The eye is pierced just where the cornea meets the sclerotic coating.
I do not know the depth of the wound or its exact direction. Sight was
completely gone from the injured eye for the first few days, and my
physician said it would be ever gone, but I was surprised to find that
on the fourth or fifth day I could see a little with it. Sight continued
to increase for a few days, but for the last three weeks it has not
perceptibly increased or diminished.
I called in a Dr. Parvin lately, said to be a very skillful oculist and
of large experience both here and in Europe. He said that he thought the
iris permanently injured; that the crystalline lens was not injured; that,
of course, my two eyes would not work together; and that on the whole
my chances of distinct vision were not good. But the bare possibility
of anything like full sight is now my outstanding hope. When the wound
was made about one third of a teaspoonful of fluid like the white of an
egg flowed out upon my fingers,--aqueous fluid, I suppose. The eye has
not yet lost its natural appearance.
I can _see_ sufficiently well with it to avoid the furniture, etc., in
walking through a room. Can almost, in full light, recognize some of my
friends but cannot distinguish one letter from another of common type.
I would like to hear Dr. Carr’s opinion of my case.
When I received my blow I could not feel any pain or faintness because
the tremendous thought glared full on me that my _right eye_ was lost. I
could gladly have died on the spot, because I did not feel that I could
have heart to look at any flower again. But this is not so, for I wish
to try some cloudy day to walk to the woods, where I am sure some of
spring’s sweet fresh-born are waiting.
I believe with you that “nothing is without meaning and purpose that
comes from a Father’s hand,” but during these dark weeks I could not feel
this, and, as for courage and fortitude, scarce the shadows of these
virtues were left me. The shock upon my nervous system made me weak in
mind as a child. But enough of woe.
When I can walk to where fruited specimens of _Climacium_ are, I will
send you as many as you wish.
I must close. I thank you all again for your kindness. I cannot make
sentences that will tell how much I feel indebted to you.
Please remember me to all my friends.
You will write soon. I can read my letters now. Please send them in care
of Osgood & Smith.
Cordially,
MUIR.
[April, 1867.]
[Beginning of letter missing.]
I have been _groping_ among the flowers a good deal lately. Our trees
are now in leaf, but the leaves, as Mrs. Browning would say, are “scarce
long enough for waving.” The dear little conservative spring mosses have
elevated their capsules on their smooth shining shafts, and stand side
by side in full stature, and full fashion, every ornament and covering
carefully numbered and painted and sculptured as were those of their
Adams and Eves, every cowl properly plaited, and drawn far enough down,
every hood with the proper dainty slant, their fashions never changing
because ever best.
Tell Allie that I would be very glad to have him send me an _Anemone
nemorosa_ [?] and _A. Nuttalliana_. They do not grow here. I wish he
and Henry could visit me on Saturdays as they used to do.
The poor eye is much better. I could read a letter with it. I believe
that sight is increasing. I have nearly an eye and a half left.