EYES TO THE BLIND.
“Farewell! The passion of long years I pour
Into that word!”—_Mrs. Hemans._
“Heureux l’homme qu’un doux hymen unira avec elle! il n’aura à craindre
que de la perdre et de lui survivre.”—_Fenelon._
It was that Fourth of July, 1863, when every sincere friend of the Great
Republic felt his heart beat high with mingled hope and apprehension.
Tremendous issues, which must affect the people of the American
continent through all coming time, were in the balance of Fate, and the
capricious chances of war might turn the scale on either side.
Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Port Hudson, Helena! The great struggles that
were to make these places memorable had reached their culminating and
critical point, but were as yet undecided.
Lee’s Rebel army of invasion, highly disciplined, and numbering nearly a
hundred thousand men, was marching into Pennsylvania. General Lee
assured his friends he should remain North just as long as he wished;
that there was no earthly power strong enough to drive him back across
the Potomac. He expected “to march on Baltimore and occupy it; then to
march on Washington and dictate terms of peace.”
Such was Lee’s plan. Its success depended on his defeating the Union
army; and of that he felt certain.
The loyal North was unusually reticent and grave; “troubled on every
side, yet not distressed; perplexed, but not in despair.” A change of
commanders in the army of the Potomac, when just on the eve of the
decisive contest, added to the general seriousness.
Clara, since her parting from Vance, had addressed herself thoughtfully
to the business of life. Duties actively discharged had brought with
them their reward in a diffusive cheerfulness.
On the morning of that eventful Fourth of July, the ringing of bells and
the firing of cannon roused her from slumber somewhat earlier than
usual. On the piazza she met Netty Pompilard, and Mary and Julia Ireton,
and Master and Miss Purling, and they all strolled to the river’s
side,—then home to breakfast,—then out to the mown field by the orchard,
where a mammoth tent had been erected, and servants were spreading
tables for the day’s entertainment, to be given by Clara to all the poor
and rich of the neighborhood. Colonel Hyde, having been commissioned to
superintend the arrangements, was here in his glory, and not a little of
his importance was reflected on the busy cripple, his nephew.
Clara’s thoughts, however, were at Gettysburg, where brave men were
giving up their lives and exposing themselves to terrible, life-wasting
wounds, in order that we at home might live in peace and have a country,
free and undishonored. She thought of Vance. She knew he had resigned
his colonelcy, and was now employed in the important and hazardous,
though untrumpeted labors of a scout or spy, for which he felt that his
old practice as an actor had given him some aptitude. We subjoin a few
fragmentary extracts from the last letter she had received from him:—
“Poor Peek,—rather let me say fortunate Peek! He fell nobly, as he
always desired to fall, in the cause of freedom and humanity. His son,
Sterling, is now with me; a bright, brave little fellow, who is
already a great comfort and help.”
“Until the North are as much in earnest for the right as the South are
for the wrong, we must not expect to see an end to this war. It is not
enough to say, ‘Our cause is just. Providence will put it through.’ If
we don’t think the right and the just worth making great sacrifices
for,—worth risking life and fortune for,—we repel that aid from Heaven
which we lazily claim as our due. God gives Satan power to try the
nations as he once tried Job. ‘Skin for skin,’ says Satan; ‘yea, all
that a man hath will he give for his life.’ Unless we have pluck
enough to disprove the Satanic imputation, and to show we prize God’s
kingdom on earth more than we do life or limb or worldly store, then
it is not a good cause that will save us, but a sordid spirit that
will ruin us. O for a return of that inspiration which filled us when
the first bombardment of Sumter smote on our ears!”
“The President will soon call for three hundred thousand more
volunteers. O women of the North!—ye whose heart-wisdom foreruns the
slow processes of our masculine reason,—lend yourselves forthwith to
the great work of raising this force and sending it to fill up our
depleted armies.”
