when they recovered; therefore, most naturally, I had not dwelt much upon
such cases as had returned, cured, to their regiments. I further assured
her that I had heard men both quarrel and swear; had seen them both
drink and gamble within these walls; and that, at the very moment we were
speaking, a special friend of mine--acknowledged to be the worst man in
the hospital--was in the guard-house; a man who probably interested me
more deeply and painfully than any one here; and whose story, could I
tell it, might thrill her to her soul’s depths; but in this case also,
there was an “interesting mother in the distance,” whose pale, patient,
long-suffering face, mutely appealing to me from her sweet photograph,
must seal my lips forever upon that sad subject. Because I had told her
that oaths were checked in our presence, did it follow, I asked her, that
they were never uttered in our absence? Because I had said, and most
truly, that in my whole term of service I had never heard a rude word, or
seen an act of discourtesy, either to myself or any of the lady visitors,
did it follow that such words or acts never passed between themselves?
Because I had shrunk from the painful theme of the guard-house and its
inmates, did it follow that it was untenanted? And finally, triumphantly
made her confess that, like too many amongst us, she had formed her
conclusions on insufficient data, promising, as a reward for her
generosity in owning herself routed, that henceforth I would reserve the
pleasant cases for myself, and pick out the worst ones for my friends,
as they seemed to prefer them. I tell you this, that you may understand
why I take you, first of all, to the crossest man here, in preference to
the most attractive and gentle. You do not care to see him, you say. Oh!
yes. For the sake of my promise I must show him to you, and after that
we can look at pleasanter specimens. He will not hurt you; it is only
that nothing that can be done for him ever suits him, unless done by the
ladies; for he is no exception to my rule, and is always polite to the
ladies. Amongst ourselves we call him “The Grumbler,” so entirely that we
sometimes forget his real name. I was amused, the other day, to hear M.
say, as she designated the different saucers of corn-starch which she was
giving to one of the orderlies, “You’ll remember, now, that this is for
Davis, that for Strickland, that for Jones, and this for ‘the Grumbler.’”
“For who, ma’am, this last one, did you say?”
“The Grumbler,” repeated M. with perfect unconsciousness, as she
continued to hunt spoons for the different saucers.
I quietly enjoyed the bewilderment of the orderly, but said nothing to
enlighten him.
“That’s what a good many of them are, ma’am, when I goes back without
enough for all, but I don’t know which one you mean now.”
M., thus recalled to herself, laughingly explained; and the idea that
such was the ladies’ name for him, seemed to afford special delight to
the poor orderly, who has doubtless been frequently the victim of his
wrath.
“You’ve hit it this time, ladies; he does nothing but grumble from
morning till night; nothing that I can do will suit, though I’ve tried
till I am tired, to please him.”
Whether he has confided to him our flattering name for him or not, I
have not yet been able to discover, but think it not at all unlikely.
As we pass along to his bed, just notice the tables of the men, and see
how carefully they have the “Lares and Penates” treasured up on them.
Pictures of wife, mother, and sister, little remembrances carefully
preserved; the Bible,--often the parting gift--and once or twice a little
toy, which seemed to keep home fresh in the father’s heart; but one thing
has often struck me with surprise; these all, as you may see, lie open on
the table, but you will never see the bride elect--the promised one--so
exposed; her memory and her face are as carefully guarded as though she
were in danger of being captured and carried off by storm. I have seen
quite as much reserve and delicacy of feeling upon this point, as I have
ever met with in higher circles. The story comes at last; but it is often
after months of watching and nursing, when you fancy every detail of
home has been given over and over again,--it comes in bashful words and
with heightened color, “I thought I’d like you to know;” or, “You won’t
mention, will you? But”--and then comes confession. Or again, a sudden
burst of gratitude seems to find vent in showing you that precious one,
so carefully hidden all this long time; and a photograph is mutely placed
in your hands, and of course no _woman_ ever yet said to any picture so
given, “Who is this?” Ah! well. I fear you are tired, long ere this, of
my earnest desire to prove that the human heart is the same all the world
over, prince or peasant, baron or beggar, senator or serf; so let us walk
on, and speak to our cross friend.
