the busy
world around her. Go to the imprisoned eagle, and, as he looks up
longingly into the deep blue sky and beats his wings in agony, comfort
him with the assurance that his wants are provided for, and he himself
safe from the arts of the fowler! Aye, tell this to the free-born
eagle, but disgust not the ever-yearning, restless Soul with such
mockeries. She may listen, but she laughs you to scorn in secret and
prays Heaven to be delivered from such comforters. She knows her
struggles and temptations are inward; and she knows too, for that very
reason, they are more terrible. There greater battles have been fought
than the blood-dyed fields of Europe ever witnessed. Magentas and
Solferinas fatten with the blood of heroes, but she carries on a never
ending warfare "with principalities and powers"--the numberless host
of hell--and legions of native passions.
Deal gently with her. Would you win her confidence? There is but one
passage to her affections. Speak that word--bolt and bar fly open: she
takes you by the hand and welcomes you to her most sacred and secluded
retreat. That word is _sympathy:_ let her feel it in your tender
embrace, see it in the glance of your eye, hear it in the modulation
of your voice. It is for this she yearns and sighs, and refuses to be
comforted where it is not.
Bring her flowers--sweet, beautiful flowers. They are meet companions
for her solitude. Gather blossoms from the whitening apple-bough,
violets from the meadow, dandelions from the wayside. She will fold
them more tenderly to her bosom than the rarest plants, for their
faces are old, familiar ones, and she imagines they wear a look of
pity.
But there are more precious things than human sympathy; there are
sweeter flowers than violets or roses. They bloom on the
prayer-consecrated mountains of Judea, amid the ancient olives of
Gethsemane, along the Dolorous Way trodden by the Man of Sorrows,
beneath the shadows of the Cross, and around the borrowed Sepulchre.
Oh, gather them with no sparing hand: there are enough for you and
her--enough for every sorrowing heart in the universe. Take them to
the poor sufferer. Their fragrance will make the lonely chamber like a
garden of spices; the tearful eyes will turn heavenward, and the pale
lips--tremulous with contrition will whisper, "Father; forgive me, for
I knew not what I did when I murmured at thy dealings." Then a solemn
hush will follow--a holy twilight of the soul,--as if the sorrows of
earth were blending with the joys of heaven, the pains of mortality
with the blessedness of the angelic bards. Oh, these are the flowers
for a sickroom! How dreary and desolate does it seem without them! The
strong and healthy may live on, careless and irreligious, but what
would become of the poor, grief-stricken, despairing Soul if she could
not repose quietly in the bosom her Beloved, and say with child-like
simplicity, morning and evening, _"Our Father who art in heaven!"_