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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Notes of hospital life from November, 1861, to August, 1863 - -Author: Anonymous - -Contributor: Alonzo Potter - -Release Date: February 15, 2017 [EBook #54171] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTES ON HOSPITAL LIFE, 1861-1863 *** - - - - -Produced by MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - NOTES - OF - HOSPITAL LIFE - - FROM NOVEMBER, 1861, TO AUGUST, 1863. - - “Je viens de faire un ouvrage.” - “Comment! un livre?” - “Non; pas un livre; je ne suis pas si bête!” - - PHILADELPHIA: - J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. - 1864. - - Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by - J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., - in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States - for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - DEDICATION, v - - INTRODUCTION BY BISHOP POTTER, vii - - PREFACE, xi - - INTRODUCTION, 17 - - OUR DAILY WORK, 23 - - A MORNING AT THE HOSPITAL, 38 - - THE TWO ARMIES, 43 - - THE CONTRAST, 47 - - BROWNING, 63 - - BROWN, 69 - - DARLINGTON, 75 - - “LITTLE CORNING,” 93 - - GAVIN, 105 - - CHRISTMAS AT THE U. S. A. HOSPITAL, ----, ----, 114 - - POOR JOSÉ, 128 - - ROBINSON, 139 - - THE RETURN TO THE REGIMENT, 157 - - A VISIT TO THE WARDS, 168 - - OUR GETTYSBURG MEN, 193 - - - - - TO - THE PRIVATES - OF THE - Army of the United States; - WHOSE - DARING IN DANGER; - PATIENCE IN PRIVATION; - SELF-SACRIFICE IN SUFFERING; - AND LOYALTY IN LOVE FOR THEIR COUNTRY, - HAVE GIVEN TO THE WORLD A NOBLE EXAMPLE, - WORTHY OF ALL IMITATION, - - These Notes are affectionately Dedicated, - - BY ONE WHOSE PRIVILEGE IT IS TO - HAVE BEEN PERMITTED - TO MINISTER TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED AMONG THEM, - IN ONE OF OUR - CITY HOSPITALS. - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - - -These “Notes” need no introduction. They were jotted down, from day -to day, as a private journal, and are printed only at the instance of -friends. The undersigned greatly mistakes if they are not welcomed as -an accession to our literature. On every page they betray a large and -elegant culture, and what is better, they manifest a profound sympathy in -all that is human, and a keen insight into nature and into man’s heart. -Felicities of thought and expression abound, vivid pictures of incidents -and life-like sketches of character. They are full of spirit, of wisdom, -and of right feeling. - -They rise, too, to the level of a great subject. In the conflict which -convulses our land, how many souls are stirred--how many hearts made -to burn! We cannot envy him or her who can look on such a scene--on -the principles involved, and the interests at stake, and yet not feel -kindled to a higher life. We can regard but with compassion those who see -in this war only blunders to be criticised, absurdities to be ridiculed, -crimes to be gloated over, or life and property to be deplored. - -If, in the liberty and peace of those who live in this land, and of the -millions who are to come after, there be anything precious; if there is -anything sacred and venerable in the unity of a great people and in the -sovereignty with which they have been charged by solemn compact; if there -is any claim upon us as men and as Christians, in behalf of a race that -has suffered long and sorely at our hands, and that now, for the first -time, seems to behold the light of hope, then is there that at stake -which should move every one to sympathy and to help. - -Our hearts must bleed as we gaze on the vast suffering; but “we buy our -blessings at a price.” Hitherto it has been our great danger that we -have had little save sunshine. Prosperity, great and uninterrupted, is -perilous for nations as well as individuals. It is amidst thunder-clouds, -and storms, that the oak gets strength and deep root; it is while -battling in tempestuous seas that the vessel proves and at the same -time confirms her capacity. So in this gigantic strife, powers will be -elicited, and a trust in God and in grand principles developed, which -will be, we trust, our fortress and our high tower hereafter. - -It is one of the merits of this writer that, with a heart alive to the -wants and wretchedness of the sick and wounded, she joins discernment -of the mighty questions involved. She sees, with exquisite relish, the -picturesque in character and incident; she has an eye, too, for the -deep wealth of affection and generous sympathy that lie embedded in the -roughest natures--for the flashes of merriment and drollery which lighten -up the darkest scenes--for the delicate tastes and noble sentiments that -often possess those whose hands have been hardened by toil, and whose -minds (in the judgment of too many) must needs have been debased by -habitual contact with vulgar pursuits. Hers is a heart which can feel -that which makes all the world akin--which can see that labor does not -degrade, but rather elevates those who pursue it in the true spirit; and -that nothing can be more preposterous in a land like ours, which is made -and glorified by the joint handiwork of God and man, than to decry or -despise it. These pages are instinct with faith in God and in our people; -with hope for the future; with a charity that never faileth. - - A. POTTER. - -PHILADELPHIA, February, 1864. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -A literary friend said to me some time since, “One of the greatest evils -of this rebellion, is the manner in which it is tainting our literature, -science, and arts. If they would only fight it out and confine it to -fighting, bad as it is, we might rise from its effects; but this flood -of war-literature will so set the mind of the next generation into a -military groove, that poetry, refined taste, and love for the beautiful, -will be lost in the roar of literary drums and mental musketry.” - -“And did you imagine,” said I, “that such a rebellion could be carried -on without affecting and injuring every nerve and fibre of the whole -country? Do you not see that it is a moral Pyæmia--a poisoning of the -veins of the entire nation? And although we trust the disease may be -arrested ere it destroy national existence, still the system suffers -throughout; and the result must be vapid volumes, paltry pictures, and -silly statements of so-called science. But granting that it is to be -deplored--that the military mind should take the place of the literary -one, I must break a lance with you on the question whether, in so doing, -‘poetry, refined taste, and love for the beautiful’ must of necessity -be lost. I will not grant it. At the opening of the war I thought, with -you, that the finer feelings of our nature were exclusively the property -of the higher classes; but two years’ experience in a military hospital, -where men appear mentally as well as physically in “undress uniform,” has -shown me the utter fallacy of such a theory; and now I do not hesitate to -affirm that I have seen there as much unwritten poetry, tender feeling, -aye, and love for the beautiful, as I have ever witnessed among the same -number of people gathered together at any time, or in any place.” - -Sickly sentimentality, whether shown in words or actions, for “our poor, -suffering soldiers,” is certainly a thing to be much deprecated; but, -on the other hand, is not a hard, gregarious view of them to be equally -avoided? - -I do not ask to raise them to _more_, but not to sink them to _less_ -than men. Our army is no “Corporation without a soul;” it is a mass of -units--a collection of beating hearts, throbbing pulses, and straining -nerves, which ask and need our love and sympathy, and surely they should -not ask in vain. - -I have anticipated your question, dear reader, “Why bore us with your -conversation with your friend?” Simply because that conversation has -led to the further bore of this volume. These notes were jotted down -as the incidents occurred; they are a simple statement of facts simply -stated. The only object of collecting them at present is that, as my -friend’s feeling appears to be a general one, it seemed possible that -these instances might prove, in some small degree, the converse of -the proposition; and, although at any other time quite unworthy of -publication, the intense and absorbing desire, at present, to obtain -particulars of even the most trifling circumstances connected with the -war, has led me to hope that they may not be wholly without interest. - -In conclusion, I must regret the necessity of any mention of self; but -the nature of the subject requires this, and without it, very frequently -the point to be established would be lost. I have omitted many incidents -from this very objection, but it would be unjust to the cause which I -have at heart to do more, and I must therefore trust that the reader will -believe me, when I say that any such allusion arises from necessity, not -taste. - -AUGUST, 1863. - - FLORIAN.--A soldier, didst thou say, Horatio? What! Is’t from - the ranks you mean? Faugh! - - HORATIO.--Marry, I did! A soldier and a man; and, being a - soldier, all the manlier, maybe. - - We “Faugh!” and turn our precious noses to the wind, - As breath from ranks, perforce must be rank breath; - But, mark, my lord, God made the ranks, and more, - God died for those same ranks, as well as men of rank. - - OLD PLAY. - - - - -NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - - -Life in a hospital! When and where? Now and here. Now, in the year of our -Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three; here, in this good city -of Philadelphia, whose generous outpouring of her sons, for the cause, -nearest all our hearts, can only be matched by the loving tenderness -with which she receives and cherishes them, on their return, maimed and -mutilated, to their homes amongst us. Every one, who knows anything of -the subject at the present moment, is well aware, that no matter where -it may be situated, whether opened at the first need, or the creation -of yesterday, still “our Hospital” will be, to the speaker, the most -perfect in arrangement, discipline, and ventilation; the medical staff -connected with it the most efficient, skilful and faithful; the corps of -subordinates the most competent, systematic and thorough. Such is human -nature, and we all find the weakness a pardonable one. - -How natural it seems to be here! How naturally we accept this strange -daily life! And yet, how unnatural it would have seemed two years ago, -could we have lifted but one little corner of that mystic veil, which so -blessedly prevents even a glimpse of the coming hour; how unnatural, I -say, would it have seemed to us, to be standing, as we are at the present -moment, in a little domain of our own, consecrated exclusively to us; -turning to all sorts of utterly unwonted avocations; any and every sort -of service which may bring comfort or aid to those who were strangers -to us, till this very day, and after a few to-morrows, will, in all -probability, be strangers to us forevermore. - -And yet, how glad we are to do it, and they to have it done. “Stop there, -my friend,” you say. “‘And they to have it done.’ Is that so? Are the -men quite as glad to have it done, as you to do it?” Ah, you have heard -that cry. I too have heard it, and will tell you frankly, and as far as -possible, impartially, my own conclusion, after careful examination of -that point: - -“Women are not needed in these hospitals.” - -“Depend upon it, ladies are a bore here.” - -“The men are victimized.” - -All these and many similar remarks have I heard, and they have led me -earnestly to look at the question in all its bearings. The petty jealousy -of man and his work; the narrowness and littleness of mind which -bristles with indignant anger at the suggestion of man’s superiority, -are all unworthy of the great cause we have at heart. But one question -is before us. Are the facts so, or are they not? If, after every effort -honestly to get at the truth, it shall appear that there really is no -need of woman and her work; that these enormous collections of suffering -and dying human beings, massed together by this ruthless rebellion, with -its wretched results, actually and positively, may be carried on better, -more practically, more systematically, without her aid and co-operation, -then let her promptly and decidedly retire; let her do it without anger, -without clamor, without bitterness; she is not needed. If this be so, -let her turn into some other channel the love and tenderness which she -longs to lavish on those who are giving their heart’s blood to defend and -protect her. - -If this be so, I say; but if on the other hand it shall appear that her -presence is not productive of disorder; not distasteful to the men; that -she is not only sanctioned, but welcomed by the authorities in charge, -then let her go “right onward,” unmindful of coldness, calumny, or -comment from the world outside, strong in the consciousness of singleness -of aim and purity of purpose. And, more than this, if the Dread Day may -show, that through her kneeling at the bedside of one sinning soul, -through her teaching of - - “truths, not ‘her’s,’ indeed, - But set within ‘his’ reach by means of ‘her,’” - -the dark Door of Death has been changed into the White Gate of Life -Everlasting, shall it not then be granted that women were needed? - -This is not the time or place to enter upon the great question of woman’s -mission. She has her work, and the time is coming when she shall be -permitted to do it. God, in His own marvellous way, is, even now, causing -the dawn of that blessed day to break, when, rising above prejudice and -party spirit, she shall be allowed to take her true place, and be, in the -highest sense of the word, a “Sister” to the suffering and the sorrowful; -to assert and claim her “rights,” the only rights of which a woman may -justly be proud. - - “What are Woman’s Rights?” - - “The right to wake when others sleep; - The right to watch, the right to weep; - The right to comfort in distress, - The right to soothe, the right to bless; - The right the widow’s heart to cheer, - The right to dry the orphan’s tear; - The right to feed and clothe the poor, - The right to teach them to endure. - - “The right when other friends have flown, - And left the sufferer all alone, - To kneel that dying couch beside, - And meekly point to Him who died; - The right a happy home to make - In any clime, for Jesu’s sake; - Rights such as these, are all we crave, - Until our last--a quiet grave.” - -Anxious, as I have said, to discover whether our presence in the hospital -was really acceptable or not, I have closely watched the countenances of -the men on the entrance of the lady visitors. I speak not now of myself, -for I am merely one, and a most insignificant one, among many; but I can -truly say, that at all such times I have never, but once, seen other -than an expression of pleasure, and the warm greeting is apparently most -sincere. The one instance to which I allude, is certainly no argument -against the presence of ladies; it extended to every one who approached -his bedside, and was produced by intense physical anguish, acting on a -highly nervous organization. I merely name it now, because it is, as I -have said, the sole instance in which we were not welcomed and urged to -stay. And yet, the very words, in that suffering, pleading tone, “Dear -lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched,” proved that it was no -dislike to us personally, but merely that terrible state, too well known -to any one of a very nervous temperament, when even the stirring of the -air by the bedside seems a pain. Subsequent events, which I have noted -elsewhere, show this to have been the case. - -At the time of the visit of the Surgeon-General of the United States to -inspect the hospitals, it was rumored, though wholly without foundation, -that his object was to change the organization and remove the ladies. -The burst of feeling with which this rumor was received was more -than gratifying, it was convincing, and proved that if the men were -“victimized” they were quite unconscious of it. Only a day or two since, -as I was sitting by one of our sick men, M. passed with some preparation -in her hand, which she had just made. He turned to me, and pointing to -her, said, “I don’t think all our angels are in heaven, do you?” - -The same feeling, though not always expressed in the same words, seems to -be entertained by one and all. “Tell me,” said I to one the other day, -“if I am in your way?” - -“In our way!” said he, “is the green grass in our way?” - -“No, for you walk over it, and I have no wish to be trampled on.” - -He looked disappointed. “I didn’t mean that, Miss, I meant its presence -always cools and refreshes us, and I thought you’d understand.” - -“I did quite understand, and thank you,” I said, sorry that I had pained -him by rejecting the well-meant expression of feeling. - -Any one who seriously desires to ascertain the truth, (and to such only -do I address myself) will believe that these instances are not recorded -for the sake of retailing compliments, but as proofs of a far deeper -feeling, which, there can be little doubt, does exist in the hearts of -the men amongst whom we are appointed to minister. - - - - -OUR DAILY WORK. - - - AUGUST, 1862. - -You ask me, dear C., the usual question, when our work at the hospital -is mentioned, “What can the ladies find to do all day?” I might give you -the stereotyped answer, “We receive and register the donations, give out -and oversee the clothing, make either delicacies or drinks for the men -who are ill, read to them, write for them, and try to make ourselves -generally useful.” This is the ordinary answer, but I think it would be -more agreeable to you to come and see for yourself; one day is a pretty -good specimen of every day, at least at present, so don your bonnet -and jump into the cars with me. What do you say? That the sun is too -scorching and the air too heavy for exertion? You think so here, but come -with me, and you will soon forget weather and self in more important -affairs; at least, so I find it. You agree? Well, then, here we are; why -don’t you acknowledge the guard’s salute as we enter? Shall we pause for -a moment in the wards, before we begin our work? I think we had better do -so, for in these days, when we once enter our room, there is no escape, -while the light lasts. There are several cases here which I should like -to point out to you as we pass along, though we cannot give much time to -them to-day. Do you see the man bending over that geranium plant in the -window? I think I have never seen a more real, true, deep love of flowers -in any one than in him. You see how lovingly he leans over that bush, -as though each leaf were a special pet and darling. I have often, this -summer, brought him a few roses--as much, I believe, for my own pleasure -as his--that I might watch his delight. He would sit often for nearly an -hour looking at them, holding them in his hands and lingering over them, -it seemed, with a feeling too deep for words. - -I never could tell whether it was pure love of the flowers themselves, -or whether they brought home, with all its memories, before him; and as -he is very reserved, I content myself with giving the enjoyment without -being too critical as to its cause. - -But while I am talking, I see that your eyes are wandering to that bed, -where one of our sickest men is lying. He is an Irishman, and far gone in -consumption, poor fellow! He has interested me much by his air of silent, -weary suffering, and from his loneliness; he seems to have no friends -anywhere, and is very grateful for the least service rendered him. And -yet he has a good deal of drollery about him, and when his pain will -let him, often amuses the men with his dry remarks. The other day, as -I passed him, his hard, hollow cough was followed by such a deep, heavy -sigh, that I stopped at once, saying, “What can I do for you, Jones? Is -there nothing that you want?” - -“Nothing, ma’am, nothing; sure, and what I want, is what you can’t give.” - -“Tell me what it is; perhaps I may be able to help you.” - -“Sure, and it’s lonely I am, so very lonely; and it’s some one to love -that I’m wanting.” - -“Ah,” said I, “you were right to say I couldn’t help you, for -unfortunately wives are not provided by Government.” - -Here his Irish humor gained the ascendant, and with a merry twinkle in -his eye, so mournful but a moment before, he said, “But I’m thinking -that’s jist what you ladies is here for, to supply what isn’t provided by -Government.” - -“Exactly,” said I, much amused; “but I do not find wives among the list -of luxuries on our diet-table. Jones, look at the man at your side, the -man opposite to you, and the man directly in front of you; ask each one -of those three what is their greatest trouble at this moment, and I -happen to know exactly what they will tell you. - -“The one at your side is wearying for a letter from his far distant home, -which will not come, and dreading that even on its arrival, it will only -tell him of sickness and suffering among those dearest to him, and -which, lying here, he has no power to relieve; the man opposite to you -has just read me a letter from his wife, telling him that she and the -children were almost starving; she has hurt her right arm, and can no -longer work, scarcely hold the pen to write that letter, and he will send -no pay,--charging him with it, as though the poor fellow could help it.” - -“‘God knows,’ he says, ‘every cent I ever earned was at her service and -the weans;’ (he is a Scotchman, as I knew, when I heard him say that) -‘but the pay don’t come, and I lie here thinking all night, till I -sometimes feel I must pray very hard or I shall cut my throat.’ - -“I have been trying to comfort him with the assurance that he will be -paid before long, and have been telling him how many difficulties there -are in the way of prompt payment in the army, and that the men must try -to be patient, and believe that the Government has a hard task, far -harder than they know, to meet all the requirements which this sad state -of things necessarily causes. - -“The man directly in front of you, unable as you know to rise from his -bed, has just heard of his wife’s death, here in the city, and does not -know who will see to her funeral, nor who will take care of his little -ones; now, may not some things be worse than loneliness?” - -“Faith, an’ its truth you’re spakin’; a sight worse are such things than -all this pain and cough; and I’ll think of that same, when the other -thought comes, when my breath’s so short, and the pain’s so bad, that -longing to have an old woman to say, ‘Is it sufferin’ ye are, Jones, -dear?’ and I’m just the sort to fret, if she was wantin’, and I lyin’ -here, not able to help her. Thank you, ma’am, I see it’s far best as it -is.” And I left poor Jones, convinced that there were circumstances in -which an “old woman” was better “in posse,” than “in esse.” - -But what will become of our duties if we linger here so long; let us go -now to our room and commence operations. Look before you. Do you know -what that barricade at the door means? Three barrels and two large boxes, -and they are saying, “Unpack me, unpack me, or there will be nothing -left.” Do you wonder how I have found out that such are their views? -Everything on earth has a mode of its own of conveying ideas; look at the -bottom of those barrels, and the floor near those boxes, and you will -find that red stream gently flowing there, quite as eloquent and quite -as easily understood as any words. That is liquid currant jelly, which, -probably, as in a box we opened yesterday, has been of an adventurous -turn of mind, one of the Peripatetic school, and not content with the -narrow limits to which its friends have confined it, has burst its -bounds, and made acquaintance with sheets, shirts, and stockings; and you -will soon see a mournful mélange of jelly, broken glass, and clothing; -and fortunate for you if you do not mingle your own blood with it before -you are done. Do not imagine that all our boxes have such a sad fate; -many arrive in prime order, but whenever we see that suspicious color -at the bottom of barrels and boxes, we know what to fear. Only a day or -two ago, a large box, containing a dozen and a half large earthenware -crocks of apple-butter, arrived, from which we could only rescue two, the -others being a motley mass of buttered earthenware and straw, scarcely a -desirable article for hospital diet. Dear friends in the country! whose -generous hearts prompt you to send delicacies to the sick and suffering -soldiers, let me beg for more careful packing; slats of wood between the -jars would prevent them from falling together, as they usually do when -hurriedly lifted up and placed on end; we regret the loss as much, or -more than you can do, for we see the disappointment of the men as they -take out one broken piece after another, and vainly try to separate -crockery or glass from preserves. - -Here comes a ready helper. Yes, John, roll them right into our room, and -please bring a hatchet and open that box for us; I know it’s all sticky, -but that can’t be helped, we must do the best with it that we can. - -And now, while he is taking the lid of the box off for us, and opening -the barrels, take a seat and look round you. This is the ladies’ room, -where we spend so much of our time, and where all our work is done. -But first, let me put our kettle on the stove, we must soon begin our -cooking; for as I have told you, we prepare the delicacies for the men -who are ill; cook eggs for them, stew oysters, make corn-starch, farina, -arrow root, or chocolate; don’t laugh! yes, even I have found “ignorance” -so far from “bliss,” that with M.’s valuable instructions, I am really -learning to do something useful, incredible as it appears to you. What -do you say? That you would not care to test the truth of my statements -by taste? Ah well! you shall not be tried, and in the meantime the men -are satisfied, which is my only aim. The clothing you see here on the -shelves, consists almost entirely of donations. We do not keep the -Government clothing here--at least only certain articles--as all the -flannel is drawn by the men and taken from their pay; but we have been -so liberally supplied from the different Churches, and from various -societies, that it has generally been in our power to give them what they -need, and allow them to retain the articles. - -“Well, little one, come here, bring me your box, and I will empty it -for you. Nice fresh lint, all linen, and clean, too; that will be much -better than what you brought before; and now here is your box; I will -tell the poor wounded soldiers that a kind little girl made it for them; -and, goodbye now, run home, for we have so little room here, and so many -things to do, that little girls are only in the way.” - -This is only the advance guard of the little army, which daily, from -“morn till dewy eve,” keeps pouring in, company after company,--I might -almost say regiment after regiment,--with their little boxes or papers of -lint, often made of muslin, and bearing the impress of the little soiled -fingers that picked it. But we always receive it and thank them. Whether -it can be used or not, the kind intention is the same, and who could have -the heart to refuse the offering of a child? More than this, the beaming -faces and sunny smiles with which they present it, as though it were some -precious gift, more than atone for the time they occupy in attending to -them. - -Turn the key in that closet door, and you will see all our jellies, -preserves, wines, syrups, etc. It is so full just now, that it was -proposed to run up another room for a donation room, as we really do not -know where to pack away all our things; but the surgeon tells us, what is -very true, that this cannot last; at the present time there is an unusual -interest and excitement, which can scarcely continue, and we must take -care of these things till the time of need. Ah! take care, John! there -goes the top; look into the box; just as I thought; see, what masses of -jelly and broken glass; what nice fine handkerchiefs, too good for the -purpose by far; carry them straight to the laundry; but no! that was the -way Susan got that bad cut the other day; bring a pan, and we will let -them soak here first. Just look at these poor books; with red edges, -indeed, and rubricated throughout; and writing-paper, too, all soaked -with this erratic currant jelly; and what is this? A pen; “currente -calamo,” indeed, in a new sense. And these nice pillow-cases, and towels, -and sheets,--but they can be washed; what is next? A bundle of---- - -“My punches ready, miss? for the fourth ward, ten to-day; here’s the -Doctor’s list.” - -“Not just yet, Price; you’re always in such a hurry for your men.” - -“You see, miss, they wouldn’t take any breakfast, and I want something -for them.” - -This from the most faithful and attentive of wardmasters. At the -beginning of each week, we receive our orders from the surgeon of each -ward as to how many men need milk punch, extra nourishment, etc. The -wardmaster also has a list, and his duty is to come to us, get their -drinks, and take them to them; but if there is any delay the ladies -usually take them to the men themselves, that they may be certain of -having them at the proper time M. kindly undertakes that part of the work -to-day so let us get on with our unpacking. - -Let us take out this bundle and see what it is. Enter at this moment -three men, each bearing a large market-basket. “These are donations from -the ---- Society; please let us have the baskets and an acknowledgment -for the things.” This sounds trifling, but it means that everything must -be taken out, a list made and sent to the Officer of the Day to write an -acknowledgment. - -Let us do it as quickly as we can; but here comes one of our wardmasters. -“Well, Henry, what do you want?” - -“Twelve wounded men, ma’am, just come in; the ambulances we were looking -for have just got here, and we want a change of clothing for each of -them.” - -“Yes, you shall have them at once, but stand out of Green’s way; look -what he and William are carrying.” - -“Green, where did those come from?” Two large boxes of oranges and one of -lemons. - -“Dr. ---- says, miss, these have just been sent, and he would like to -have them picked over, as they’re spoiling so fast.” - -“Well, try and find a place for them on the floor, and tell Arnold to -come here in a few minutes, and help us to do it.” - -You may wonder that we do not leave such work entirely to the men, -but they understand “picking them over” in the sense of “picking and -stealing;” and I am afraid that unless we assisted there would be few -left for the sick when the work was done. The men are always ready and -glad to help us in anything that we allow them to do; indeed, I have -often been surprised at the promptness with which they offer their -services to spare us in every way; to carry and empty water for us, -to run our errands, to watch our fire; in short, to render any little -service which is most needed at the moment, and which we should naturally -do for ourselves, unless the offer were made. - -Enter a group of women--I humbly beg their pardon--ladies, I should have -said. Ah! I know too well their errand before they speak. Persons have -been coming all the week for the same purpose. - -“Can we see the rebel? Please to show us the ward where the rebel is -confined?” - -“I am sorry, ladies, but it is quite impossible----” - -“Eight punches for our ward, Miss ----, are they ready?” - -“Yes, Williams, standing on the shelf there; take them on that waiter.” - -“The surgeon in charge has given strict orders that no visitors are to be -admitted to that ward, as there are some men dangerously ill there, and -he wishes it kept perfectly quiet.” - -“But we’ve come a great way to see him, and we must get in.” - -“Are you friends of his? If so, I will see the surgeon about it.” - -“Friends of a rebel! Not exactly, thank you. We want to see what he’s -like.” - -“I am sorry, but you cannot see him. However, I can assure you that he is -exactly like any of these men you see around you; were you to go into the -ward you could not distinguish him, unless he were pointed out to you.” - -Enter a man, with a large glass bowl of jelly. - -“Mrs. ----’s compliments, and please give me the bowl to take back.” - -_Mem._ Jelly to be emptied; nothing to empty it into. During the search, -gloomy party gaze moodily upon the operation, but show no signs of -departure. - -“Brown says, ma’am, you promised to poach him a couple of eggs for his -dinner; he sent me to see if they were done.” - -“It is not dinner time yet; tell him they shall be ready when he hears -the drum tapped.” - -“Have you a flannel shirt, miss, for this man? he’s just come in.” - -Look at the indignant party; they are evidently returning to the assault. - -“Where’s the head doctor? He’ll let us in, we’ll see if he won’t!” - -“The Surgeon in charge is not here at present; the Officer of the Day is -in the office; you must have seen him when you were admitted.” - -“Oh, yes! not him; some friends told us to ask for the ladies; that’s the -way we got in; we knew they kept the rebel so close, no use to ask for -him.” - -A woman with a basket of eggs. - -“Some eggs from Mrs. ----; please let me have the basket.” - -“Yes, and thank Mrs. ---- for her kindness; she never forgets us, and her -nice fresh eggs are most acceptable to the sick men. And now, indeed we -must hurry, and put some of this mass of things in their places on the -shelves; for this table will be wanted, after dinner, for the donations -from the schools; it is the time when they pour in.” - -“Does he eat with the others?” Supposed to refer to the rebel, and -answered accordingly. - -“Yes, madam, at the common dining-table.” - -“Does he talk much?” - -“That I cannot inform you, as I have never exchanged a word with him.” - -“Do they treat him kindly?” - -“Precisely as the other men are treated.” - -“And you think we can’t see him?” - -“It is quite impossible, for the reasons I have mentioned.” - -“Well, Jane, there’s no use waiting; come along; I heard there was one -at the ---- hospital; let’s go there and try.” Discomfited party depart -abruptly. - -I am glad that you should see this for yourself; otherwise I think -you would hardly credit my statement, that this has not happened only -once or twice, but literally every day this week, with different -parties, and variations in the modes of trying to gain admittance. It -is indeed difficult to account for this morbid curiosity with regard -to the Southern prisoners. I have sometimes thought that it might be -an unconscious tribute to loyalty, and that the crime of rebellion was -looked upon as such a fearful one, that it must of necessity affect even -the external appearance of all engaged in it; be that as it may, I do -most sincerely believe that were Du Chaillu himself to hold an exhibition -here of one of his Gorillas, it would attract less attention than the -presence of this one poor misguided rebel. There! while I have been -moralizing upon rebels and the rebellion, don’t you think I have given -that shelf rather a neater appearance, and that the table is beginning to -look a little less loaded; but oh, dear! look at this box at the door; -what more is coming? Oh! I see what it is. I know well that box by the -flag painted on the top. Kind friends from the country send us that; we -have a duplicate key; empty and return it to have it filled and sent to -us next week. The contents are most acceptable, but as you see, it must -be attended to at once, and as exactly this work will go on till night, -I think you have had quite enough of it, and had better say goodbye to -us and our room. This day, just as you have seen it, is a counterpart of -every day, not only of this week, but of the last three months. It will -not, of course, continue; but, although we would be the last to check the -generosity of warm-hearted friends, it makes our duties here a little -arduous just at present. - -And now let me go with you to the door, and say goodbye. If you find that -you are not too much wearied, I shall hope for another visit, in some -future week, when I may have time to take you through the wards, and I -can show you some of our interesting cases; but I think what you have -seen to-day, will furnish the best answer I could give to your question, -“What can the ladies find to do there, all day?” - - - - -A MORNING AT THE HOSPITAL. - - “God’s finger touched him, and he slept.” - - -A steady, pouring rain. The fog, which in the early morning hesitated -whether to roll off and give us one of those beautiful, bright autumn -days, the more precious because we feel they are gliding so rapidly from -us, or to come down in rain, seems to have decided at last, and a dreary, -drenching rain is the result. As we[1] enter the hospital, a glance is -sufficient to tell that some depressing influence is at work; instead of -the bright, happy laugh which so often astonishes us on our entrance, we -see the men hanging listlessly and languidly round; some grouped in a -corner of the dining-room round a piano, which a few generous hearts have -supplied for their amusement; some trying a game of cards or back-gammon; -others lying on benches, “chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies,” -the latter class having the ascendancy, to judge from the countenance. -Nor is the scene brighter in the wards; the damp air has driven those -suffering from rheumatism and fever to their beds once more; and after -the first bright smile of welcome, which never fails to greet us, the -words, “Poor William there, is dying!” are sufficient to account for the -depression, without waiting for what follows, “and I expect I shall go -next.” - - [1] Let me say here, once for all, that the term “we” is not - used as the petty affectation of authorship, but is formed by - the Lady Visitor with whom I am associated,--the “M.” of these - pages--whose untiring self-sacrifice, and whole-souled devotion - to the cause, can only be appreciated by those whose pleasure - it is to be connected with her in this work. - -It is often asserted that the sight of such constant suffering and -death, so hardens and accustoms the men to the fact, that they do not -appear to feel it in the slightest degree. My own observation has led to -a directly opposite conclusion. It is only natural, that a death here, -where every trace of it is necessarily so speedily removed, may and must -be as speedily forgotten; but, at the time, I have always noticed a far -greater effect from it than I could have looked for; greater respect and -sympathy for the feelings of any relations present; greater solemnity in -witnessing the awful change; greater tenderness in the subsequent care -of the body. As an illustration, it was but yesterday, that one of the -wardmasters, coming for a shirt to lay out one of our poor fellows, just -dead, said, “Give me any one, one of the worst will do,” and then, as -though the words struck a chord, he added instantly; “One of the worst! -Oh! how sorry I am, I said that; poor fellow! poor fellow! he wouldn’t -have said that for me;” and as I turned, I saw the rough arm in its red -flannel shirt, brushing away a tear, of which he surely need not have -been ashamed. - -“Poor William is dying.” Yes, too truly. We need not the words of the -Surgeon in charge, as he passes, “Don’t trouble him with that poultice, -it is too late;” one glance is sufficient; and yet as I approached the -bed I started involuntarily. The man had only been here a short time, -and had never seemed in any way remarkable; of small size, very ordinary -appearance, light hair, blue eyes, and a quiet, gentle manner. He had -not been considered in danger, though suffering from an attack of acute -bronchitis; for in this war truly may it be said, - - “Manifold - And dire, O Sickness! are the crucibles - Wherein thy torturing alchemy assays - The spirit of man.” - -But now,--could it be the same? I looked at name and number to satisfy -myself. I have no wish to exaggerate, but _transfigured_ was the word -which rose to my mind then, and whenever I have since thought of that -face. The wonderful change seemed already to have passed upon the spirit, -which looked forth from those large, clear, blue eyes, double their usual -size, as with an eager, wistful gaze they were evidently fixed upon a -vision too bright for our earth-dimmed sight, while a smile, a radiant -smile, played round his lips. It was not the poor Private, dying afar -from friends and home, alone in a ward of a hospital, with the pitiless -rain pelting overhead; it was a soul passing from earth, resting on -its dear Lord, strengthened and comforted for the dread journey by a -vision of the Guard of Angels sent to bear it to its rest in Paradise; -the unearthly peace, the blessed brightness of that face, could not be -mistaken. - - “Death upon his face - Is rather shine than shade.” - -The doctor’s hand is on his pulse, sustaining stimulants are steadily -given, and once more a fitful gleam of life appears; he rallies for the -moment. We hear the low voice of the chaplain, kneeling at his side, -“You would not object to a prayer?” The wandering eyes say more than -the languid lips, which can but frame, in a tone of surprise, the word, -“object?” The same bright smile, the same far-off gaze as the words of -prayer ascend. - -“You are trusting, you are resting on the merits of your precious -Saviour?” - -Once more that strife, that sore struggle to speak; and suddenly, as -though the will had mastered the flesh, sounds forth, in clear, strong -tones, which ring through the ward, “My only base, my foundation!” -Blessed for us all, when that awful hour is upon us, if we can so -trustfully, so fearlessly meet it; so fully and entirely realize the One -Eternal Rock to be our “foundation.” - -We dare no longer call him “poor William;” rather, as we kneel by his -side, let us breathe forth a thanksgiving for such beautiful assurance, -that his last battle is fought, his victory won. - - “Little skills it when or how, - If Thou comest then or now-- - With a smooth or angry brow. - - “Come Thou must, and we must die-- - Jesu, Saviour, stand Thou by, - When that last sleep seals our eye!” - - - - -THE TWO ARMIES. - - - U.S.A. HOSPITAL, September 29, 1862. - -I trust, dear C., this bright, beautiful day may have brought you as -much pleasure as it has done to me, and that you have been able to enjoy -it as you would most wish to do. I escaped from my duties here for one -hour, and spent it you know where. On my return, we were favored with a -visit from the Bishop of Minnesota, who is here on his way to the General -Convention. - -He seemed much interested in going through the wards, had a kind word and -friendly greeting for each man. One thing particularly impressed me,--his -tact in addressing them. Instead of boring them as I do with “What is -your name? What is your regiment?” he glanced his eye upon the card at -the head of the bed, whereon all such particulars are written, and then -said, “Who is the colonel of the Forty-fourth?” or, “Was the Eighteenth -Massachusetts much cut up?” Instantly the man would brighten, feel that -there was one who took a personal interest, and answer with promptness -and pleasure. - -This may seem a trifle, but to gain an influence anywhere trifles must -be considered, and are often all-important. My inward exclamation was, -immediately, “Here is one who has been accustomed to dealing with men, -and knows how to reach them.” A few well-chosen questions will often go -further, and be of more benefit, than a long sermon. - -As you have expressed some interest in L----, you will forgive me for -repeating a conversation to which this visit gave rise. A little later, I -returned for some purpose to his bedside. - -“That’s a nice man you brought here; what was it you called him?” - -“The title I gave him,” said I, “he gained by promotion in our Army.” - -“Our army! I knew it, by the way he talked; then he’s a volunteer?