There he sits, on that bed opposite to us, in the red shirt, with his arm
in the sling; that’s a bad wound, and I often excuse his irritability,
because he is suffering so much with it, and I know that the doctor
thinks amputation may be necessary. He is a good-looking man, if he would
only smile and look good-natured, instead of frowning and scolding all
the time. There comes his dinner; now listen, but don’t go up to him,
just yet; if he sees the ladies, he won’t express his views so plainly.
Grumbler, loquitur. “Call that my dinner? Pitch it out, I say, pitch it
out, or I’ll pitch you out! Didn’t I tell you the next time you brought
me that greasy stuff you call soup, I’d report you? say, didn’t I?”
Down-trodden orderly, rising at last. “Pitch it out yourself! The other
boys can eat it; I don’t see why you’re so mighty nice.”
“Mighty nice, indeed! I tell you it’s grub not fit for an almshouse,
that’s what it is.”
Let us go up and speak to him; perhaps the sight of the ladies may allay
his wrath.
“What’s the matter, George? what are you speaking so violently about?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am; I didn’t know you were there.”
“But the whole hospital might have heard you; and I just want to know,
for curiosity, whether you really referred to that chicken soup, when you
said it was “grub fit for an almhouse?” because, if you did, I want to
tell you that I have just finished feeding a very sick man with it, and
that, as I tasted it before giving it to him, I thought how nicely it
was made; and that, tired as I was, I should not object to have a little
ordered for me.”
“It’s that coat of grease on the top, ma’am, that I can’t stand; it makes
me sick, and I’ve told him over and over not to come near me with it, big
fool that he is.”
“But, George, it’s very easy to remove that; it’s been standing, that’s
all; look here, just take your spoon, and skim it off; there, see how
nicely it looks below. Do you know I think you’re something like that
soup yourself, crusty and disagreeable on the surface, but skim that
off, go deeper, and I don’t believe you’re such a bad fellow, at heart,
cross as you seem!”
“Why, do I seem cross, Miss ----? I don’t mean to be so, only they never
bring me what I want; and this plaguey arm keeps aching so all the time.”
“That’s just what I thought; and I am sure that if we could only get that
arm better, you would be a different man. I am sure you suffer with it
a great deal. Try and take this nice corn-starch, maybe you’ll like it
better than the soup.”
“That! Old scorched stuff! You won’t catch me taking that in a hurry, I
guess.”
“Scorched? Why, George, it isn’t scorched.”
“Not scorched, ma’am? No milk, pretended to be boiled, ever came out of
that kitchen yet, that wasn’t scorched.”
“That, I happen to know, is not so; but just tell me one thing,--have you
tasted it?”
“Not I, and I don’t mean to; I know it’s bad, without tasting it.”
“Thank you, George, for your gratitude. We made that this morning, with
our own hands, with particular care, and put the flavoring in it you said
you liked the other day; it has never been near the kitchen, and I can
answer for it’s not being scorched.”
“You made it, ma’am? The ladies? Then it’s the kind I like. I beg your
pardon. Billy brought it in with the dinner, and I thought he got it out
of the kitchen.”
“We sent it to you by Billy; but, if it had come from the kitchen,
wouldn’t it have been as well to try it, before condemning it so
strongly? I feel much mortified that this lady, who has come to see the
hospital, where we try so hard to have the food nicely prepared, and
delicacies provided for the men, can go home and tell that she herself
heard one of them say, when his dinner was brought to him, ‘Pitch it
out,’ for it was ‘grub not fit for an almshouse.’ You ought to be careful
what you say, George, for perhaps you do not know what is the fact,
that the testimony of the men, with regard to these things, outweighs
tenfold all that the surgeons or the ladies can say. I constantly hear
the remark, ‘Oh! yes. Of course it is to the interest of the surgeons to
represent that everything is as it should be; the ladies are proud of
their hospital, and of course praise it; but ask the men,--they are the
ones to tell the truth about it--ask them if they are comfortable, and
get what they want; if they are satisfied, be sure it is all right, and
vice versa.’ Now, this lady has come in, and you know what she has heard,
as the testimony of the only man she has yet listened to. Is this quite
fair, George?”
