confidence;” and running down stairs to our room, I was complimented
upon the promptitude with which I performed an errand. No matter,
thought I;--if one sad soul has found comfort in pouring out the bitter
sorrows of a life, the hours have not rolled by in vain. Are we not all
responsible for each day, nay, for each hour, as it passes? Not alone for
the right use of time in improving our own souls, but for the manner in
which we act upon others. Influence! The language scarcely holds a more
solemn word,--the mind scarcely receives a more fearful thought! How has
this power been exerted? We all possess it in greater or less degree.
We all shall have to render an account for the use or misuse of such a
terrible talent.
“The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past,
But they shall last;--
In the dread judgment, they
And we shall meet!”
Time was, when, to my mind, it seemed only humility to believe that such
a speck in God’s creation--such an atom, great in no one thing, mentally,
morally, or physically--must be without power for good or evil--without
influence upon any single soul. It will not do. Humility is doubtless
a great gift; Truth is a greater. No mortal being into whom God has
breathed the breath of life, can live upon this earth and not act upon
his fellow mortals in some manner. We cannot be merely negative; we are,
we must be positive.
“Where we disavow
Being keeper to our brother, we’re his Cain.”
A word, a look, aye, even a tone may be the making or undoing of a soul.
My brother! remember that to those amongst whom you are thrown, you must
be, morally, either air or water. Air, to fan the smouldering spark of
good, till its white flame mounts higher and higher, encircling your head
with a halo of glory; or water, to quench that same spark, which, in
dying, will envelop you in the blackness of darkness for ever and ever.
HASTY JUDGMENT.
How little, in this world of ours,
One heart doth know another;
Man treads alone the path of life,
A stranger to his brother.
The heart hath its own depths--it strives
With sacred awe to hide,
E’en from those round us, journeying on
Unconscious at our side.
Recesses, which, to the world’s gaze,
Are dark and barred from view;
Hence comes it that the public eye
So rarely reads us true.
And yet a light does reach those depths--
Those Portals have a key;
They’re brightened by Love’s silver beams,
Unlocked by Sympathy.
Those ashes, which, to common view,
Cold, dark, and lifeless seem,
When stirr’d by Sympathy’s soft touch,
Send forth a brilliant gleam.
Then pause, nor judge thy fellow man;
Remember it may be,
The heart is beating underneath,
But thou dost lack the key.
CHRISTMAS AT THE U.S.A. HOSPITAL, ---- ----.
I promised, when we parted, dear C., that you should have some account
of our Christmas doings; but the busy days have slipped by, till now,
without my finding a moment to redeem that promise.
You know how we are all occupied at that time; but no matter how much
there is to be done, in these days “private interests” have a different
signification, and demand attention.
The morning of Christmas Eve, therefore, found ---- and myself on our way
to the hospital. With that ready interest which, with her, always rises
to meet the emergency, even at the busiest moments, she has offered to go
with me and help us in our work; and you know how it doubles my pleasure
for her to do so. Several of the ladies have agreed to meet here to-day;
some for the purpose of superintending the cooking for the Christmas
dinner, plum-puddings, etc.; others to make and put up the greens for the
Christmas decoration; we, as you may suppose, are among the latter class.
Our quiet ladies’ room is quite a scene of bustle this morning; the
ladies in charge for the week carrying on, or attempting to carry on,
their usual duties; others flying in and out for various purposes; green
wreaths strewing the floor, and vain attempts are being made to twist
them into some available shape.
This confusion will never do. Nothing can be accomplished in this way.
Let us go into one of the wards, where it is quiet; and soon we find
ourselves seated by the stove, endeavoring to form a green sentence by
covering the letters with moss and ground pine; they have been nicely
cut for us by the genius of the hospital, and we are pressing into our
service all the men who can sew, or rather, all who say that they can,
which is sometimes quite a different affair.
But before we begin, we must go and speak to poor James, who has been
so ill; he is actually sitting up; but how pale and weak he looks, and
what a languid expression, as he smiles! He tells us that he hopes to be
in the dining-room to-morrow, and in a few days to start for home. Ah!
James, that photograph so carefully concealed beneath your pillow, peeps
out occasionally, and we all know that you left a two weeks’ bride to
serve your country.