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ever been in a battle?” - -“Many of them.” - -“Wounded?” - -“Often.” - -“That’s bully. But what battles? Fair Oaks? That’s where I was hit.” - -“He never told me so, but I should judge his hardest fights were before -the breaking out of this rebellion.” - -“Ah, in Mexico?” - -“No, I never heard of his being in Mexico.” - -“A foreigner?” - -“No, I believe him to be an American.” - -“It can’t be, then, for he looks too young for our other war. Didn’t he -tell you what battles?” - -“No, he never told me, nor did any of his friends.” - -“Then how the ----, I beg ten thousand pardons, miss, but how can you -know he was in them?” - -“Because it is my privilege to be a Private in the same Army. I said -_our_ Army was the one in which he had gained promotion; and It’s -peculiarity is, that It will receive as recruits both women and children.” - -Impossible as it may appear to you, he fixed his eyes upon me with an air -of bewilderment, and remained perfectly silent. I continued: - -“Although I am not eligible for promotion as he is, but must remain a -Private always, I have had some of the same battles to fight, and----” - -“Psha! you’ve been fooling me all this time, and I never saw it.” - -I smiled. “Not fooling,” I said, “but answering a question you asked the -other day. Have you forgotten when you said ‘Little you know of battles!’ -that I replied, ‘And yet, maybe, I have fought harder ones than you ever -did?’ You then asked me what under the sun I could mean? I promised -to tell you, and I have only done so in a round-about way. Have you -forgotten one thing more? What was it I asked you to give up, when you -said you had rather be shot?” - -His color rose, but he said nothing. - -“Doesn’t that prove that my battles, and those of that ‘nice man,’ as you -term the bishop, are harder to fight than yours?” - -“Well, it’s truth you’re saying; I’d liever go back to my regiment -to-morrow, wounded as I am, than do what you want, though I know you’re -right, too;” and warmly shaking my hand, he drew the cover over his head, -and I left him to meditate upon the two Armies. - -You will say that the strain after originality in such conversations, is -not likely to be an over-tax of the mental powers; but you must remember, -that what to you may be but a wearying platitude, may be a seed, to one -who receives the parallel as a novelty, to germinate in later years. - -We can but try all means, and leave events to God. - - - - -THE CONTRAST. - - -“I wish to goodness they would not send their men here, just to die!” - -Such was the exclamation, in no very amiable tone, which greeted my ear, -as I opened the door of one of the wards of our hospital. - -“What is the matter, Wilson?” said I, to our usually cheerful wardmaster. - -“Oh! nothing, miss; I beg your pardon, only there’s a young fellow, just -brought in, who, the doctor thinks, can’t live over the day, and I hate -to have them dying on my hands, that’s all.” - -“Wounded or sick?” - -“It’s the typhoid, and as bad a case as ever I saw yet, and I’ve seen a -heap of them, too. There he is, but he’s past speaking; he’ll never rouse -again.” - -I approached the bed, where lay a “young fellow,” truly: a boy, scarcely -more than sixteen; his long, thick hair matted and tangled; his clothing -torn and soiled; his eyes half closed; his lips dark and swollen; a -bright flush on his cheeks, and his breath coming in quick, short, -feverish pantings, as though much oppressed. I saw it was quite in vain -to speak to him, and merely tried to make him swallow the beef tea, which -had been ordered to be given him at certain intervals. - -He swallowed with much difficulty, but still it was something that -he could do even this; and I found that although unable to speak, he -understood and endeavored to obey, directions. I therefore ventured to -doubt Wilson’s verdict, and continued to administer the stimulants as -directed. Towards afternoon there was a perceptible improvement in his -swallowing; he roused partially, and attempted to turn. I begged Wilson -to watch him closely through the night, keeping up the nourishment and -stimulants; urging as a motive that, as he wasn’t fond of deaths, this -was the best mode of preventing them. - -He shook his head. “I’ll watch him as close as you could, miss, but it’s -no use. I’ve seen too many cases to think that poor lad can weather thro’ -it; I reckon you’re new to this sort of thing, or you would know it too.” - -“Did you ever hear a saying, Wilson, ‘Duties are ours, events are God’s?’ -Try, I only ask you to try.” - -The next morning, when I walked in, I scarcely recognized our patient; -in addition to clean clothing, combed and cut hair, his eyes were open, -large, bright, and sparkling with a feverish brilliancy. He was talking -in a loud, excited tone; evidently the stupor had passed off; whether a -favorable change, or denoting increase of fever, I was not competent to -decide. - -As I drew near, I was a little startled by the abrupt question, “Are you -the woman gave me the drinks yesterday?” - -I assented, sure that no discourtesy was intended by the use of the -good old Anglo-Saxon term. Strange, that by some singular freak of -language or ideas, which, I think, it would puzzle even the learned -Dean of Westminster himself to explain, this once honored title has, at -the present day, come to be almost a term of reproach; certainly, as I -have said, of discourtesy. Were this the place to moralize, I might see -in this change a proof of the degeneracy of modern days; and question, -whether in yielding this precious name,--sacred forever, and ennobled by -the use once made of it,--Woman is not in danger of yielding also the -high and noble qualities which should ever be linked with its very sound. - -My assent was followed instantly by another equally abrupt question, -“Then you’ll tell me where do people go when they die? That man, there--I -heard him--said I was dying; I’ve been asking him all night, and he won’t -tell me.” - -“If you will mind what I say now, and try to be very still, when you -have less fever, I will talk to you and tell you all you want to know.” - -“I’ll be dead then, and I want to know before I die.” - -Very sure that any excitement at present must be injurious, after several -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. - -Several months of visiting, however, proved one point, that he certainly -had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even after many -trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and said, pointing -to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night; I can’t sleep, -and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read the text in large -letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth,” -&c. “Do you think there could ever be _joy_ over me?” The utter -depression of the look, the hopelessness of the tone, and the mournful -shake of the head, were touching in the extreme. - -He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek for -strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the -answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house; he got better, got -a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.” - -A severe illness followed; this occurred again and again; the necessity -for air and exercise gained him occasionally a pass from the surgeons, -always followed by the same sad result. The men despised him, treated him -accordingly, and his case seemed hopeless. One day, one of our poor men, -who was in a dying condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad--it was one -of those sick longings, which, of course, we were anxious to gratify. -Permission gained to send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side, -and said, “Will you go to the market and get it for him?” Brown, who was -standing near, sprang eagerly forward, “Oh! do let me go for you; I won’t -be a minute, and the doctor said a walk would be good for me.” The sad -doubt in my mind must have written itself upon my face, for its effect -was reflected by the deep pain and wounded expression in his own. My -resolution was taken instantly, and I resolved to risk it. Holding the -money to him, I said, “Take it, then, and come back quickly.” The blood -rushed to his face, and the beaming look of gratitude made me sure that -this was the best mode of treating him. Men are too often just what they -are assumed to be; treat them as men of honor, such they will be; treat -them as knaves, such also they will be. I mean not to affirm that there -is no such thing as abstract truth or principle; far from it; but I do -mean to say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more is gained by -treating men as though we trusted, than as though we doubted. It is the -unconscious tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and virtue. They -would fain be or appear to be, all that we think them; and who can tell -how far we may aid a sinking soul by the kind word of hopeful trust; or, -on the other hand, by assuming a man to be utterly degraded, help to -make him become so, in reality? - -And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere the doubt returned. He had -been doing better lately. I had thrown him into temptation; would he have -strength to avoid it? Visions of illness, disgrace, suffering, and the -guard-house, filled my mind. These thoughts were not dissipated by M.’s -sudden question, - -“Who did you send for that fish? How long he stays!” - -With something of a pang of conscience, although quite aware that I had -acted from the best motives, I said, courageously, - -“I sent Brown; it is not so very long.” - -“Brown! Oh! how could you? You know what will happen?” - -As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, my anxiety is not relieved, -though concealed. The minutes grow to hours, and still no tidings of him. -Another trial; the wardmaster appears. - -“G---- wants to know if you’ve got his fish? you promised to send at -once.” - -“Not yet,” I said, “but I hope I shall very soon.” - -A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he left the ladies’ room, I -heard one of the men say to him, - -“G----’ll get no fish to-day. Do you know who she sent? Brown, if you’ll -believe it.” - -A prolonged whistle. “Didn’t she know?” - -“She might have, by this time, one would think.” - -Heart sick, I turned away; my theory of trust henceforth must have -exceptions. I had led another into sin, and he must suffer for my fault. -Just at this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it is true, but -with exercise alone,--that was quite plain--and handing me the money, -pants out, - -“I’ve been clean to the wharf, and couldn’t get a bit; I determined you -should have it, and I’ve been through every market I knowed on, but not a -blessed scrap could I find.” - -“How glad I am!” broke involuntarily from my lips; and I was only -recalled to the inappropriateness of the reply, by his look of puzzled -wonder, and “What was it you said, miss?” - -“Nothing,” I answered; “thank you for the trouble you have taken;” and -he left me, much mystified by my evident delight at the failure of his -errand. - -The truth of his statement was verified by a lady, who (her carriage at -the door) offered to see if she could be more successful. She returned, -some time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and assuring me that it -was quite impossible to procure any shad that day, at any price, as -there was none in the market. - - “They tell me, that I should not love - Where I cannot esteem; - But do not fear them, for to me - False wisdom doth it seem. - - “Nay,--rather I should love thee more - The farther thou dost rove; - For what Prayers are effectual, - If not the Prayers of Love?” - - - - -DARLINGTON. - - -“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter within -the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was beating with -unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and dusty streets. The city -in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always seem to me synonymous terms. -It is on days like these, when the town seems so close and crowded, -the heated air so heavy and impure, that I long to have the hospitals -or their occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor -sufferer may be beguiled from the thought of his pain by the sweet sights -and sounds ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town sky can -ever attain, let it try its best, broken by fair, floating masses of -white clouds, their forms ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful -than the last; the glad, grateful green of woods and dells, which, like -a loved presence, ever unconsciously soothes and satisfies; the soft, -springing wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile,--these for the -eye; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful chime with which that -little babbling brook plays its accompaniment in “little sharps and -trebles” to the chorus of voices overhead; no discord there--not one -false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but all pure, perfect harmony. - -Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for purposes -of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia Medica can offer? -And yet there are men living on this earth who tell you, aye, even as -though they were in earnest in the assertion, too, that they do not love -the country--they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope that -retributive justice may bestow upon them a summer’s campaign in one of -our city hospitals. - -“Have you seen our new lot of wounded?” - -“No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?” - -“Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds; worse than -we’ve had yet--two of them can hardly live; but take care of one of them, -when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you go within a mile of his -bed.” - -This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was upon -the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was somewhat alarming, -as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; however, “forewarned, -forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene little different from usual, save -that the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have been added to -the number, as they evidently stand much closer than they do ordinarily. -I pass on to the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, my -attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful tune, whistled in a voice -of uncommon sweetness. It comes from that bed where that poor arm is -bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it; -the men who are cheerful, are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He -stops as I come up. - -“I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so much as I -feared, when I saw your bandages.” - -He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that large -drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his one free -hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over his whole frame. - -One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ----, you don’t -know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here; he -says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he tries to -whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.” - -Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute suffering, or -a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to Robinson for a -confirmation of this singular statement, the large tears are in his eyes, -and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says, -“Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind of makes me forget the -pain, and think I’m at home again, where I’m always whistling. Nothing -like keeping up a good heart. It don’t always ache like this--only in -spells--it’ll stop after a bit. Never mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad -as poor Darlington there.” - -There seemed to me something touching in the extreme, in this earnest -effort to subdue suffering by whistling up the bright memories of home, -in the midst of such intense physical anguish, and in the endeavor -to treat his own case as lightly as possible. Well has it been said, -“Character is seen through small openings;” and as he appeared in this -conversation, such did we find him always. Gentle, unselfish, and bearing -his terrible suffering with a beautiful patience, ere long he became a -general favorite throughout the whole hospital; and during the tedious -months of close and constant nursing which his case required, every one -seemed glad to help him and wait upon him at all times. But this is -anticipating, for no doubt he will appear again, as for a long time he -was one of our prime objects of interest, from the constant attention as -to diet and delicacies which his case required. - -As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a scrutinizing glance, in -hopes of just seeing the formidable object whom I had been warned to -avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my presence has stopped -the whistling, nothing is heard but the men talking in an undertone, or -an occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come from some one asleep -and suffering. Suddenly, in my tour, I pause before a bed, struck by -the expression of intense anguish on a sweet, young face, white as the -pillow it rests upon; his fair hair tossed from the pale brow, which is -painfully contracted, and his long, thin, taper fingers, white as the -face, move convulsively as he sleeps. He is evidently badly wounded, -for a hoop raises the clothes from his bandaged limb. Who can he be? -Evidently those