“Oh! Miss ----, I’m very sorry, indeed I am. I didn’t mean it, you know
I didn’t; only this plaguey arm, as I tell you, keeps me snappish-like.”
“Well, never mind, I don’t think you’ve done much harm this time; this
lady shall taste both soup and corn-starch, if she will, and then she
can hear her own testimony that the one is not greasy, nor the other
scorched. Only grumble a little less next time, and we will forgive you
now. But come, dear C., we are wasting too much time on one case, and
there are so many here that I want you to see.”
Ah! here comes one of our finest specimens, a whole-souled, true-hearted
man; one whom you may safely trust, and never fear that you will find
your confidence misplaced, which, I am sorry to say, is not always the
case. You shake your head, and mean by that, I suppose, that a man
looking as well as he does, certainly might go back to his regiment. I
grant you that he looks perfectly well, but let me beg you not always to
be guided by appearances here, any more than elsewhere. Some of those
we have supposed best fitted for service, were really the least able to
bear exertion. I remember a case last winter, which taught me a lesson on
that point. Corning, one of our men, who was afterwards made wardmaster,
and whom I have often mentioned to you as one of my favorites, is the
one I have in my mind. When he first came to us, he was suffering from
a severe kick from a horse, which had broken several ribs; but after a
few months he appeared so perfectly well, that we used very frequently to
take the liberty of judging, and wonder why he was not returned to his
regiment.
One afternoon, during a violent snow-storm, he undertook to join one
or two of the men in a game of snow-balls; that evening, when we were
preparing the suppers for the sick men, Corning failed to appear as usual
for his ward, and we found that the exertion of the afternoon had been
quite too much for him; he was in bed, and for weeks was not himself
again. This showed me how thoroughly unfit for any but the lightest duty
a man might be, and yet appear--as our friend here does--in good health.
“Our Charlie,” as the men call him, is a general favorite; he was one of
our orderlies, and has just been made wardmaster, and has proved very
popular in that capacity. He has one of those sunny, genial natures
which create an atmosphere of their own, and brighten every one who may
chance to come within the sphere of their influence. Poor fellow! he was
giving me an account, yesterday, of rather an unfortunate picnic which
he was at the day before. A party of the men had obtained passes to go
upon one of those excursions which are so popular here in summer; he had
foolishly taken with him his pocket-book, containing thirty dollars
(“John Greenback,” as they irreverently term the paymaster, having paid
the hospital a visit the day before), which in a very short time he found
he had lost. He had been sitting on the grass, with a set of men all of
whom were known to him except one, whose appearance he had not liked when
he joined the party; this man, who had just left them hurriedly, he felt
convinced had taken it. On giving notice to the police, he was advised
to say nothing, but keep a close watch, and he would probably be able to
detect him.
“It wasn’t the money I cared for, a bit, Miss ----,” said poor Charlie,
in telling me of it, “but the pocket-book had _that paper_ in it, and you
know that was more to me than all in Uncle Sam’s treasury.”
I well knew what “that paper” meant, for it was through it that we
first found out what a true, loving heart beat in the breast of our
bright, frank, off-hand Charlie. His brother, also in the army, had been
wounded, brought here to another hospital, and died there while Charlie
was here, without his knowing it. With that thoughtful kindness which
has brought comfort to many an aching heart during this sad war, one of
the ladies preserved a lock of his hair for his family; and hearing,
after all was over, that Charlie was here, brought it to him, and gave
him all the particulars of his brother’s death. No one, who had once
heard Charlie give that account, could ever forget it; the deep, bitter
sorrow, which refused to be comforted; the unavailing regret--almost
self-reproach--with which he wound up, “And to think I was so near, and
never went to him!”--this seemed to be more than he could bear.
We always found ourselves more ready to sympathize with him in his grief,
because he entered into every one else’s interests so warmly, whether of
joy or sorrow. “That paper,” therefore, I knew contained this precious
lock of hair; which, he told me only a few days ago, he wanted to send
to his mother,--“all she can ever have of her boy”--and had delayed
doing so, only because he wished to give it to the chaplain to send for
him. It needed no words of his, to tell me what a loss this was to him.