He has been suffering from fever; but worse than this, he is subject to
epileptic fits, which he had hoped were cured; but hard life and exposure
have brought them back, and he has had several very severe attacks since
he has been here. His gentle, winning manner has made him a general
favorite, and we are all glad to see him better. He begs to have his
chair moved up to our circle, where he can, at least, look on, while we
work; and he is always sure to find plenty of ready and willing hands to
do any service that he needs.
But our work must not stand still; and lo! at this crisis, we find
ourselves without implements. We had supposed we were simply to twine and
festoon wreaths, instead of which, or rather, in addition, we find the
green must be sewed on to those thick book-binders’ board letters. Oh!
why were they not pasteboard, and why have we no thimbles? But these are
not the first wounds we have received in the service of our country; so,
as we have a few needles, never mind, let us do our best; and, as our
number is increasing,--one after another coming up “to see the fun,” and
being at once enlisted in our service,--no doubt we shall accomplish the
task.
The men, who are always ready to help us, are specially so to-day, when
the bright spirit of the season seems to communicate itself to all.
Is there not something singularly striking in thus preparing to hail the
birth of the Prince of Peace in the midst of an army hospital, where we
are surrounded by all the dreadful effects of war? Surely in no other
spot, save the field of battle itself, could we as fully appreciate the
priceless blessings contained in that Title.
Those who cannot sew, aid us in other ways. One of our lieutenants
prefers to collect the little bunches of green, and hand them to me to
sew on, rather than try his hand at sewing himself; as he is busily
engaged at this work, one of the men, in passing, laughingly rallies him
on his occupation.
“Pretty work for a commissioned officer!”
“To oblige a lady, Horstman, is never beneath any officer, no matter what
his rank. General ---- himself will tell you that!”
This from me,--a word by the way,--very sure that no matter what
assertion I cover by that name, it will be received by him for truth.
There is something very beautiful to me in the pride and heartfelt love
which the men so often express for their generals. It is this feeling of
trust and confidence in their leaders which is one of the most important
elements of success, and upon which victory itself often depends.
Ah! here comes M. We have been wondering where she could be, and why she
did not appear. Her hands full, as usual, and stopping for a Christmas
Eve greeting with each man, as she comes along. And see who she has
brought in her train! Men and boys laden with green wreaths; more still?
we shall have quite a bower; and look at that great tree; where can
that have come from, and what can she mean it for? It has been given
to her, she says, and we may use it exactly as we like best; therefore
---- suggests that it shall be a Christmas tree for James, who has just
announced his intention to hang up his stocking, and she proposes this
in its place. We all take it up as an excellent joke, and declare he
shall have it. He seems to enjoy it too, and smiles with that sweet
smile, which I am sure first won his young wife’s heart, though I should
be sorry that she saw it now, with that weak, languid eye and pallid
brow; we must put a little color into those cheeks, before we send him
home. Having nothing else to do, this busiest day of the whole year,
---- promises to supply all the needful, for dressing the tree, when she
returns from dinner, says goodbye, and leaves the men all in high spirits.
The work goes briskly on; some of the men have got tired and left us, but
most of them are faithful still, especially my friend there,--that tall
Yankee, with his crutches laid at his side. He is a New Hampshire man;
and, with true Yankee perseverance, has never moved since he concluded
to try his hand at “greening letters,” as he calls it. He “calculated
he could do that as well as anything else, though he had never tried
before,” and wonderfully has he succeeded. Many a merry laugh rings out,
as the different ones hold up the results of their work to know if we
have an idea “what that letter is intended for?” and truly we often find
some difficulty in recognizing them, but trust their position in the
sentence may be more suggestive than when they stand alone. It is tough
work, and I am almost inclined to agree with one of the men, who, as he
puts the last stitch to his work, starts up, exclaiming:
“Well, any man that can do that work, is fit to go back to his regiment;
I’ve done nothing like it since I left the Peninsula.”
As we are hurrying on, to meet the constant demands from the dining-room,
“Can’t you give us an E?” “Isn’t that A done?”--a quiet little man at my
side turns to me, and says, in an under tone:
“No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here this morning,” pointing
to the bed directly back of the spot where our merry group is gathered.