“This Upas-tree of slavery is now girdled, they tell us. ‘Why not
leave it to the winds of heaven to blow down?’ But if this whirlwind
of civil war can’t do it, don’t trust to the zephyrs of peace. No! The
President’s proclamation must be carried into effect on every
plantation, in every dungeon, where a slave exists. Better that this
generation should go down with harness on to its grave, and that war
should be the normal state of the next generation, than that we should
fail in our pledged faith to the poor victims of oppression whose
masters have brought the sword.”
The grand entertainment under the tent lasted late into the afternoon.
An excellent band of music was present, and as the tunes were selected
by Clara, they were all good. Pompilard was, of course, a prominent
figure at the table. He was toast-master, speech-maker, and general
entertainer. He said pleasant things to the women and found amusements
for the children. He complimented “the gallant Colonel Hyde” on his
“very admirable arrangements” for their comfort; and the Colonel replied
in a speech, in which he declared that much of the honor belonged to his
sister Dorothy, and his nephew, Andrew Jackson.
In a high-flown tribute to the Emerald Isle, “the land of the Emmetts
and of that brave hater of slavery, O’Connell,” Pompilard called up
Maloney, who, in a fiery little harangue, showed that he did not lack
that gift of extemporaneous eloquence which the Currans and the Grattans
used so lavishly to exhibit. The band played “Rory O’More.”
A compliment to “the historian of the war” called up Purling, who, in
the lack of one arm, made the other do double duty in gesticulating. He
was cheered to his heart’s content. The band played “Hail Columbia.”
A compliment to the absent Captain Delaney Hyde Rusk drew from his uncle
this sentiment: “The poor whites of the South! may the Lord open their
eyes and send them plenty of soap!” The band played “Dixie.”
A venerable clergyman present, the Rev. Mr. Beitler, now rose and gave
“The memory of our fallen brave!” This was drunk standing in solemn
silence, with heads uncovered. But Mrs. Ireton and Clara vainly put
their handkerchiefs to their faces to keep back their sobs. By a secret
sympathy they sought each other, and sat down under a tree where they
could be somewhat retired from the rest. Esha drew near, but had too
much tact to disturb them.
It was four o’clock when a courier was seen running toward the assembled
company. He came with an “Extra,” containing that telegraphic despatch
from the President of the United States, flashed over the wires that
day, giving comforting assurances from Gettysburg. Pompilard stood on a
chair and proposed a succession of cheers, which were vociferously
delivered. Clara and Mrs. Ireton dried their tears and partook of the
general joy. Then rapping on the table, Pompilard obtained profound
silence; and the old clergyman, kneeling, addressed the Throne of Grace
in words of thankfulness that found a response in every heart. The day’s
amusements ended in a stroll of the company through the beautiful
grounds.
After the glory the grief. No sooner was it known that Lee, whipped and
crestfallen, was retreating, than there was a call for succor to the
wounded and the dying. Clara, under the escort of Major Purling (who was
eager to glean materials for the great history) went immediately to
Gettysburg. She visited the churches (converted into hospitals), where
wounded men, close as they could lie, were heroically enduring the
sharpest sufferings. She labored to increase their accommodations. If
families wouldn’t give up their houses for love, then they must for
money. Yes, money can do it. She drew on her trustees till they were
frightened at the repetition of big figures in her drafts. She soothed
the dying; she made provision for the wounded; she ordered the
wholesomest viands for those who could eat.
On the third day she met Mrs. Charlton and her daughter, and they
affectionately renewed their acquaintance. As they walked together
through a hospital they had not till then entered, Clara suddenly
started back with emotion and turned deadly pale. But for Major
Purling’s support she would have fallen. Tears came to her relief, and
she rallied.
What was the matter?
On one of the iron beds lay a captain of artillery. He did not appear to
be wounded. He lay, as if suffering more from exhaustion than from
physical pain. And yet, on looking closer, you saw from the glassy
unconsciousness of his eyes that the poor man was blind. But O that
expression of sweet resignation and patient submission! It was better
than a prayer to look on it. It touched deeper than any exhortation from
holiest lips. It spoke of an inward reign of divinest repose; of a land
more beautiful than any the external vision ever looked on; of that
peace of God which passeth all understanding.