Later in the day, however, as he was walking through the grounds, he saw
the man whom he had suspected, seated under a tree with a woman,--who
afterwards proved to be his sister, and to whom, they found, he had
given one-half of the money. Notice was given at once to the police, who
immediately arrested both of them. On being detected, the man instantly
put a roll of notes into his mouth, and tried to chew them up; this was
speedily prevented by the policeman, who throttled him and compelled him
to disgorge them. “But,” said Charlie, “I begged him not to choke him,
as I wanted to hear where the pocket-book was, much more than to get the
money.” This, however, the man obstinately refused to return, nor could
it be found upon him after the strictest search. “After telling him what
was in it, too,” continued Charlie, “after begging and beseeching him by
the love of his own mother, just to give me the pocket-book, and keep
the money (evidently, from what he told me, to the infinite disgust of
the policeman), could you believe me, that he wouldn’t listen to me, but
walked on, just as if he didn’t hear me? As we went along, I saw him
suddenly pitch something over a fence at his side; a thought darted into
my mind; over that fence I dashed, and sure enough, down there in the
grass, was my little white paper; and now they may keep my money, and
welcome.” It seemed to perplex him terribly, where the paper could have
been concealed during the search, or how the man happened to have it out
of the pocket-book; but such was the fact, just as he related it. He
told me that the police had been at the hospital, that day, bringing him
fifteen dollars,--half of his money--which the sister had confessed that
her brother had given to her at the time, and requiring him to go and
give evidence against the man, which he was most unwilling to do, having,
as he said, “secured all that he cared for.”
But while I am making a long story of Charlie’s loss, you are looking
eagerly at that bed in the corner; that poor fellow, who is so pale and
languid, is from Wisconsin; he has injured his spine, and cannot sit up
for more than a few moments at a time. He is one of the mournful ones,
and our most earnest attempts to cheer him seldom produce more than a
feeble smile. Nothing could convince you more of the blessing of buoyancy
of disposition and a sanguine temperament, than a short time passed in
one of these hospitals; you see at once that it carries a man more than
half the way towards cure. But nothing we can do will brighten poor
Granger; he seems gentle and grateful, but persistently depressed, and
that makes us feel much discouraged about him. You are looking at the
gentleman sitting at his side; yes, it is, as you think, Mr. ----, one
of our most valuable aids here; he has, for many months, been assisting
the chaplain in visiting, reading, writing for, and talking to the men,
and most grateful do we all feel to him for his services here. No sun
too hot, no air too heavy, through this whole summer, to find him at his
post; and the men repay his kindness with the warmest attachment.
Look at this man just coming in at the door; it is poor Cuthbert; he does
not belong in this ward, but he wanders where he likes. His is a sad
case. A bullet struck him on the head, injuring his brain; at times he is
perfectly himself, but usually his mind seems quite gone; it is truly
pitiable to see him. His wife and little children are here in the city;
she tells us that he was a most industrious, faithful workman, before
he enlisted; honest and sober, and the kindest husband. We are very
sure of his unselfishness, for no matter what we brought him to take,
whilst he was confined to bed, his answer was always the same, “Give it
to Bob;” or “Bob’s wounded, give it to him.” He rejected everything for
himself with these words, fancying himself still on the field with his
friend. We found, to our surprise, that “Bob” was none other than young
Lieutenant ----, well known here, whom he had been nursing and watching
most tenderly till he had received his own wound. The news of “Bob’s”
death, which reached us soon after we arrived, would doubtless have been
a great sorrow to him, but the poor fellow never could understand it;
and we begged the men to say nothing about it, during his sane days,
as we all wished him spared this additional suffering. He will get his
discharge soon, but his poor wife will now have to support him, as well
as her children. Surely a Soldier’s Home, for those disabled by this war,
is one of the charities most imperatively demanded at present. I know
that efforts are even now on foot to obtain it, but it is a thing which
should, which must, be pressed. Why pause till we see it accomplished,
and those suffering and thrown out of employment for life, provided
with a home? Why rest till we have actually placed within its walls the
army who have returned--many of them in the prime of life--maimed and
mutilated, to our midst--cut off from all possibility of advancement
for the rest of life--helpless, and too often hopeless? Shall we not
show them that we can at least appreciate all that they have done for
us?--that we can, and will gladly deny self, to give to them the home
which their sufferings and self-sacrifice have so deservedly won? We need
but the earnest purpose to secure its fulfilment, and I cannot feel that
Philadelphia will ever rest till she has added to her generous labors in
sending men forth, a liberal provision for the comfort and maintenance of
the disabled, on their return.[3]
[3] This was, of course, written before the establishment of
the “Soldiers’ Home,” at the corner of Crown and Race streets.