hands, even allowing for illness and loss of blood, have -never seen rough service, and belong to some one of a higher class than -we usually see as a Private here; for although we proudly acknowledge -that some of the best blood of the country is now in the ranks, still -it has not, as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its presence in -this hospital. There is a sort of fascination about that face, and I -stand gazing at him and wondering over him till Richards, one of our old -attachés, comes up. - -“Oh! he’s asleep, poor fellow, at last; that accounts for it; the boys -are all wondering how you got so close; he’s in a great way, when he’s -awake. He couldn’t bear you that near without screaming.” - -“Surely this can’t be the man Foster said was ‘as cross as thunder?’” -said I, thinking it utterly impossible that here was indeed the dreaded -object I had been seeking. - -“Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but somehow I don’t think he -means to be cross; only, you see he suffers so with that mashed-up limb, -that he’s afraid they’ll touch him when they come near, and he calls out -sudden like, and so they call him cross; but he’s as grateful as can be, -for any little thing you do for him.” - -“Is he very badly wounded?” - -“Oh! yes. The doctors would have taken his leg right off, but they say -he’s too weak to stand it; you never saw such a sight; he and Robinson, -there, are an awful pair to look at.” - -“Is this Darlington? I heard Robinson say that Darlington was worse than -he was.” - -“Yes, ma’am; the doctor says he’s not worse, only they take it different. -You see, poor Tom here, frets all the time, and don’t give himself no -chance; but that fellow over there’ll worry through yet, if pluck can do -it.” - -This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon himself. He assured me -that Robinson’s wound had appeared quite as dangerous--indeed, at one -time, even more so; but his quiet, placid disposition aided his recovery -immensely; while the terribly nervous temperament, and high state of -nervous irritability of poor Darlington, were equally against him. - -“I’m glad enough he’s sleeping,” added Richards, “for he’s been here for -three days, and this is the first time, night or day, that I’ve caught -him with his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors give him. It’s -worry, worry, worry from morning to night about his sister; he wants so -to see her, and says if she were only here, she could come near his bed -and it wouldn’t hurt him.” - -“Where does she live? Why don’t they send for her? he can’t live.” - -“Away off in Michigan; and he won’t even have her told that he’s sick; -he says wait till he’s better, and then he’ll write; but he won’t have -her frightened. If he could only forget her for a little while, it’s my -notion he’d do better; but I tell him none of the boys here make half -the fuss after their wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy! he’s -just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather guess they must have -thought a sight of him at home,--at least, he does of them,--too much for -his own good, that’s certain; this terrible fretting after home, when -they’re sick, does the boys a lot of harm.” - -Knowing that Richards’ one talent was garrulity, I left him and went to -our room, thinking that perhaps we might prepare something to tempt poor -Darlington’s appetite; for the surgeon told us it was vital to keep up -his strength, and yet he could scarcely be persuaded to touch anything -which had been brought him. - -As I well knew, from the state they described him to be in, that the -sight of a stranger could not be agreeable to him, we sent everything we -made for him through Richards, who constituted himself his body-guard -from the moment of his entering the hospital, and a most faithful and -untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I say that garrulity is his -only talent; he developed then and there a gift for nursing for which -those who best loved Darlington can never be too grateful. Days passed -on, and I soon found that (as I had supposed) what the men termed -“crossness,” was but the sad querulousness produced by suffering, and the -state of which I have spoken. - -While Robinson evidently gained,--though his attacks of pain were still -marked by his own peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard in the -ladies’ room, and always knew how to interpret,--Darlington was as -evidently losing; and all hopes of amputation were necessarily abandoned. -I could feel nothing but the most intense pity for him, and longing -to comfort him; but it seemed impossible. M. said to me one day, “It -certainly seems best, from what we see and hear of Darlington, to send, -not take, his nourishment to him; and yet, perhaps our presence might be -more welcome; but I hesitate, because the sight of any one coming near -him seems to throw him into such a nervous state.” - -“Yes,” said I, “any one but Richards; doesn’t it seem a strange fancy?” - -And so we went on, for a week or more longer; for our interest in the -case was so great, that even when not on duty at the hospital, we felt -that we must know its progress. One day the surgeon came to me and begged -me to try to cheer up Darlington, he was so down-hearted, would taste -no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless some change could be made in -his feelings. I went to his bedside at once, to see if he were awake, -for much of the time he was kept under the effect of anodyne, to deaden -the excessive pain. For many a long day did that look of deep, profound -wretchedness haunt me, as he raised his soft, clear blue eyes to mine, -and said, in the most earnest, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go -away, I am so very wretched.” Any one who had ever suffered realized that -there was no crossness here; physical suffering, acute and intense, was -written in every line of his face, sounded in every tone of his voice, -and most earnestly did I long to soothe him. - -Without answering, I drew back, and laid my cold hands on his burning -brow. His whole expression changed. “You like it,” I said; “I am so -glad; we have all been wishing so much to do something to comfort you.” - -A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed over the poor white face, -followed the next moment by the painful contraction of the muscles from -suffering. - -“But I want _her_!” - -“Ah!” said I, “that sister! No one can take her place; we will write, and -she can soon be here; she would come further than from Michigan, I am -sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as you do.” - -With more energy than I had ever seen in him, he lifted his head from the -pillow, saying eagerly, “Never, never write to her; I wouldn’t have her -see me so for all----” - -But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden increase of pain, -faintness came on; strong stimulants and the doctor’s presence were -needed, and I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a beginning. - -The next day, when I came to him, he looked much sunken, and seemed -altogether lower than I had yet seen him. He smiled, however, and tried -to lift his hand, and point to his head. - -“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on his -throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be -better; let me get you some.” - -He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded strangely -weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat it. - -“No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.” - -“They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes -now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really -hers, and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so -long to be.” - -“That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see on -this earth again.” - -This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he had -alluded to being better--to getting home--to writing himself to her; but -now it seemed he felt and realized his state. - -These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for I never -saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to leave -home for a short time, and when I returned he was at peace, and calmly -laid to rest. - - “Out of the darkness, into the light: - No more sickness, no more sighing; - No more suffering, self-denying; - No more weakness, no more pain; - Never a weary soul again; - No more clouds, and no more night;-- - Out of the darkness into the light.” - -Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of his last -hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,--watched by him, -comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his latest breath. -With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair for the poor -sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away home. - -She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I had -left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability -passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child; talked -to her quietly--sent messages to his home--gave particular directions as -to his funeral--saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to know -everything had been carefully attended to, and that they would see that -it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out; his body was wrapped in -the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead said over him; his faithful -nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following him to his grave,--in one of the lots -generously given by one of the cemeteries in the neighborhood of the -city. It was a great comfort to know that he looked at Death without -fear; his mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply upon the -subject, during many of those long hours when we had supposed him to be -in a stupor. He expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his -dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy. -He passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he -sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return. - - “And, comforted, I praised the grace - Which him had led to be - An early seeker of That Face - Which he should early see.” - -Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole thing, was to see the deep, -real, unostentatious grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if he had lost -a son. This was a strange case altogether. Richards was a man who had -been in the English army; tall, fine-looking, with a military air and -bearing, which had impressed me much when he first came to the hospital; -but I soon found that his habits were bad, and that any permission to -go out was sure to be followed by a night in the guard-house, and days -in bed. And yet a kinder heart could scarcely be found. He had devoted -himself to more than one of the men, and watched them night after night -till their death. In one instance, when one man whom he had been nursing -was to be taken home, here in the city, he obtained permission to go -with him and nurse him, sitting up with him and watching him till his -death. As at such times he always remained perfectly sober, it was -suggested to make him nurse, (his disease rendering a return to his -regiment impossible,) with the hope that the good influence over him -which this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; but this would -not do; he could not be trusted unless he had a special interest in the -man he was nursing, and what was necessary to create such interest he -alone knew. Whatever the qualities were, Darlington possessed them in -the highest degree. He seemed to attract him from the first, and the -love was warmly returned. Darlington thought no one could move him, no -one could feed him, no one could dress his wound but “Uncle Richards, -dear Uncle Richards,” as he called him; and often have I wondered at the -tender love which seemed to exist between them. Those who were present -told me that it was truly wonderful to watch Richards all through that -last day, kneeling at his bedside, praying with him, repeating text after -text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for them. One of the last things -Darlington said was, “Where is dear Uncle Richards? I want to put my arms -round his neck, and thank him for all his goodness and kindness to me.” - -And yet this is the man of whom some one said to me, only a day or two -since, “Why do you speak to that worthless fellow?” - -One day, in my next week at the hospital, Richards came to me, and with -the usual salute, which he never forgets, said, “Miss ----, you used to -care for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about him? The world seems -so lonely to me, now he’s gone.” - -I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing-box, in the corner of the -hospital entry, I listened to his story. He gave me every detail of his -illness, most of them already familiar to me; told, with evident pride, -how the poor fellow thought nobody but himself could do anything for him. - -“You mind, miss, don’t you, how the first day you saw him, I told you he -didn’t mean to be cross, though the boys thought him so? Well, he told -me before he died, how sorry he was they had thought so, but they could -never know what agony it was to him to see them come near him; but now he -felt that he ought to have tried to bear it all more patiently. Poor Tom! -there’s not been many like him here, and there’ll never be any like him -to me,” and hard, heavy sobs shook his whole frame. - -I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to him; of the kind way in -which he had watched him, and how we had all noticed it; and won a -promise from him, in his softened state, that henceforward he would try -so to live as to meet him hereafter; and I really believe that at the -time he was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the struggle -against a sin so confirmed more fearful still. - -Some days afterwards, he came to me, when there were others present, and -said: - -“I had a letter from _her_ to-day.” - -My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and I answered, - -“From whom?” - -“From _her_, you know!” - -“And who do you mean by ‘her?’” - -“His sister, to be sure,” he said, in an injured tone, as though I should -have known that, at present, there was but one subject for him. - -“Oh, have you? What does she say?” - -“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the grief -were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; “but -I just thought you’d like to know.” - -At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me what -she had written;--her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and -tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant some flowers -where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his power, but there are -those who will never forget to care for and cherish the low grave of that -young Private. - - MILITARY HOSPITAL, July, 1862. - - What matters it, one more, or less? - A Private died to-day; - “Bring up a stretcher--bear him off-- - And take that bed away; - Put 39 into his place, - It is more airy there; - And give his knapsack, and those clothes, - Into the steward’s care.” - - So, it is over. All is done! - And, ere the evening guard, - Few thought of the Dread Presence - That day within the ward.-- - Few thought of the young Private, - Whose suffering, pallid brow - Was knit by torture, not by time,-- - Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough. - - Few thought upon the agony - In that far western home, - Where he, their hearts’ best treasure, - Was never more to come; - For Privates have both hearts and homes, - And Privates, too, can love; - And Privates’ prayers, thank God for that! - May reach the Throne above. - - We know thee not, sad sister! - Whose name so oft he breathed, - Till it would seem that thoughts of thee - Round his whole being wreathed; - But by the love he bore for thee, - We catch a glimpse of thine; - And, by the bond of sisterhood, - We meet beside his shrine. - - We meet to tell thee, stricken soul! - That strangers held thy place-- - Sisters by Nature’s right, and he, - Brother, by right of race. - While pillow’d tenderly his head, - Cooled was his burning brain - By loving hands; and one fair curl, - Severed for thee, sweet pain! - - If comfort be not mockery - In such a harrowing hour, - O, find it in his cherishing, - And let the thought have power; - Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st, - He, needing love and care, - Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel - And ask for strength to bear. - - O men, his brothers, bear in mind, - For all, our dear Lord died! - Souls own but one Commission-- - Love of The Crucified! - Right gallant are the Officers-- - Men, noble, brave, and true; - But when you breathe a Prayer for them, - Say one for Privates too. - - - - -“LITTLE CORNING.” - - -Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and -suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in -all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place. -One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine. -How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen, -never to be forgotten? - -“Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall -wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to -his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he had been a -sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain way he had of -giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near him. He assured -me most positively that such was not the case; but I still continue to -think that he must have been, in some former state of existence, if -not in this. Many men have been convicted before now on circumstantial -evidence, why should not he be also? Perhaps he did not choose to confess -the fact--no man is bound to criminate himself--therefore I see no good -reason for giving up my first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo, -I repeat that I think he had been a sailor. - -I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He seemed to -possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy all around him; -many a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient quarrel checked, -by his odd, dry way of placing things in a ludicrous light, and thus -changing churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into merriment. Momus -certainly presided at his birth, touched him with his wand, and claimed -him for his own. - -He had the best reason for his uniform cheerfulness; indeed, the only one -which can ever secure it. His Christianity was of a truly healthy order, -and certainly brought him both content and peace. During his residence of -many months in the hospital, I never saw a frown upon his face, or heard -anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or pleasant word from him. Often, in -my rounds, I would come upon him, unexpectedly, in some obscure corner, -poring over his Bible, apparently quite absorbed in it, and yet always -ready to lay it aside when he could make himself useful, but returning to -it as a pleasure, when his work was accomplished. - -He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have often seen men of all -sorts and tastes gathered round him, listening by the hour to Methodist -hymns, for the sake, we must suppose, of those uncommon tones, rather -than of the words which called them forth. - -One morning he came into the ladies’ room, and informed us, with much -delight, that Mr. ---- had promised to ask some of the pupils from the -Blind Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, to give a concert, -begging us to be present. - -I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite impossible; it would -be pleasant, but could not be arranged. He seemed much disappointed, but -soon left the room, and I had forgotten all about it, when, an hour or -two later, he burst into the room, quite radiant, exclaiming, “It’s all -fixed, we’ve got it all fixed.” - -“What’s all fixed?” said I, my mind intent on some refractory oysters -which refused to boil. - -“The concert, to be sure. Mr. ---- has arranged it for to-morrow -afternoon, and now you’ll come.” - -I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, promising to make all -our necessary preparations for the supper of our sick men, quite early, -so that we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, the next -afternoon, “Little Corning” presented himself. - -“Come, ladies, come quickly! the boys are all in the dining-room; I’ve -brought chairs for you, and they’re quite ready to begin.” - -“Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come first.” - -“Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the boys are -sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.” - -“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe it. Go in, -and we will follow you.” - -But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there, he -gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him, we -hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go. - -There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a -crowd for our number of well men,--over a hundred, certainly; all who are -fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well know, are not. -See how they are jammed together; on benches, on the dining-table itself, -in the windows, and on every available spot, battered and bandaged, -_wrappered_ and wrinkled, suffering and smiling, in one promiscuous -mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table on our -right; he has been as ill as possible with typhoid fever, and surely -can never sit through the concert in that position. Let him try for a -while, however; the whole scene will do him more good, by amusing and -diverting his mind, than the exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we -glance around, it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and West, -gathered together--in dress and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket, -with its yellow facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all -eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you -not read their characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own -characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly promised -to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and after a little -practice, one seldom makes a mistake,--at least never wanders far from -the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point now, as the songs are -beginning. - -But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty, -disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over -there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon give orders -to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to preserve -perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had been done; and now -look--everything removed, and here he is. That was a very severe wound, -from which he has been suffering for many months; he told me yesterday, -that, in all, fifty pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the -surgeons rather pride themselves on having prevented the necessity of -amputation by the closest watching and care; and we cannot help feeling -provoked with him for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is -so essential to his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, -for any length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his -side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness; but -arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to my -earnest remonstrances, he said: - -“But, Miss ----, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun -now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?” - -We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast -following each other,--and certainly the applause is “sui generis.” -Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an -energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless -singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming -that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such -is the case. - -Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated -it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!--he is trying -again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song; -make no noise, if you please.” - -An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins -the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”--well-known here, but evidently a -perfect novelty to these listeners. - -For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly -their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest -laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop--a moment’s -pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the -key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that -follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion--that -it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment -my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the -table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed -with laughter. - -“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.” - -But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover -himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are -offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment. - -The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry, -to-day?” - -“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little -Corning is in bed--actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.” - -This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far -from strong. - -A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in -which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came -from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently -suffering. - -“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such -a bad effect.” - -But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it -was quite plain that the suffering continued. - -“Oh! Miss ----, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over -in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.” - -“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost -faith in me?’” - -“Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the best -medicine?--and it’s come near killing me--oh, dear! oh, dear!” - -“That bottle, standing on the table at your side, Corning, is marked -to be taken by the teaspoonful; perhaps, if you were to empty it at a -dose, it might have the same effect. I never recommended such immoderate -laughter.” - -“Oh, please don’t speak of it. It brings it up so.” - -The remembrance was quite too much, and one fit of laughter followed -another, strangely interspersed with groans of pain, from the soreness of -the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times most contagious; the men -quickly crowded round, joining in it without asking any reason, and we -bade fair to have the scene of yesterday re-enacted. - -To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there was something so -irresistibly ludicrous in the whole affair, but I felt that it must be -stopped. - -“Corning! this will never do; you must control yourself; you will be ill; -and besides, you are disturbing our sick men.” - -“I think, Miss ----,” said he, with a violent effort at composure, “if -you won’t take it hard, if you’d just go away; if I didn’t see you, I -might get quiet.” - -“Certainly I will. I won’t ‘take it hard,’ at all, and I will come back -when you are quieter.” - -“Oh! please no! Oh! don’t come back; if you do, it’ll be as bad as ever -again.” - -The idea was quite enough; and the last sound I heard, as I withdrew my -mirth-inspiring presence, was another of those clear, ringing laughs. -How I longed to have the same effect upon the poor fellows in another -ward, where I had vainly racked my brain for many days, to call up even -a faint smile on their depressed and weary faces. I sent everything over -to the sergeant’s ward through the day, not risking my dangerous presence -there; and even at night judged it better not to go over to say goodbye, -although it was Saturday night, and my duties for the week were over. - -When I came again, my merry friend had been returned to his regiment, -and that had been our final interview. I have often wondered since, how -(if ever) we should meet again? Whether that last laughing parting will -linger in his mind, or whether its memory shall have been crushed out by -the stern realities of war? - - NOTE.--The problem has been solved. To our amazement, the - week after the Gettysburg fight, Little Corning walked into - the ladies’ room at the hospital, fresh from the field--or - rather, anything but fresh. Tattered and battered, soiled and - moiled; his head tied up, and looking very much, on the whole, - as though he had been in an Irish row. He had been wounded in - the temple by a shell; but not dangerously, and had hastened - to “his old home,” as he called it, as soon as he arrived, - although to his great regret, as well as ours, he had been - placed in another hospital. - - We welcomed him warmly, and were too full of his danger and our - own--his escape and our own, to revert to past days for more - than a word. He had not lost his old bright spirit, and when we - told him how pleasant it was to have our old friends for our - defenders, his eye sparkled, and he said, “Yes; I felt all the - time I was fighting for you.” And thus we met again. - - * * * * * - - “No stream from its source - Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, - But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose - And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows - What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No life - Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, - And all life not be purer and stronger thereby: - The spirits of just men made perfect on high; - The Army of Martyrs who stand by the throne, - And gaze into The Face that makes glorious their own, - Know this surely at last. Honest love, honest sorrow; - Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,-- - Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary? - The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary? - Hush! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit - Echo, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’” - - - - -GAVIN. - - -How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our brother! We walk daily by -his side, and receive the cold exterior as a type of the inner life, -forgetting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, may be only -the crust of the crater, hiding the lava beneath. How comes it that, -when, in our own case, we are all so well aware that, - - “Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own, - Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;” - -yet, we will not believe in the secret sufferings of others? Instead of -seeking to win the unstrung instrument back to harmony, by the tender -touch of loving sympathy, we mete out precisely the measure meted to us; -oppose coldness to coldness, hardness to hardness, reserve to reserve, -and thus a wall is built up between us, and all hope of influence is -gone. We need more trust in, and more charity for, each other. Woe to -the sick soul, suffering and sorrowful, its sickness only shown by -the petulant word, the rude retort, the outward expression of inward -wretchedness,--woe to such a soul, I say, were it left only to man’s -tender mercies. Most mercifully it is not. Infinite Love breathes balm -upon it. Infinite Compassion soothes it. When shall we even begin to -imitate the one, or strive to attain to the other? - -These thoughts were called up by a keen sense of the injustice of my own -judgment, in a special case, only discovered this very day. - -A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all improving, none dangerously -ill; the most of them have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing, -or play at such games as cannot be carried on in-doors. Everything has -a more cheerful aspect than usual. If melancholy and depression are -infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety; and as the chorus of one -of our favorite army songs rings out on the air, I find myself joining -in it, as I spring up the stairs, two at a time, on an errand. Scarcely -noticing where I am going, I suddenly stumble upon something on the stair. - -“Why, Gavin, can that be you?” - -Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude -denoting utter despair, he does not even move or notice my question. - -While I am standing, looking and wondering, let me give you a little -knowledge of him, as he appears in the wards. Some time since I was much -struck, on coming to the hospital, by the soldier acting as guard at the -door. His erect and military bearing, well-made figure, and broad chest, -with the certain “je ne sais quoi” of a gentleman, rather impressed me, -as he lifted his cap and saluted as I approached. - -“Who is our gentlemanly guard to-day?” said I to M., on entering our room. - -“Just come; a fine-looking fellow, isn’t he? I have just been finding -out his history. He is terribly reserved, but I have made out that he -is a Northerner who went to the South to settle; was impressed, sorely -against his will, at the time of the breaking out of the war; was taken -ill, and allowed, as he was useless, to come here to see his mother, who -was also ill; he, of course, never returned, although he had letters from -his Colonel, which he showed, first offering him a Lieutenancy, and then -a Captaincy; but he prefers, he says, to be a Private in our own army, to -the highest position in theirs.” - -“Well?” said I, as she paused. - -“That’s all; he told me nothing more; but that as soon as he came North -he enlisted, was taken sick in camp, and sent here.” - -“His history, then, is still to hear,” I said; “he hasn’t accounted for -his interesting melancholy, or the mournful expression of those large, -dark eyes which strike you the moment you look at him, and yet there is -something about him--a sort of dark look--which I don’t altogether fancy.” - -“Oh! you want to make up a romantic story for him, do you? Well, find it -out, if you can; I have told you all that he would tell me, and yet, I -confess I was struck with his language; it was certainly much above that -of most of our men here.” - -Weeks passed by, and as Gavin was not sick enough to need care, we -had little to do with him, and that little did not encourage us to go -further. Often a word of greeting, in passing, will call forth something -more, but his cold, forbidding manner, joined to a certain distant -politeness, so repelled me, that I resolved to let him alone; and yet I -felt sorry for him, for I could not fail to notice his unpopularity among -the men. He walked alone, mentally and physically, and seemed to desire -no intercourse with any one. - -One morning I found him gloomily seated in a corner of the ward, -apparently unconscious of everything around him. - -“What a terribly long face,” said I, trying to rally him; “you will never -get well till you learn to laugh.” - -“To laugh!” said he, with intense bitterness; “then I am invalided for -life. Little enough is there on earth to laugh about, I think;” and -rising hastily, he brushed past me, and left the ward. - -“I don’t like that Gavin,” I said to M., “there’s something so dark and -hard about him; I can’t make him out.” - -“Ah! no story yet? I thought he was to have a romantic story, with his -interesting dark eyes.” - -“Story! He never opens his lips to any one; and unless he shall need -something, I have almost determined never to open mine to him again.” - -Such was the man whom I have left all this time lying upon the staircase. -Knowing as I did that whatever his faults might be, intemperance was -not one of them, I once more address him; he evidently has not heard me -before, for, starting up hastily, and forgetting his usual politeness, he -exclaims, petulantly, “I thought I could be to myself here, at least.” - -“So you can, as far as I am concerned; I merely came up stairs on an -errand, without an idea that you were here; but another time when you -wish to secure perfect privacy, I should scarcely advise you to choose a -staircase.” - -“It matters little,” said he, sitting down on the stairs, resting his -elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, “one part of the -world or another; it’s all the same; dark enough to wish to be well out -of it.” - -“Gavin,” said I, sitting down on the stair beside him, “do you remember -that you told me how terribly your back ached from carrying your knapsack -and blanket on that long march?” - -A dull, uninterested assent. - -“What would have been most welcome, when the pain became intolerable?” - -“To unload, of course;” his head still buried in his hands. - -“At times, in the long march of life, I have borne a heavy, moral -knapsack; and when the pain from its weight became intolerable, no words -can tell the relief of unloading, and sharing the burden with some loving -heart, with whom it was as safe and as sacred as with myself. Your heart, -just now, is aching worse than ever did your back; might it not ease it -to try the experiment?” - -He raised his head quickly; fire enough in those eyes then. - -“Ease it!” he said; “doesn’t it feel every day and every hour that it -must burst, unless I tell what I am suffering? I walk among the men here, -and they pass me as cold and stiff, when, God knows, I’m on fire inside; -I’m burning up, burning up, here,” added he, pressing his hand on his -brain. - -This was enough. The buckles were unstrapped, the burden would follow. - -The first thing that roused us was the tap of the drum for supper. The -long hours of that sunny summer’s afternoon had slipped by, as I listened -to a story, which, in Victor Hugo’s hands, would be worked into a romance -quite as thrilling as anything he has ever penned; whilst in mine it -must remain forever,--a deposit sacred as the grave. My object was -accomplished. With a smile, he rose--the first I had ever seen on his -face--saying, “You were right about that moral knapsack; my heart feels -lighter than I ever thought it could again.” - -“And you will do as I say?” - -“I will try.” - -“And you will try too, won’t you, to remember my first advice, some time -since, and learn to laugh a little more?” - -“Indeed I will; and it seems as if it might be possible now, but let me -tell you----” - -“Nothing more to-day,” said I, laughing; “I must refuse any further -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.” - -“Impossible!” he said, his voice amounting almost to a shriek. “Don’t say -it! Go, dearest lady, go! Nothing could hurt you; God will protect you; -oh! go. I would kneel to you if I could rise.” - -“I do not want you to kneel to me; I would go at once, but it would not -be right.” - -“Not right! not right!” he said, with utter despair in his tone. -“Oh! then what on earth can be right?” and covering his head in the -bed-clothes, he groaned as though from the depths of his soul. - -As this is no autobiography, it matters little by what train, either of -reasoning or of cars, I reached the spot where I stood, an hour later; -nor, for the same reason, shall I be more particular in my description -of what followed, than is necessary for my narrative. Suffice it to say, -a certain account of “St. Margaret’s court,” in the matchless poem of -Aurora Leigh, was before me, stereoscoped into life, never again to be -mere word-painting. - -A little, low, blue frame building; the outer room, into which you step -from the street, is apparently a small green grocer’s shop. Strings of -suggestive-looking sausages hang in ropes from the top of the door and -window; pieces of black-looking material, yclept bacon, by courtesy, are -piled up among barrels of gnarly green apples, evidently not gathered -from the gardens of the Hesperides; baskets of eggs--which I am very sure -no tidy hen would ever confess to having laid--crowd the little, low, -dirty counter, behind which stands the live stock of this interesting -apartment. And certainly the object upon which my eyes first rested did -not belie her “entourage.” It has been well said, that the soul makes a -harmony for itself in its surroundings, and thus character is developed -and declared. If so, how beautifully the unities were here preserved; -for why should we not have the unities of dirt, as well as those of -elegance? Doubtless that Celtic soul found as much enjoyment in seeing -all around her in such perfect keeping with her own appearance, as Beau -Brummel ever did in the appointments of his famed boudoir. I should -almost have hesitated to ask a question of this curious production of -nature,--something between a crone and a hag, with coarse Irish features, -loose dress, hair hanging down, and apparently guiltless of any tending -of either comb or brush since she had attained maturity, which was -certainly not yesterday,--had she not herself opened the way. - -“Get out of this, will you, _Jewann_, don’t you see the