“Died here! To-day? Who? When?”
“Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you never saw; only brought in a
few days since.”
Could it be possible that here, where we had all been so full of mirth
and gayety, but a few hours since, on this very spot, on this Christmas
Eve, too, a soul had passed from earth--from its vigil here--to keep the
Festival--where? None knew, and none can ever know, till the Awful Day,
when “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.”
There was a special sadness about this death. I found, upon inquiry,
that the case had not been considered a serious one; that the man had
even spoken of being at home on New Year’s Day; that the ladies had
brought him a drink that morning, which they had prepared for him; and
scarcely half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had been struck
by his appearance, went up to him, and found him quite dead. Apparently
he had died calmly and without struggle; this seemed more probable from
the fact that those in the nearest beds, even, had no idea of it; but
there was a loneliness about that passing which I could not forget.
Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered into its shadow? Had he
longed to speak--to call--and had no power? Had he yearned to send one
last message--one parting word of love--to those far-away dear ones? We
may not know; and if a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay
almost upon the spot where he so late had been, was it not a type of
earth, and of the constant mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which
we may never escape long as we linger here?
“Sorrow and gladness together go wending;
Evil and good come in quick interchange;
Fair and foul fortune forever are blending;
Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their range.”
I have dropped my work, and am dwelling sadly on these thoughts, when I
see one or two start up, and rush over to James. What is it? They are
lifting him from his chair, and placing him upon his bed. Ah! it is one
of those terrible fits; and see, four men are holding him down. Here
comes the doctor; let us move away all this work, and keep him quiet. Is
it our fault? Have we tired him by our noise, and thus brought it on?
Oh no! the doctor is consoling; he does not at all attribute it to us;
he has them often, only he must be kept quite still; and goodbye to all
hopes of his Christmas dinner in the dining-room to-morrow. The usual
remedies are applied, but it is a severe attack, and leaves him utterly
prostrated.
We all repair to the dining-room, and here is, indeed, a scene of
bustle and confusion. Ladders against the wall, men putting up the
half-finished sentences, festooning the green wreaths, hanging the
flag in graceful folds, so as to dispose its bright colors to the best
advantage amidst the greens, hurrying in and out on various errands, and
busying themselves about one scarcely can tell what, only all adding to
the general confusion and excitement. Can any one wonder that no sad
impression can continue where there is so much to turn the attention and
divert the mind? We are conscious ourselves of its influence; and, of
course, men, in whom the feeling is not a deep one, must be much more
open to it.
But here is ----, with all her promised parcels for the Christmas tree;
how sorry she is to hear of poor James’ fit; but we decide that it will
be best to make the tree for him, and have it placed at the foot of his
bed to-morrow, to atone for the loss of the dinner; not to-night, the
doctor forbids all excitement at present.
And now, here is the tree, but how shall we plant it? Some suggest one
mode, some another; but none take it in hand, till our ever-obliging
Corning, wardmaster of our first ward, appears; prompt to do, and ready
to act, he wastes no time in words, but bears off the tree, and soon
returns with it firmly planted and ready for service. Thank you, Corning;
what a satisfaction there is in being so promptly and pleasantly served.
And now we have hands enough. ---- unfolds her treasures, and wondering
eyes and busy hands are soon occupied with them; and ere long the tree
stretches out its green arms, laden with golden glories of gilt balls,
soldiers in every conceivable costume, pocket mirrors, which may yet
look upon more warlike scenes than those they now reflect,--in fact,
decorations of all sorts, suspended by red, white, and blue cords, and
glittering gaily in the gas light. Ah! here is an addition; thank you,
Lawrence; those bright red apples, which he has just washed and polished,
will have quite a fine effect, as he is hanging them among the other
miscellaneous specimens which this wonderful tree produces.
We are all satisfied and delighted with it, but the great drawback is
that poor James cannot see it, now that it is done; but Price, his
wardmaster and faithful nurse, has promised to lift it in, and place
it at the foot of his bed, in the morning, and we know that he never
neglects a promise.