Let us pass down on this side, as we go out of the ward. I want you to
look at that man’s eye, it is so full of bright, keen intelligence and
quick wit. I wish that we had time to talk with him; but it is such a
difficult matter to break off, that, without an abundance of time, I
always hesitate to begin. The other morning I happened to enter the ward
just as inspection was over; (which, you know, means the time at which
the surgeon in charge makes his rounds attended by the surgeons of each
ward;) this man beckoned me to his bedside.
“He’s a bully man, that head one, ain’t he?”
Criticism from the men upon any of the officers of the hospital, be it
favorable or unfavorable, is a thing which we strictly discountenance at
all times; and I therefore said,--assuming, or, as ---- says, I should
always say, _trying_ to assume, an air of dignity--
“You should not speak so of the surgeon in charge, it is disrespectful;
you must remember that he is as much your superior officer, for the time,
as the colonel of your regiment.”
“Faith! then there’s an act of disrespect I’ll never pay my colonel. He’s
gone to his account, so we’ll say no more; but not a boy of that regiment
will ever----”
This I could not permit; so I turned at once to leave him, finding my
moral lessons turned against myself, and that “hæc fabula” didn’t “docet”
the respect I intended.
“Oh! please, miss! don’t go--don’t be offended! I didn’t mean it, indeed;
I may be rough, but I mean no offence; I want to tell you why I called
him ‘bully;’ just let me, even if you don’t like him.”
“It isn’t that I don’t like him,” I endeavored to explain, “but that I
think you have no right to criticise those above you. Were I to allow
that, I might, on the same principle, allow you to find fault with one
of the other officers; I never meant that you should not be grateful for
being so well cared for.”
“That’s just where it is, miss; it don’t matter the being cared for; they
cared for me in Washington; but it’s the way the caring’s done. I’ll just
tell you how it is, in this war. We’re all a set of ten-pins, stood up to
have balls sent at us; along they come, and down we go. No matter, get
another set; but still, it may save Uncle Sam to mend the broken ones,
and use them again; so the menders come along, pick you up, feel you all
over, and see if you’re worth mending; if so, you’re patched up, and
stood in your place again. I’ve seen enough of it; but here comes this
fellow--I beg your pardon, miss, it’s surgeon in charge I’m thinking you
like him called--and he don’t say much different from other menders; but
it’s all in his eye--it says a lot more nor his tongue--it says, ‘You’re
flesh and blood, you are, poor fellow! and I’m sorry to see you twisting
about with pain like that, and it’s all a bad business, this same, so
it is.’ Do you think I care what a man’s tongue says, when his eye says
that? I tell you, I feel better the whole day for one look like that.
It’s my belief that all the talk that’s right from the heart comes out of
the eye, and when men want to make you believe things not just so, it’s
their tongue they use.”
I did not suggest that it had been remarked, on the one hand, that
“Language was given to conceal a man’s thoughts;” or, on the other, that
“Countenance and gesture are vehicles of thought, but their capacity and
scope are limited,” as I was quite sure that he was entirely innocent of
any plagiarism, either of ideas or their expression. But what a lesson
in his words for us all! Here is a man confined to his bed, suffering
acutely, who tells me that he feels better for a whole day--for what?
For some kind act to relieve that suffering?--some pleasant look, or
sprightly game to beguile his tedious hours?--or for
“Kind words, so easy to speak,
But whose echo is endless?”
For none of these; but merely for a look--a glance of sympathy! Could
we realize the priceless value of such seeming trifles, surely in our
intercourse with our fellow-men, we should be more on the watch to
practice them--more prompt in their exercise. It is not that feeling
is wanting, in many cases, but perception,--the perception of the mode
in which we act upon others; but we must beware of forgetting our
responsibility on this most important point, and remember that
“Evils are wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.”