Clara recognized in it the face of Charles Kenrick. A cannon-ball had
passed before his eyes, and the shock from the concussion of air had
paralyzed the optic nerves. The surgeons gave him little hope of ever
recovering his sight.
For some private reason, best known to herself, Clara did not make
herself known to Kenrick. She did not even inform any one that she knew
him. She induced Lucy Charlton to minister to his wants. On Lucy’s
asking him what she could do (for she did not know he was Onslow’s
friend), he said, “If you can pen a letter for me, I shall be much
obliged.”
“Certainly,” said she; “and my friend here shall hold the ink while I
write.”
She received from the hands of her maid in attendance a portfolio with
which she had come provided, anticipating such requests. She then took a
seat by his side, while Clara sat at the foot of the cot, where she
could look in his blind, unconscious face, and wipe away her tears
unseen.
“I’m ready,” said Lucy. And he dictated as follows:—
“MY DEAR COUSIN: I received last night your letter from Meade’s
headquarters. ’T was a comfort to be assured you escaped unharmed amid
your many exposures.
“You tell me I am put down in the reports as among the slightly
wounded, and you desire to know all the particulars. Alas! I may say
with the tragic poet, ‘My wound is great because it is so small.’
Don’t add, as Johnson once did, ‘Then ‘t would be greater, were it
none at all.’ A cannon-ball, my dear fellow, passed before my eyes,
and the sight thereof is extinguished utterly. The handwriting of this
letter, you will perceive, is not my own.
“What you say of Onslow delights me. So he has behaved nobly before
Vicksburg, and is to be made a Colonel! The one hope of his heart is
to be with the army of liberation that shall go down into Texas.
Onslow will not rest till he has redeemed that bloody soil to freedom,
and put an end to the rule of the miscreant hangmen of the State.
“I said the _one_ hope of his heart. But what you insinuate leads me
to suspect there may be still another,—a tender hope. Can it be? Poor
fellow! He deserves it.
“You bid me take courage and call on Perdita. You tell me she is free
as air,—that the bloom is on the plum as yet untouched, unbreathed
upon. My own dear cousin, if I was hopeless before I lost my eyesight,
what must I be now? But, since a thing of beauty is a joy forever, was
I not lucky in making her acquaintance before that cannon-ball swept
away my optic sense? Now, as I rest here on my couch, I can call up
her charming image,—nay, I can hear the very tones of her singing. She
is worthy of the brilliant inheritance you were instrumental in
restoring to her. I shall always be the happier for having known her,
even though the knowing should continue to be my disquietude.
“I have just heard from my father. He and his young wife are in
Richmond. His pecuniary fortunes are at a very low ebb. His slaves
were all liberated last month by Banks, who has anticipated the work I
expected to do myself. My father begins to be disenchanted in regard
to the Rebellion. He even admits that Davis isn’t quite so remarkable
a man as he had supposed. How gladly I would help my father if I
could! May the opportunity be some day mine. All I have (’t is only
five thousand dollars) shall be his.
“What can I do, my dear cousin, if I can’t get back my eyesight? God
knows and cares; and I am content in that belief. ‘There is a special
providence in the falling of a sparrow.’ Am not I better than many
sparrows? ‘Hence have I genial seasons!’ ’T is all as it should be;
and though He slay me, yet will I trust in him.
“Farewell,
“CHARLES KENRICK.
“TO WILLIAM C. VANCE.”
Several times during the dictating of this letter, Lucy (especially when
Onslow’s name was mentioned) would have betrayed both herself and Clara,
had not the latter in dumb show dissuaded her. The next day Clara made
herself known, and introduced Major Purling; but she did not allow the
blind man to suspect that she was that friend of his unknown amanuensis,
who had “held the ink.”
Her own persuasions, added to those of the Major, forced Kenrick at last
to consent to be removed to Onarock. Here, in the society of cheerful
Old Age and congenial Youth, he rapidly recovered strength. But to his
visual orbs there returned no light. There it was still “dark, dark,
dark, amid the blaze of noon.”