lady?” addressed -to a dirty, commonplace-looking little urchin, of about nine years old, -who sat tilting himself forward and back upon the edge of one of the -aforesaid barrels, with infinite peril to life and limb. This rather -remarkable name, with her felicitous rendering of it, seemed to me -circumstantial evidence, and I gathered courage to ask, “Are you the -person who takes care of José’s children? I have come to see them for -him.” - -“Yes, miss, walk in; we’ve but a poor place, as you see. Rosy, come speak -to the lady.” - -But it needed not the name; as soon as my eyes rested on the child in -the corner, I was satisfied that this was her father’s darling; and who -could wonder at his love! Rarely have I seen a more perfect specimen of -“beauty unadorned”--the rarity of the jewel enhanced and thrown out by -the coarseness of its setting. She lifted her eyes from the floor, on -which she was playing, to stare at the unwonted visitor--large, liquid, -Spanish eyes--with that expression of love and confidence in them which -seldom outlives childhood. Those tangled black curls, her father’s pride, -were almost hidden beneath a common, coarse, little worsted hood, in -which she had stuck four or five chicken feathers, which gave her a sort -of picturesque air; a large stain of the dirt in which she was living, -rested on one cheek; but it seemed merely a shadow bringing out the -bright tints beneath. - -“Come here, Rosy, I say, and speak to the lady; she’s just seen your -pappy.” - -At that word she sprang up, and came wonderingly to my side, never taking -those eyes from my face. - -“Yes,” said I; “I have just come from him, and he wants so badly to see -his little Rosita; what will she send him?” - -In a moment her little arms were tightly clasped round my neck, as I bent -down to speak to her, and those rosy lips were pressed to mine, in a -warm, loving kiss. - -Quite aware that this mute message, eloquent as it was, could scarcely -be delivered with satisfaction to any of the parties concerned, I drew -one of the feathers from her cap, and said, “Shall I tell him his little -girl sent him this?” - -A bright, beaming smile, was the only answer I could extract. The woman -now began a piteous story of having to provide for them--no money, etc., -etc.,--backed by her husband, who appeared, pipe in his mouth, from some -back den, evidently hoping to extort funds; but when they discovered that -I was in possession of all the facts, with regard to the support of the -children, they seemed to find it useless to proceed; and finally agreeing -to my request that one of them would take the children to see their -father, I left the direction, visiting days, etc., with them. - -Once more I stood by that bedside, which I had so lately left, with that -deep groan ringing in my ears. - -“Do you know what that is?” said I, holding up the feather. - -No answer from the lips, but the eyes said, plainly, “I don’t know, and I -don’t care.” - -I varied the question. “Do you know where that came from?” - -He started, pierced me through with those keen black eyes, then said, -seizing the hand in which I held it with a grasp which secured my -remembering him for many days, “You didn’t?--you couldn’t?--it isn’t?” - -“Yes,” said I; “I drew it from your little girl’s cap; she sent it to you -with her love.” - -His grasp relaxed; and, burying his face in the pillow, he sobbed -aloud. I waited, thinking he would recover himself, but no word came; -hard, heavy sobs, only increasing in violence, shook the bed, and I -was frightened at the terrible emotion I had called forth. Deeming it -best not to notice it, I began quietly to give him an account of my -trip, dwelling on the least exciting parts of it, but all of no avail; -apparently he did not even hear me, and I saw that he was getting -entirely beyond his own control. - -What was to be done? Here was indeed a dilemma. He was exciting the -attention of the whole ward; it was within half an hour of inspection -when the surgeon in charge goes his rounds through the wards,--what would -he say? Was this the way that the ladies excited their patients? But -beyond and above all, he was injuring himself; and with the tendency to -inflammation in his head, I dreaded the effect of such strong excitement, -and yet all I said seemed but to increase it. Suddenly it occurred to -me that (something on the principle of “similia similibus curantur,” -little as I usually admire the practice) perhaps by evoking another -feeling equally powerful, I might calm him; and knowing that no one, be -it man or woman, will ever submit quietly to blame without an attempt at -self-justification, I changed my tactics at once, and said: - -“How it is possible, that a father, who has one grain of love for his -children, can permit them to remain one day, or hour, in such a den as -that, is to me a marvel that I cannot comprehend.” - -The rûse was a perfect success. Starting up in his bed, with flashing -eyes, he said, with a vehemence which at another time would have -frightened me: - -“How cruel! I couldn’t help it, and you know I couldn’t; haven’t I told -you how it breaks my heart, night and day, to think of them there, and I -tied here and can’t get them away?” - -This was all I wanted; he poured forth a volley of eager self-defence, -and ere it was half over, my mind was quite relieved about him, and I -had the satisfaction of seeing him in a short time quite composed, and -anxiously seeking to know every particular of my visit. He would not -be content without hearing over and over the most minute details, all -the time stroking and patting the feather, as though it were indeed the -little one it symbolized. - -The following Sunday, as I passed through the ward to attend service, -I saw the three children on the bed; the two boys seated at the foot, -and the little Rosita lying on his breast, with that dimpled arm round -his neck, as he had wished. He smiled as he saw me, and held up the -feather. I never saw him again. I heard, the next time that I came to -the hospital, that news had been brought him of his wife’s death at the -almshouse; he had been allowed to go out on a pass, but had failed to -return, and nothing further had been heard from him. - -Poor José! We shall, in all probability, never meet again on earth; but I -can never think of him without finding, in his history, the most powerful -proof that “these men _have_ feeling.” - - - - -ROBINSON. - - -“War is an unmixed evil; look at it as you will, it is, it must be, an -unmixed evil!” - -This, in an indignant tone, from one, standing at my side, gazing at one -of its saddest results. - -“An evil, I grant,” said I; “unmixed I deny. War and its attendants have -a grand side. Do not start, and look so reproachfully at me; were we -standing on another spot, and were the circumstances different, I would -tell you all I mean; but let it pass.” - -We were in no mood for argument then, and the subject dropped; but it -recurred frequently to my mind, and the more I have dwelt upon it, the -more I am convinced (your pardon, dear speaker!) that such a statement -is not, cannot be true. War has its compensations, its beautiful -compensations; and I very much question, whether, if the statistics -of the good deeds, the kind, warm, large-hearted actions, could be -registered, as are those of crime, we should not find that those -performed in times of war, greatly overbalance those in times of peace. -Great crises call forth and compel great deeds. - -Where is the battle-field since Sumter’s sad surprise, which cannot -boast, not one, but many Sir Philip Sydney’s, with the earnest “Take it; -thy need is greater than mine?” Magnanimity need no longer be confined -to the field of Zütphen, and each child be taught the story as though -it stood alone. Where the hospital where we may not see something of -sublimity in the beautiful forgetfulness of self, the untiring devotion -with which plain, poor men watch, night after night, by a dying -comrade,--a stranger till those walls had made them brothers? Where the -home, high or humble, which fails to show the brave-hearted wife, mother, -daughter, or sister, giving for her country a life far dearer than her -own, to danger and to death? Is there no moral grandeur, no moral heroism -here? A sad soul, so struggling with, yet surmounting sorrow; so sending -forth her sure support and stay, then turning calmly and quietly to take -up her lonely cross and bear the burden of daily life, by virtue of such -act reaches a spiritual elevation which times of peace could rarely, if -ever, witness. - -I see the laugh--I hear the cutting remark, “Such a _woman’s_ view!” -but I know these things are true, for I have witnessed them; and, be -it remembered, that ridicule is not reasoning, nor satire always sound -sense. Never can I listen to this statement, that “War is an unmixed -evil,” without longing to combat it; and added to that, but this very -morning, the same belligerent desire was excited in my mind by reading -an opinion, somewhat dogmatically asserted, that, “In these days, Apollo -must give place to Mars.” - -“Not so,” I answered then; “not so,” I answer now. Apollo never gathers -in a heavier harvest--never stores stouter sheaves, than those mowed -down by the chariot wheels of the God of War, as he dashes onward in -his headlong career. Ask the world, since creation’s dawn, and she will -tell you that Apollo clings to Mars; and if he ever “gives place,” it -is only that he may follow on the fiery track of his great leader, sure -of grander opportunities in the waxing and waning of one moon, than a -life-time of peace could give. - -And even granting (which I never will) that Apollo pauses in his -course--that his lyre “lingers o’er its lays”--are not the daily deeds -of our loved land, at this moment, prouder poems than this continent has -ever yet produced? Where can we find such stirring strains, such ringing -rhythm, such burning ballads, such lyric lays, such sublime sonnets, such -ever-during epics, as these times of ours call forth? Is not each soldier -a poet in his way? And shall his verse have the less power, for that it -is set to martial music? Shall it touch our hearts the less? Rather, -shall not every chord vibrate ten thousand times the more, for that -the pages on which it is written are the fair fields of our own dear -country; its pen, the sword; its ink, the heart’s blood of our brothers? - -But I have wandered wide of my mark. I seated myself to note a simple -story, of one of that ever-growing army who have nobly given their young -lives to their country. - -I have made allusion before to my whistling friend, Robinson, who was -brought to the hospital at the same time with our poor Darlington, -from the same regiment, and wounded in the same battle,--that of “Fair -Oaks.” His left arm was terribly shattered, just below the shoulder, -and injuring the shoulder-blade; and for a long time his case was a -very critical one, requiring the most close and constant watching. He -was entirely confined to his bed for many tedious weeks, and yet I know -not why I should apply that term to the time so passed; for they were -certainly never “tedious” to us, although we felt great anxiety for -him, and we never had any proof that they were so to him. Patient and -uncomplaining, the only sign he gave of suffering, save the contraction -of his brow, was the constant effort to whistle away the pain, and his -moans in his sleep. There was always something inexpressibly sad to me -in these moans; it seemed as though the body were compensating itself, -during sleep, for the powerful restraint imposed upon it during waking -hours. - -I have rarely seen greater unselfishness in any one. During his illness, -it was all-important to keep up his strength, for as the wound began to -heal, one abscess followed another, and kept him much prostrated; we -therefore tried to tempt his appetite in every way; and often, when I -have brought him some delicacy, he has pointed me to some one near him, -with the words, “Please give it to him; he cares for such things more -than I do.” - -His love for his mother, and anxiety to spare her all unnecessary -suffering on his account, was very beautiful, and attracted me to him -from the first. His weakness was so great that he was utterly unable, for -a long time, even to feed himself, and of course, could not write. When I -offered to do so for him, he declined, saying, that she knew, through a -friend, that he was here; and that the sight of a strange hand, with the -conviction that it would bring that he was too ill to write for himself, -would be worse for her than to wait for a little while. - -One day, some time afterwards, I came to his bedside and found a paper -lying there with a few unmeaning scratches, as I thought, upon it; he -held them up to me. - -“The best I could do.” - -“What were you trying to do?” said I; “did you mean that for drawing?” - -A look of intense disappointment passed over his face. - -“I was afraid so,” said he; “then it would frighten her, as I thought. I -meant it for my signature, and I’ve looked at it, and looked at it, and -hoped it didn’t look as bad as I thought, at first; but if you ask what -I’m trying to do, when you see it, the game’s up, and it’s no use.” - -I assured him that such a signature would be far stronger proof of the -real state of the case, than any letter I could send telling the facts, -and giving the reasonable ground for hope which we now felt. But he still -preferred to wait; and ere very long we found, by pinning the paper to -the table, to keep it firm, he could execute a tolerably legible epistle. -The weeks rolled on, and, by slow degrees, he regained his strength; his -bright, hopeful disposition, even temper, and uniform cheerfulness, were -great aids to his recovery; and we watched his improvement with great -satisfaction, and at last had the pleasure of seeing him able to be up, -and even out, for a short time. - -He came to me, one morning, in our ladies’ room, saying, “Miss ----, -would it be troubling you too much, to ask you to write to mother?” - -“Brought to it, at last!” said I. “Why do you ask me now, Robinson, when -you have refused so often before, and can write for yourself?” - -“That’s just it; she won’t believe what I say; thinks I’m fooling her, -and pretending to be better than I really am; and has an idea they’re -going to take my arm off, and I’m keeping it from her; and I thought if -you’d just write, and tell her it wasn’t coming off, she’d be sure to -believe you.” - -“Sure to believe a stranger in preference to her own son, Robinson? Does -that tell well for the son?” - -“Yes, ma’am, I think so; she knows you could have no object in deceiving -her; while the thing I care most for in the world, is to keep her from -fretting, and she knows it.” - -There was no combating this reasoning, and in a short time I received -a beautiful answer to my letter, well written and well expressed, -confirming all that Robinson had told us:--That he was the youngest son, -and had always been carefully and tenderly brought up; that he had two -brothers, the only other children--one had gone to Texas, before the -breaking out of the rebellion, and never having heard from him since, -they feared he had been pressed into the rebel service; fortunately she -had never heard, and I trust, now, never may hear what Robinson had told -us,--that, while pressing on, at the battle of Fair Oaks, over heaps of -the enemy’s dead, he saw an up-turned face on the field, wounded or dead, -he knew not which,--that face, he said, he never could mistake--it was -that of his brother! - -We tried to convince him that this was most improbable--that his -imagination was excited at the time, and that the dread that such a thing -might happen had been “father to the thought;” but in vain; we never -could persuade him to the contrary; and yet, whether from a doubt in his -mind, or the dread of the pain it must cause, he never, as we afterwards -found, had made any allusion to the subject in his letters home. - -One morning, after he had been able to be about, and even out for some -weeks, I was surprised, on going into his ward, to find him in bed again. - -“Why, Robinson, I am sorry to see you there! What have you been doing?” - -He hesitated, twisted the end of his coverlet, but made no answer. - -“Nothing wrong, I’m very sure of that. It wasn’t your own fault, was it?” -said I, fearing he thought I doubted him, as so many of the relapses here -are caused by excess, the moment the men are able to be out, and I well -knew there was no such danger here. - -He looked up at me, at once, with his clear, honest eyes, and said, “Yes, -Miss ----, all my own fault; but I thought _she_ worried so----” - -“Your mother?” I questioned. - -“Yes, ma’am; and if I could just slip my arm into my coat-sleeve long -enough to have my picture taken, she’d see it was better, and it would -set her mind at rest more than all the letters I could write.” - -So to satisfy this mother’s heart, the poor wounded shoulder had been -forced into its sleeve, giving him, as it did, several weeks of added -suffering and confinement to his bed. Can any one wonder that such a man -should have won his way to our hearts;--or at our regret, when we found -he was to be transferred to another hospital, at some distance from the -city? We thus lost sight of him for many months. Several times when I -asked after him, at our own hospital, I was told that he had been there -but a short time since; sometimes the week before; sometimes only the day -before; but it so happened that we never met. His wound, they told me, -was far from well, varying very much; some days giving hope that it would -heal, and then bursting out again. I had received many and urgent letters -from his mother, before he left us, begging me to use all the influence -I could bring to bear, to have him transferred to a hospital near his -home; (this was, of course, before the present order on that subject had -been given) but on applying to the surgeon, I found that he considered -his wound far too serious to attempt the journey, and that Robinson so -fully agreed with him, that I wrote the poor disappointed mother to that -effect, trying to console her with the hope of restoring him to her, ere -very long, perfectly cured. The winter slipped away; the pressure of -present hospital duties and interests had almost crowded out all thoughts -of Robinson, when I am surprised, one sunny April afternoon, to receive -a note from one of our lady visitors, telling me of Robinson’s extreme -illness, and that it is scarcely supposed he can recover. - -An hour later finds M. and myself driving rapidly out to the hospital -where he now is; and here we are at the gates; how shall we enter! Ah! we -do not now fear a guard with a bayonet, as we should have done some time -since; and fifteen minutes more suffices for all the necessary “red tape” -connected with admittance, and we are at the door of Robinson’s ward, -listening to the wardmaster’s answer to our question: - -“Yes, ladies, walk in; but he won’t know you; he’s too low, and he’s -flighty all the time.” - -“Won’t know us!” Robinson not know us! We cannot believe that; but see! -he is leading the way; and we follow to a bed where lies a man tossing -restlessly, and talking, or rather muttering to himself in an indistinct -tone; his bandaged shoulder and arm resting on a pillow, for an operation -has been performed--a large piece of bone extracted--and the result still -doubtful. Doubtful? No; too certain; that face is enough. Poor mother in -your western home, you can never look upon your boy, till you meet at the -final Bar, in the presence of your Judge! God in his mercy grant that it -may be to spend a happy eternity together! - -And yet, as we stand, we find ourselves almost doubting whether this can -really be our merry, laughing, whistling Robinson. Little hope, indeed, -that he will recognize us, but let us try. - -“Robinson, do you know me?” He starts, and in a moment the vacant gaze -changes into one of his old bright smiles of recognition. - -“Know you! Why shouldn’t I know you? How long it is, Miss ----, since I -have seen you,--and you too,” added he, stretching out his hand to M.; -but even as he spoke, his expression changed, and his mind wandered again. - -And this was the end of all our care--this the result of so many weary -months of suffering. He seemed pleased at our coming, and would answer -any direct question, but could not sustain a conversation of even a few -moments. We found our old friend, “handsome Harry,” of concert memory, -who had been transferred at the same time, established here as Robinson’s -devoted nurse, although