The Chaplain is to hold a Christmas Eve Service here, this evening at
seven o’clock; so we are anxious to have everything in order; and really,
it all looks very nicely, and we regard it quite complacently, as we take
a final survey of our day’s work. That star, which ---- brought with her,
covered by kind hands at home, shines out beautifully, surmounted by the
green cross; and our Lectern holds up its head, quite proud of itself in
its Christmas vestments.
But now, we really must wind up, for the night has come; and with mutual
good wishes for to-morrow’s enjoyment, we say good-night.
As for the day itself, I can give you little account of that, as, of
course, I could not be present; but the dinner was described to me, in
glowing terms, by those who were.
The turkeys, the pies, the plum-puddings; the toasts that were given
and drunk with “three times three” in beer, generously given for the
purpose,--in fact, everything seemed to have passed off “a merveille;”
but the best part of the whole, was the orderly manner in which it
was conducted--not a single case reported for the guard-house. This
pleased us especially, as it seemed to prove that our efforts for the
men’s enjoyment had been attended with no bad results, and to make the
remembrance of our Christmas of 1862 one of the bright memories of our
hospital experience.
May God grant that ere we hail its dawn again, those now in rebellion
may have returned to their allegiance, and thus enable us to proclaim a
blessed peace throughout the land. But there is something first. Before
Peace must come Prayer. We need Prayer; the nation needs Prayer.
Do not point me to the little band of people or parishes, where the
Daily Offering is made,--where throbbing hearts, and souls yearning for
the safety of their loved ones, daily kneel before God’s altar, and in
lowliness and penitence send up that pleading wail, which seems as though
it must pierce the very Heavens, and cleave a pathway to the mercy-seat:
“O, most Powerful and Glorious Lord God, the Lord of hosts, that rulest
and commandest all things; Thou sittest in the throne, judging right,
and therefore we make our address to Thy Divine Majesty, in this our
necessity, that Thou wouldest take the cause into Thine own hand, and
judge between us and our enemies.”
And again:
“Hear us, Thy poor servants, begging mercy, and imploring Thy help; and
that Thou wouldest be a defence unto us against the face of the enemy.”
Most thankful am I for this, and for all that we have, little as it is;
but I am now looking at our country as a whole.
We know the South to be wrong; we know ourselves, or rather, our cause,
to be right. If, then, we have right, truth, and justice on our side, why
do we not succeed--why have we not succeeded?
Is it not that we have been--we are--a sinful people, pluming ourselves
upon our powers, priding ourselves upon our prosperity, till we have come
to look upon the fair beauty of this land, lavish in its loveliness,
as a possession which is our right, and not as a loan, for the use and
enjoyment of which we are bound to return the offering of grateful hearts?
Is it not that we have gone on in a suicidal career of extravagance,
luxury, and dissipation, which has finally brought its own punishment
upon us? Sorely did we need humbling, and sorely have we been humbled.
Bitter has been our lesson, but bitterly was it needed. The thought will
sometimes arise, would that the trial had come from foreign foe; would
that friend had never lifted hand against friend, nor brother against
brother! Had that grand rising, at the sound of Sumter’s wrong, which
swelled throughout the North--had it, I say, but thrilled through our
whole land with a mighty throb, till, with one heart and hand united,
we had joined to defend that Flag, so treacherously assailed, where is
the foe we should have feared to face--where the enemy, which, humanly
speaking, we might not have conquered?
But so, the lesson had been lost. We had but gained further food for
pride, further motives for self-glorification. The medicine would but
have increased the disorder, the remedy added to the disease. We must
acknowledge--we must recognize the Chastening Hand which is dealing with
us. Where is the victory which has ever yet, as a people, sent us to
our knees? Where the defeat which has ever yet been attributed to any
but secondary causes? Want of reinforcements, want of supplies, want of
suitable weather, want of skill in the commanding officers,--any and
every want but the true one.
We send our men forth wanting the one weapon, which, springing from its
scabbard, and flashing in the bright sunlight of Faith and Trust, must
insure success. It is the Sword of Prayer.
“’Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar;
Gains wings, and through the ever-opened door,
Swift as the image of the twinkling star,
Shows its reflection in the Ocean’s floor;
It moves the inmates of that Heavenly Shore,
As, gently rippling o’er the leafy shade,
Comes the soft, sighing gale, and passes o’er;
E’en so in Heaven, each Prayer, in secret made,
Ruffles a thousand Wings prepar’d for instant aid.”
