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.