He did not murmur at the dispensation. In all Clara’s studies, readings,
and exercises he was made the partaker. Even the beautiful landscapes on
all sides were brought vividly before his inner eyes by her graphic
words. Along the river’s bank, and through the forest aisles, and along
the garden borders she would lead him, and not a flower was beautiful
that he was not made to know it.
----------
It was the 18th of October, 1863,—that lovely Sabbath which seemed to
have come down out of heaven,—so beautiful it was,—so calm, so
bright,—so soft and yet so exhilarating. The forest-trees had begun to
put on their autumnal drapery of many colors. The maple was already of a
fiery scarlet; the beech-leaves, the birch, and the witch-hazel, of a
pale yellow; and there were all gradations of purple and orange among
the hickories, the elms, and the ashes. The varnished leaves of the oak
for the most part retained their greenness, forming mirrors for the
light to reflect from, and flashing and glistening, as if for very joy,
under the bland, indolent breeze. It was such weather as this that drew
from Emerson that note, we can all respond to, in our higher moments of
intenser life, “Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of
emperors ridiculous.”
With Kenrick, even to his blindness there came a sense of the beauty and
the glow. He could enjoy the balmy air, the blest power of sunshine, the
odors from the falling leaves and the grateful earth. And what need of
external vision, since Clara could so well supply its want? He walked
forth with her, and they stopped near a rustic bench overlooking the
Hudson, and sat down.
“Indeed I must leave you to-morrow,” said he, in continuation of some
previous remark: “I’ve got an excellent situation as sub-teacher of
French at West Point.”
“O, you’ve got a situation, have you?” returned Clara.
The tears sprang to her eyes; but, alas for human frailty! this time
they were tears of vexation.
There was silence for almost a minute. Then Kenrick said, “Do you know
I’ve been with you more than three months?”
“Well,” replied Clara, pettishly, “is there anything so very surprising
or disagreeable in that?”
“But I fear Onarock will prove my Capua,—that it will unfit me for the
sterner warfare of life.”
“O, go to your sterner warfare, since you desire it!”
And with a desperate effort at nonchalance she swung her hat by its
ribbon, and sang that little air from “La Bayadère” by Auber,—“Je suis
content,—je suis heureux.”
“Clara, dear friend, you seem displeased with me. What have I done?”
“You want to humiliate me!” exclaimed Clara, reproachfully, and bursting
into a passion of tears.
“Want to humiliate you? I can’t see how.”
“I suppose not,” returned Clara, ironically. “There are none so blind as
those who don’t choose to see.”
“What do you mean, dear friend?”
“Dear _friend_ indeed!” sobbed Clara. “Is he as blind as he would have
me think? Haven’t I given hints enough, intimations enough,
opportunities enough? Would the man force me to offer myself outright?”
There was another interval of silence, and this time it lasted full ten
minutes. And then Kenrick, his breath coming quick, his breast heaving,
unable longer to keep back his tears, drew forth his handkerchief, and
covering his face, wept heartily.
He rose and put out his hand. Clara seized it. He folded her in his
arms; and their first kiss,—a kiss of betrothal,—was exchanged.
THE END.
Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
There are several compound words which appear with and without
hyphenation, which are given here as printed (bed-side, chamber-maid,
child-birth, head-quarters, low-lived, side-walk). If a word is
hyphenated at a line or page break, the hyphen is retained only if other
instances can establish the author’s intent.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
32.33 You have fe[e]d him, I suppose? Removed.
66.13 [“]Iverson stepped forward Removed.
77.19 Tender thought[t/s] of the sufferings Replaced.
98.39 as high a civilization as the whites[.]” Added.
199.26 know[l]edge of many good men and women Inserted.
272.1 [“]She dashed into a medley Removed.
355.18 “But you say nothing of confiscation,[” Mr. ” moved.
Vance./ Mr. Vance”]
395.29 to the Emperor’s predispositions[.] Added.
430.24 super[ ]human and supercanine Removed.
448.5 [“]Do you know,” he continued, Removed.
449.18 _seventy thousand dollars_![”] Added.
466.34 and then, cov[er]ing his face Inserted.
497.11 the face of C[l/h]arles> Kenrick Replaced.