I humbly beg pardon, dear C. You asked for some account of our Christmas
festivities at the hospital, and I have been betrayed into what, I fear
you will find, a tedious expression of my feelings upon the questions
which have such an absorbing interest at the present time. Forgive me
this once, and I will promise to spare you in future.
POOR JOSÉ!
“But these men have no feeling.”
The stormiest day of this stormy winter. Hail, rain, and snow seem
to have formed a precious triumvirate to take possession of the day,
“vi et armis,” and claim it for their own. I know not whether it is a
certain perverseness of nature, or a desire to overcome difficulties,
which leads me to prefer such blustering, battling days, to more serene
ones; whatever may be the cause, the fact will account for my finding
myself, on this particular morning, seated on the kitchen table, before
the hospital fire, carrying on a _warm_ discussion with one of the men,
on the merits of Ruskin, as I dried my dripping garments. A chance word
led to a quotation by him from one of Ruskin’s works, and we immediately
“opened fire” in more senses than one.
I found him a man of keen intelligence, self-made, of course, but a great
reader, and quite familiar with a higher style of literature than we
usually look for here. Doubtless, in his far-away home, grander halls
have echoed to the praises of the great Art-teacher of the nineteenth
century, made by more appreciative critics; but I very much question
whether he has ever had more earnest, zealous, enthusiastic admirers than
the two that day met, before that kitchen fire, on the shores of another
continent.
As I walked through one of the wards, a little later, I said, in
passing, “You are better to-day,” to a man who had been suffering from
such a severe attack of erysipelas in his head, that his eyes had been
closed for many days. The enormous swelling of his head, added to his
long, matted beard and thick, tangled black hair, had given him a
fierce, brigand sort of air, which was far from being dissipated by the
appearance of a pair of large black eyes, opened to-day for the first
time since I had seen him in the hospital.
“Better,” said he; “but oh, lady!--”
He turned his head away, shaking it sadly.
“What is your grief?” said I, sitting down beside him.
“My little ones, my little ones! Where are they? Five weeks, dear lady,
have I lain here, and no word have I had from them.”
A long, and most sorrowful story followed, of which the main points are
these: a Spaniard by birth, he had come to this country in search of
employment, settled in Philadelphia, married, and for several years was
prosperous and happy, till his wife fell into bad habits, wasted his
earnings, and brought them to utter poverty and wretchedness. On one
occasion he had gone to a neighboring town on business, and on his return
found their comfortable home broken up, the house and furniture sold, and
his wife and their three little ones in a poor hovel, in one of the worst
parts of the city.
No one who did not hear him, can imagine the pathos with which he
described his little girl’s illness, with all the fervor of his warm
Spanish nature; his care of her; his walking the floor with her night
after night, her little arm around his neck and her head upon his breast;
“for you see, lady, it was worse than if she had had no mother.” His love
for her seemed to amount to a passion; his boys, he said, were “nice
little fellows,” Juan and Henriquez; but evidently his feeling for them
was nothing in comparison with the idolatry lavished upon his little
Rosita, as he called her, a child of four years old.
“I lie here at night,” said he, the large tears rolling down his
cheeks, “and think if I could just once have that little hand in mine,
that little head upon my breast, it would cure me faster than all this
doctor’s stuff, far away faster.”
From what he told me, I gathered that he had enlisted in the war in
despair; and during his absence his wife, for her outrageous conduct,
had been considered insane, and taken to the insane department of the
almshouse, where she then was, the children having been taken to board
by a woman in the neighborhood of their house. He had been unable, as
he had said, to hear anything about them, and feared they were ill,
especially his darling Rosita.
“Lady, dear lady, could you, would you see about them for me?”
“Certainly,” said I; “if it is possible, I will go at once; but I must
first know where they are.”
“You will?” he said, “You really will?” with an expression of wondering
delight; and then, as though the very thought brought peace, remained
perfectly still, apparently musing upon the idea.
“But,” said I, “you do not tell me where to find them.”
“No --, ---- Street.”
I started, and shook my head. “That is impossible; I could not go there.”