entirely unable to move without crutches. He told -us that the surgeon had told him that morning, that if his family wished -to see him, he had better telegraph for them at once. Robinson heard -us, and catching the word “telegraph,” said quickly, “Don’t telegraph; -father’s poor, and he might come on; I’ll be better soon, and get a -furlough, and go out to them.” - -“But, Robinson,” said I, “you are very ill; perhaps you may not be -better, and you would like to see your father.” - -“I don’t think I’m very ill--they said so to-day; but I think I’ll come -round soon.” - -The next moment he was on the field, and evidently going over the fatal -“Fair Oaks” fight. - -His friend Harry told us that it had been his most earnest desire and -longing to see his father; and that he had urged him, some days ago, -if he should be worse, to let them know at home. I therefore wrote the -telegram on his table, and we drove to the office on our return to the -city, that no time might be lost. - -I was detained at home for the two succeeding days; but some of our -ladies went out to see him each day, as he was a general favorite; one -lady going in a pouring rain, although she knew that she would have -nearly a mile to walk after leaving the cars; their report of the case -was most unfavorable. On the third day, the Rev. Mr. ----, who had been a -most constant and faithful friend to Robinson, in our hospital, went out -with me. When we arrived, we found him in a terrible state of excitement; -he had been talking, and was now almost shrieking, and dashing himself -from side to side. - -“It’s no use speaking to him, to-day,” said the wardmaster; “he don’t -know anybody.” - -But once again I tried it, and once again he extended his hand, and -repeated my name, and then said, “And Mr. ----, how very kind in him to -come!” - -I sat down by him, and tried to soothe and calm that dreadful -restlessness; his mind was too much gone for words, I only gently stroked -his brow and fanned him. “I am out on the water; out on the water!” was -his one cry, from a low tone, ascending till it amounted almost to a -scream. Truly he was “out on the water,” and where was compass or chart -for the final voyage? Those words, with the constant repetition of his -brother’s name, were the last I ever heard him utter. The only moment of -calmness I noticed, was when Mr. ---- knelt at his bedside and repeated -those soul-soothing Prayers, from the “Visitation of the Sick.” He -attempted no conversation, for we well knew Robinson was in no state to -bear it. We had felt from the first, that Prayer _for_ him, was all that -we could offer; not _with_ him, as his intervals of consciousness were -merely momentary. His father had not yet arrived, and there appeared -little hope that he could now do so, in time, as he was very much lower -than on my last visit, and evidently sinking. As our presence could give -him no comfort, we left him with heavy hearts. - -When I reached there the next day, I found that an order had been given -prohibiting all admittance for visitors to his ward, as the surgeon -thought that Robinson had been excited by those he had seen the day -before, but that his father had come, and that we could see him; he had -arrived that morning. - -There are few things connected with this hospital work which I recall -with more pleasure than the simple, earnest gratitude of this bronzed and -weather-beaten old man, for the trifling kindnesses which we had been -able to offer to his boy. There was something about him altogether so -real, so honest, genuine, and sincere, that one could not help feeling -drawn to him at once. He was a rough, plain, Western man, primitive in -the extreme; but no one could listen to him without the consciousness -that a warm, true, noble heart, beat beneath that uncouth exterior. - -Had the telegram been a day later, he could not have reached here for -nearly a week longer. The train, which only runs on certain days, left -the morning after he received the news; he had travelled night and day, -making every connection, and performing the journey as rapidly as it -could be done. - -His boy, he said, had recognized him, and he was pleased to find him -better than he had hoped for. He thought with care he would get well now, -and he was going at once to telegraph the good news to his wife. - -We were thunderstruck; how could he be so deceived? For although we had -not seen Robinson that day, we well knew he was in a condition from which -he could not rally. It seemed therefore no kindness to allow his mother -to be tortured with false hope, and we earnestly represented (hard as it -seemed to do so) that the surgeons did not look for any improvement; but -all in vain,--he had seen sickness--he had seen doctors mistaken before -now--his boy was going to get well; so he accompanied us to the telegraph -station, and sent his message. That evening I was told some one wanted to -see me, from the ---- hospital, and on going out, was met by the words, -“Miss ----, my boy’s gone, my boy’s gone!” and a burst of sobs, which -seemed as though it must shake that poor old frame to pieces. - -He had scarcely left, in the morning, to send his hopeful telegram, when -the change took place, and Robinson breathed his last just as his father -reached his bedside. The blow fell heavier, as we had feared, from the -strong hope he had persisted in entertaining, and even then it seemed as -though he were too much bewildered and stunned to realize fully what had -occurred. There was something inexpressibly touching in the grief of that -poor, bowed-down old man, shattered as he was, too, by hard travel and -loss of rest; and yet I hardly knew how to comfort him, or to answer that -sad appeal, “How can I go back to his mother without him?” Deep grief -must ever bear with it a reverence of its own, and this seemed something -one scarcely dared meddle with. - -He said the funeral was to take place the next afternoon, and begged that -the ladies who had been so kind to him would be present for his mother’s -sake; he thought it would comfort her to know it. I readily consented, -and promised to inform the others. - -He rose to go, and drawing a little paper from his pocket, said, “I -thought maybe you might care for this; it is a lock of my boy’s hair, -which I cut off for you, and I thought his mother would be glad to know -you had it.” - -I expressed my feelings in a few words, which seemed to soothe and -gratify him. - -That poor mother seemed never out of his thoughts; and again and again -would he repeat that piteous question, “How can I go back to her without -him?” - -But he need not have feared; that mother’s heart was anchored on the Rock -which alone can withstand the storms of earth. Listen to but one sentence -from her first letter (to one of the ladies, who had been a kind and -constant correspondent,) after that sad return. - -“At first it seemed I could not bear it. My bright-faced, joyous boy--my -sunbeam! But soon came the thought, how short the journey would be for me -to go to him, and that my sunbeam would now shed its ray upon me from the -sky, to light my path onward and upward.” - -It would be of little avail, to go into the dreary details of that -dreariest afternoon. Touching in the extreme did it seem to see the -little band (for the ladies willingly agreed to the request to be -present) take their places as mourners, with the father; mourners in -reality, though so lately strangers; mourners, for we claimed a right -to grieve; for was it not, as I have said, a young life, given for our -country as well as his?--for the one common cause, which forms so strong -a bond between all loyal hearts? - -A heavy, pouring rain added to the general gloom; the only comfort came -from the words of our Burial Service, which must always fall with blessed -balm upon the sorrowful soul. It was performed at his father’s request, -and with the permission of the surgeon in charge, by Robinson’s kind and -true friend, the Rev. Mr. ----, to whom I have alluded before. - -It was a long, long time ere I could forget the face of that -broken-hearted old father, as--everything over--he stood at the door, as -we drove off, leaving him lonely and desolate among strangers. He was to -start that night alone, in the rain, on his sad, homeward journey, and -seemed to long to keep us with him to the last; and how we longed to stay -to comfort him! But we must say goodbye, and with a long, warm grasp of -that rough hand, we parted, and one more hospital sorrow was over. - -Brave, gentle, heroic heart! The aching limb, the suffering frame, the -strained, excited nerves are stilled forever. Robinson sleeps in a land -of strangers; but the turf that covers that “soldier’s grave” will be -moistened and kept green by the tears of those who can never forget that -bright example of noble unselfishness, and beautiful patience under -severest suffering and trial. - - “I AM OUT ON THE WATER!” - - U. S. A. HOSPITAL, April, 1863. - - Out on the water! No compass, no chart! - The sails all in ribbons; the timbers apart! - The vessel is tossing, the storm driving fast, - Out on the water; nor rudder, nor mast! - - Out on the water! The dark night hath come; - The ocean is boiling and seething in foam; - We see the waves break o’er the poor battered boat,-- - Out on the water; a soul is afloat! - - Out on the water! Quick! reach him a spar! - It is not too late, drift he never so far; - Hold to it! Cling to it while the waves toss, - Out on the water,--the Spar of The Cross! - - Out on the water! Is’t harbor at last; - Are “the waves of this troublesome world” safely passed? - We pray, through That Spar, that the soul hath made Port-- - That, out on the water, The Cross was Support. - - - - -THE RETURN TO THE REGIMENT. - - -A bright, sunshiny week. Moral sunshine, I mean; for like St. Peter’s, at -Rome, our hospital may be said to have “an atmosphere of its own”--our -brightness or dulness being in a great measure dependent upon the state -of our patients. Deaths, or very severe cases of illness, naturally have -their effect in casting a shadow on everything around; but at present, -most fortunately, we have nothing of the kind; and our principal grief -(though in a very mild form) has been from the daily partings caused -by the return of our men to their regiments; which, from some unknown -cause, seems to have been the sole business of the last few days. The -“Hegira” has been going on steadily through the whole week, and we have -been busily occupied in helping to stow treasures into impossible spaces -in knapsacks, slipping in some little contribution of our own, to call -up, perhaps, a smile of surprise when opened far from here; in putting -up lunches for the travellers--for it has happened that some of our -brave boys have fainted on the way from exhaustion produced by delay in -getting their meals; therefore, by the surgeon’s orders, they are always -provided when they start--and finally, in bidding them “Goodbye, and God -speed!” - -This returning to regiments has amounted to an epidemic this week; the -contagion is spreading rapidly, and it is very plain that Dame Example -has, in this case, been exerting herself for good. She has taken some of -our chronic cases by the hand, lifted them out of bed, and made them feel -that effort and firm resolve will do more for them than yielding to the -languor of a slow convalescence. One may ask, “Is it, then, at the option -of the men, when they shall return to their regiments?” - -“Most certainly not.” - -“Does not the surgeon decide that point?” - -“Most certainly he does.” - -The surgeon of each ward makes out his list of men fit for service, and -hands it to the surgeon in charge, who in his turn examines the men so -reported and returns them to their different posts; but, as we all know -how much the mind has to do with the body, men who have seemed quite -unfit for duty, often, under the stimulus of one of these departures, -rouse themselves, make an effort, and find that a little exertion was -the only thing needed to fit them for their work. But, on the other -hand, this strong desire sometimes carries them too far; a case in point -occurred this morning. - -“Why, Shaw, my man! out of bed to-day? I’m glad to see you up; you’ll -soon be off, with the other boys.” - -This, from the cheerful voice of one of our surgeons, to a man who, from -a long fever, had been too feeble, for many months, to do more than sit -up in bed for a short time. - -“That’s just it, doctor; Pat’s going to-day, and I can’t let him go -without me. I think I could bear it, maybe. Won’t you let me try?” - -I noticed a slight look of surprise on the doctor’s face; he pressed his -finger on the man’s pulse, was silent for a few moments, and then said, -kindly: - -“Perhaps you can go with the next lot; stay out of bed, to-day; try to -walk a little about the ward; eat more, and I’ve no doubt you can go -back soon; but we should have you back on our hands, were we to send you -to-day.” - -“But Pat, doctor? You see we’re from the same town; he’s young,--only a -slip of a boy--and I promised his mother I’d see to him. I did let him -get hit, to be sure, but it wasn’t much to signify; my fever was a good -bit worse; we were brought here together, and I’m bound to leave when he -leaves, whether I can shoulder a musket or not.” - -How glad I was that it happened to be just that particular surgeon to -whom he made his appeal; for it must be admitted, even in this pattern -hospital, that skill and sympathy, power and patience, knowledge and -kindliness, are not always combined; but in this instance I was very sure -the decision would be given (whatever it might be) in a manner which -could not offend; nor was I disappointed. - -“Well, my friend, if you had told me that you had kept Pat from getting -hit, I might have taken it into consideration, whether, for the sake of -Pat’s mother, it might not be my duty to return a man to his regiment who -can’t walk across this hospital; but as, by your own account, you let him -get hit, I think you’ll have to trust him without you, and wait here till -you’re a little stronger;” and kindly patting him on the shoulder, he -laughingly turned off. - -Poor Shaw! It was a sense of duty--certainly not any feeling of ability -to go--which led to the proposition; for as the hope departed, his -strength went with it. He attempted to rise from his chair at the side of -the bed, tottered, and would have fallen; but I saw it, sprang forward, -caught him, and threw him backward on the bed, knowing I had not strength -to support him. - -“I didn’t mean to knock you down, Shaw, though it looks a good deal like -it,” said I, as there was a general laugh, amongst those nearest to him, -who witnessed the proceeding. - -No answer. The effort had been too much for him--he had fainted. I called -an orderly to bring me water quickly, and bathed his temples from the -cologne bottle in my pocket, but he did not revive. - -“What’s the fuss?” said one, coming up behind me. - -“Miss ---- has knocked the breath out of Shaw, that’s all.” - -“And he’s knocked the color out of her; she’s whiter than he is.” - -“Don’t talk; get me some water,” said I, hastily. - -“La! miss, you’re not really minding, are you? He always has them turns -when he tries to sit up; and he’s gone a good bit, and we don’t mind, -he’ll come round; he’s been fretting at little Pat, there, going without -him, and wanted to go back to his regiment with him. Fine hand at a -march, wouldn’t you be, eh, Shaw?” said he, as the latter opened his eyes. - -With rough kindness, he put his hand under Shaw’s head, raised it, and -held the water to his lips. Shaw roused himself, looked round, and seemed -gradually recalling what had occurred. - -“Drink, old fellow! and you’ll soon come round. It’s my advice to you, -to stay in your bed till you’re fit to get out of it; you ought to be -ashamed to make a lady look like that.” - -“Be quiet, Gilman,” said I; “I’m not frightened at all; I’ve seen worse -sights here than a fainting man; it was only the effort of suddenly -throwing him backward, which I felt for the moment.” - -But I have no doubt Gilman’s rebuke was of far more service to Shaw than -my ready sympathy would have been; for it roused him, and diverted his -mind from his own sorrows. He did not at all know what he had done; but -was profuse in bewildered apologies for some unknown wrong to me, which -he seemed to feel convinced that he had committed; although the “how, -why, or what” was wrapped in mystery. I soon satisfied his mind on that -point, and then, more guardedly, touched upon “Pat;” promised to see to -his comfort as far as possible; give him good advice as well as good -food,--little doubting which would be the more welcome,--and finally, -promising Shaw to return as soon as they were off, I hurried away, -fearing I was already too late to say goodbye. - -These partings are brighter things for those who go, than for those who -remain; it is as true here, as in other cases, that “Les peines du départ -sont pour celui qui reste.” The bustle, the excitement of getting off, -the hope of service, the prospect of change of scene, make the going -something pleasant, even to those whose patriotism is not at fever heat; -while, for those who remain, the sight of others going, the consciousness -of their own inability thus more painfully forced upon their minds, -the sense of confinement, make the hours after one of these departures -a somewhat sad affair, and we have to exert all our powers to restore -cheerfulness. - -A bustling scene meets me at the door of our room. A busy group is -crowded there; some kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and -blankets; some jumping into the well known blue overcoats, which have -enjoyed a profounder rest than their owners have done since their -entrance into the hospital; some settling their caps well down over their -eyes, as though cap and “caput” were never again to part company; while -some (yes! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. M. calls me, and -I hurriedly enter. - -“They’re going; you’ll be too late to see them off.” - -“Hurrah, boys! Come on. We’re off. Goodbye, ladies! We won’t forget you. -If ever the rebs come here, send for us; we’ll stand by you, and fight -for you, too.” - -“Goodbye, ma’am, if I get hit I hope they’ll send me here.” - -“We’ve had a bully time here, and we’re proper sorry to go back. ‘Salt -horse’ and ‘hard tack’ will come pretty hard, after all your nice little -messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us.” - -Such are the parting words, rough it may be, but coming from the heart, -and therefore far more valuable than the elegant insincerity of more -polished partings. But as character is shown in every action of life, -we may easily detect the difference of nature even in their mode of -saying goodbye. One comes forward with frank smile, and hand extended, -his whole soul beaming from his honest eyes; he is glad to have known -you, somewhat sorry to leave you, but so very happy to be off, that -there is little room for any other feeling; and you take leave of him -with satisfaction, sure that his contented nature will adapt itself to -whatever circumstances may surround him. Another comes up really sorry -to go, but thinking it beneath a soldier’s dignity to show feeling; -he therefore tries to assume a perfectly indifferent air, but like -everything assumed, it sits ill upon him, and we all know that in his -heart “sober Sam,” as the boys nickname him, is more sorry to leave us -than he cares to acknowledge. A third shocks our patriotism by openly -declaring he don’t want to go; he don’t care to fight, and he’s sure he’s -not fit for it either. Ah! Bob, isn’t it that you love your own ease a -little too well? The field may not be quite so comfortable as it is here, -but it is unworthy of a soldier to mind such trifles as want of bed, and -occasional want of food. But Bob doesn’t think so, and whatever his other -faults may be, he is honest in declaring his opinions. But here come the -others, and we have but a few minutes more. - -“Goodbye, Brown; take care of yourself; we shall miss you when we want -our errands done.” - -“Goodbye, Williams; don’t forget your promise.” - -“Goodbye, Simpson; what shall we do without you for a wardmaster?” - -“Goodbye, John; come back with shoulder-straps, and God bless you!” - -That bright young face looks still brighter, as he says, “Why, Miss ----, -that’s what they all say to me; I’ve been through the wards bidding the -boys goodbye, and they all say ‘God bless you, John!’ Why do they say -that to me?” - -I could have told him without much difficulty why that genial, sunny -nature, so full of bravery and beauty, of life and love, had won its -way to the hearts of “the boys,” and called forth that warm “God bless -you.” The Prayer from so many hearts seems to have won its answer; God -has blessed him and guarded him from harm. Nobly has he fought, and -the shoulder-straps are won. Promotion on the field “for distinguished -services,” has been gained; and we now have the pleasure of directing -our quondam “Private” John’s letters, to “Captain” John, of the Army of -the Potomac. But as he is pressed on in the crowd, before I can answer -his question, I notice a pale, quiet youth, always retiring and gentle, -standing at my side with a hesitating air. - -“Well, George, you’re off too; I won’t forget you, and you mustn’t forget -me.” - -He still stands, and still hesitates, saying nothing. - -“Can I do anything for you, before you go, or perhaps after? Can I help -you? tell me.” - -“Yes, ma’am, you can help me. If you would just let me shake hands with -you, I think it would help me on the battle-field, to remember it. I saw -the others come up, but somehow I didn’t dare to, and I was so afraid I -would have to go without.” - -Poor George! Not many of the men are so troubled with modesty. Such a -little boon to be asked for so earnestly! one, too, which half the men -claim as a right in parting. - -“You didn’t think, George, after all our talks, I could have let you go -without shaking hands with you, did you? No, my boy,” said I, holding -out my hand; “but I will do what will be more likely to help you on the -battle-field, pray for you; and now, goodbye.” - -He grasped my hand, and as he held it, a hot tear fell on it; he seemed -shocked, dropped it, and rushed from the room into the crowd waiting at -the door to start. The signal sounded, and they were gone. - -“God go with them!” said an earnest voice at my side. - - God will go with them! Doubt it not, - Ye, whose fond, aching hearts - Fear that your treasures are less safe, - Because from you apart! - Love, human love, is powerless, - From Death or harm to shield; - Our very lives, for theirs laid down, - Could no protection yield. - - God will go with them! Rest on that, - When partings make Life dark; - He guideth every bullet’s course, - To hit or miss its mark. - Then trust them amid shot and shell, - To His unfailing care; - And bow, submissive hearts, howe’er - The answer comes to Prayer. - - - - -A VISIT TO THE WARDS. - - - U. S. A. HOSPITAL. - -And so you really wish, dear C., to take that long-promised trip through -the wards of our hospital? Most happy shall I be to escort you; and I -promise, ere we start, to use every endeavor to prevent you from going -any deeper than you wish into the “horrors of hospital life.” You shall -not see an open wound if I can help it;--do not imagine that I have -forgotten the effect upon you of the sight of that man’s arm the last -time that you were here; and yet it was your own fault, for it was your -expression of interest in him and his wound which led to the display; -and we, hardened creatures that we have become, were not aware of your -feelings till the harm was done. But put yourself under my guidance -to-day, and I will pick out only the choice specimens. Yet no! I cannot -do that exactly, for, in answer to a charge brought against me here a -few days since, I have promised to select the worst cases--the _morally_ -worst cases, I mean,--in the hospital, to show my friends. What was the -charge? you ask. Nothing very heinous, to be sure. A friend, to whom I -have very often talked of the hospital and its inmates, said to one of -our medical cadets, as we walked through the wards: - -“Tell me, doctor, is a hospital really the paradise Miss ---- represents -it? Her soldiers are all perfectionists; they never quarrel, they never -swear, they never drink, they never gamble; and more than this, they -never get well; they are sure to die in some romantic way, with an -interesting wife, mother, or sister, in the distance.” - -My answer, of course, was a laugh, trusting to my friend, the cadet, to -justify me; but here I was mistaken. His answer was a mere empty word -of compliment, as to what the ladies made the hospital, etc., leaving -the main question untouched. I therefore was compelled to take up my own -defence, and assure her that the fact of my having preferred to dwell -upon the interesting cases, was no proof that the hospital contained -no others; that we all knew that either in or out of a hospital, our -strongest feelings were called forth by extreme illness and danger. - - “Like a bruised leaf, at touch of Fear, - Its hidden fragrance Love gives out.” - -More than this, that here, as elsewhere, people ceased to be interesting -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.” - -Look at that man stooping down and playing with Dick, our hospital pet. -A gentleman? you ask, and I cannot wonder that you do. Every one who -sees him says, “But he isn’t one of the privates?” He is; but I imagine -there is no one here more anxious to flourish in shoulder-straps. He -has interested me much since I first met him here; he was very sick when -he came in, but I did not see him until he was better, and taking his -place as one of the orderlies--as our rule is in the hospitals, that -convalescents turn into wardmasters and orderlies, before they are fit -for active service on the field. His deference to the ladies, and certain -little graces of manner, showed birth and breeding; and I said to M. -one day, “That man was born a gentleman.” I found that she quite agreed -with me, and had been struck by the same thing. And yet there was an air -of dissatisfaction at times, and a bitterness of expression which I was -at a loss to account for. One morning I had brought some books to the -hospital, and on offering them to him, amongst others, he told me that -he had so injured his eyes by over-study at college, that he was unable -to use them at all at present. A few words more, and I discovered that -he was a loyal Virginian, who, on the breaking out of the rebellion, had -left family, friends, and a beautiful home, to enlist in our army. All -his relations were bitterly opposed to the step; and he told me, with -much pain, that when our army was in the neighborhood of his home, he -had gone there to see his family, but that they had positively refused -to see him, or even to allow him admittance. I could scarcely wonder at -his depression after this; but it seemed to me that the consciousness of -right, in the step he had taken, should have brought him more content and -peace than he seemed to possess. A few afternoons since, he came in, as -usual, with his waiter, to carry the supper to the sick men (those unable -to leave their beds) in his ward. I noticed, as I arranged the plates for -him, that he looked much disturbed, and that his hand trembled. - -“King,” said I, “you are hardly strong enough yet to carry that waiter; -you should ask one of the other orderlies to do it for you.” - -I seemed to have fired a mine. Setting the waiter down upon the table, he -burst forth: - -“It’s no want of strength, Miss ----, but what would you think if you saw -Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- (naming two of our surgeons) playing wardmaster and -orderly in a hospital in the South? My position was just what theirs is, -and I chafe at this menial work. My blood boils at playing waiter for the -men here; I can’t stand it, and I won’t.” - -I looked up in surprise. “What should I think, King, should I see such -a dreadful sight as you suggest? I can tell you, very quickly, what I -should think. If those gentlemen had, for the sake of their country, -nobly given up every private tie as you have done, and, by the fortune of -war, had been thrown into a hospital, I should honor and respect them for -fulfilling every duty there imposed upon them; and I doubt not that they -would do it most cheerfully, as part of the service their country asks at -their hands. I should like to know, also, whether it is less menial for -the ladies to turn cooks here, than for the men to turn waiters? I cannot -recall that I ever “chafed” at the “menial work,” or that my “blood -boiled” at cooking eggs, or boiling farina, unless on a hot summer’s day, -when the fire seemed intolerable, but never, I am very sure, from shame -at the occupation. We go even further, for we act both cook and waiter. -A day never passes that we do not carry to the men what we have made for -them, to see if they like it--to know if it suits them--or oftener still, -to feed them, because they are unable to feed themselves. Think what a -state of fever-heat our blood should be in at this time, after two years -of such services!” - -“But the case,” said he, “is not a parallel one. Your service, grateful -as we all feel for it, is voluntary, this is compulsory.” - -“I thought you were a volunteer, King? When you enlisted, did you specify -just the kind of work you would do? When your country needed you, did you -limit the aid you offered? What matter is it to you whether she asks you -to fight for her, or to serve her by ministering to her sick and wounded -members, suffering in a common cause from their efforts on her behalf.” - -“I never thought of it in that light before.” - -“Think of it so now, my man; you will be far happier. That southern blood -is a little too hot, and you have failed to perceive that all work is -dignified and ennobled by the spirit which you bring to it. Because you -are a classical student, and feel that you have talents and acquirements -which fit you for something higher, you chafe at this service; but, -believe me, the faithful performance of your duties here, will by no -means unfit you for a command in the field so soon as your services there -shall win for you the promotion you so much desire. So take up your -waiter, and don’t let your blood boil too much as you go up stairs, or -you may upset my saucers.” - -He took my lecture in very good part, and since then we have been -excellent friends. I think, since he realized that I preferred talking -to him to lecturing him, and liked to enter upon higher themes with him, -which he is so well fitted to discuss, that he has become more contented, -and has resolved to accept his position. Let us speak to him; notice how -his eye brightens and his expression changes, as he speaks. - -“Well, King, how are your men to-day?” - -“I’ve just been waiting for you, Miss ----; Joe sent me to ask you for -two of those hand-splints you received yesterday--for the left hand, -please--they are for Jarvis and Wright--those very bad arms, you know.” - -“Oh! yes. The splints that came with all those things, yesterday, from -the Sanitary Commission. God bless that Sanitary Commission--what should -we do without it? Our soldiers here have quite as much reason to be -grateful as those in the field. Look at those shelves--all that wine, -those jellies, preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as well as -these cushions, pads, and splints. They send us, constantly, fresh eggs, -butter, lard, and such perishable articles as must be consumed at once. -Here, King, take these splints, and then come back, will you, for some -pickles I want to send to your men.” - -“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if I can get down again; but Joe is going away on -a furlough, to-day, and I am to be wardmaster till his return.” - -“Shall your ‘blood boil’ more, or less, King, in your new position?” - -Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the stairs? No more fear -for him; he is only making himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to -see him returned to his regiment. Very tired, are you, of the study of -character? I have about a dozen more men here that I should like to show -you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, now, quite aware that you -feel amply satisfied with your hospital diet to-day. - - - - -OUR GETTYSBURG MEN. - - - JULY, 1863. - -It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that -we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the -last ten days--the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed--the -eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions -brought but further disturbance of mind--the difficulty of deciding -upon the proper course of action--the heavy, wearing anxiety--the slow -realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at a -distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,--our homes -laid waste, and ourselves fugitives--all these things live too freshly in -the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever -forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that -most memorable “Fourth” just passed?--the earnestness with which our -cry to heaven went up for success to our arms--the pause of those long -morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible -suspense--and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning -flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring -more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could -we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness -for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into -his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved. -Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him--as a people we had -acknowledged the weakness of a human arm--as a people we had poured forth -our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us? - -Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials, -came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be -their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base; -martyrdom for and with them so attractive,--and yet it was not quite -clear to my mind--much as I longed to aid them--what special benefit -could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a -difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious -hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence--so -evidently sincere--from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far -outstripping the ability. - -“Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.” - -“We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.” - -“Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.” - -“We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you, -ladies, depend upon that.” - -“Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who -had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones -to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only -protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.” - -“Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed; -“they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.” - -I found that this “mince-meat” idea took more firm possession of my mind -than almost any other connected with the raid; and one of the greatest -reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was the consciousness -that it could not now be put into execution. - -The afternoon of the “Fourth,” as I entered the hospital, the beaming -faces and glad congratulations of the poor fellows, proved how much they -had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold front which they -had all presented, with the single exception of my “mince-meat” friend. -I still recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one man to whom -I spoke of our victory. By some strange chance, which I never could -explain, he had not heard it. - -“Is that so? Is it really so? That’s bully. Let’s do something!” and, -nothing else being at hand, he seized his pillow and sent it high into -the air. - -But now come the sad results, which must follow alike in the wake of -victory or defeat. The wounded, where are they? A battle on our own soil, -and at so short a distance from us, comparatively speaking, must bring -them to us more directly from the field than any we have yet received; -and we have been hoping all this week, as they were pouring into the -city, that we should have our share. - -“Hoping?” Yes, hoping; start not at the term, I have used it -deliberately. Once launched upon the sea of hospital life, your views -undergo a change, and your one interest becomes to receive, nurse, and -watch the worst cases; it is the hospital spirit, and you cannot breathe -its air without imbibing the feeling. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, -Thursday, Friday have passed, with only the admittance of a few each day, -none badly wounded, and none requiring special care or tending; and to -those whose burning zeal makes them eager to pay off some part of their -debt of gratitude to men, who, humanly speaking, have turned the enemy -from their doors, this is somewhat of a disappointment. We have had, to -be sure, the pleasure of several visits from old friends here, who had -been slightly wounded in the fight, and have been returned to other -hospitals. - -It is Saturday afternoon. I have just seated myself in our room for a -moment’s quiet, after a most busy, bustling day,--many sick, and much to -do, although not exactly what we had wished for. M. rushes in, on her -return from her dinner. - -“Sitting quietly, I declare, as if nothing was going on! Do you know -what’s at the door?” - -“Nothing different from usual, I presume; you needn’t try to excite me; -I’ve just taken a seat for a five minutes’ rest.” - -“Go and look for yourself, then, if you are so incredulous. Ambulances -and stretchers enough, I should think, to suit even your taste.” - -As I hurry, half doubting, to the door, I meet one of our surgeons, paper -and pencil in hand, talking to one of the wardmasters. - -“How many beds in your ward? All ready, did you say? That’s right.” - -“Plenty of work for the ladies, Miss ----; I see some pretty bad cases -coming in.” - -“Just what we wanted, doctor; we have been hoping they would come in our -week, and it’s almost over.” - -“Time enough, yet, to make them plenty of milk punch, and cold drinks. -Some of them, I notice, are much exhausted, and will need stimulating.” - -Here was a practical suggestion--something to be acted upon at once, and -far more useful than running to look at them, as they are carried in; so -I return quickly, tell M. the doctor’s wish, and all our pitchers are -hastily filled with milk punch, iced lemonade, syrup and water, etc., -etc. This, of course, occupies some little time; and as we reach the -dining-room,--where all are placed who can walk, hobble, or crawl, till -they are distributed into the different wards, while those on stretchers -are being carried at once to their beds,--I almost start at the -rough-looking set we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of. Are they -miners or coal-heavers? Black enough and dirty enough for either; and I -catch myself repeating over and over, “In poverty, hunger, and dirt,” -etc., till I am afraid I shall say it aloud. But what care we for dust -and dirt? Set down your pitcher, shake hands, and thank them. Is it not -Gettysburg dust and dirt? Is it not the dust and dirt of victory? Have -not those torn and bullet-riddled clothes come straight from the field -of their fame? And have they not saved us from distress, wretchedness, -and ruin? I look at them with reverence; they seem to bring the battle -so very near that the tears will rise, as those torn and dirty bandages -show at what cost the victory was won. But do not imagine me standing all -this time in a fine frenzy, meditating on the results of a battle. These -thoughts slip in, between the filling and emptying of our pitchers, and -the glad, grateful expressions for the “treat,” as they call it. Poor -fellows! they shall have our best, that is very certain. - -As I am pouring out the last glass from my pitcher, my eye is caught by -a face, on a stretcher, as it is borne past me. It is that of a boy, -scarcely more than sixteen, I should think. His thick, black curls, eyes -bright and sparkling, (with fever, it must be,) and brilliant color, -contrast with his remarkably clean shirt and sheet. What can it mean, -amidst this mass of dirt? As my work is done, I follow him into the ward. - -“You can’t have been in the Gettysburg fight, my boy, were you?” - -“I don’t know, ma’am, rightly, whether you’d call it in it or not; I was -in an ambulance, in the rear. I’ve been in one, following the army, since -the twenty-first of June; and it seems pretty good to be on a thing that -don’t move.” - -“But why weren’t you left in a hospital?” - -“’Cause I begged so to go on with the rest. The ambulance was going, -and I begged them to let me go in it, and I promised to be well for the -fight; so they took me; but I got so much worse, I didn’t know when the -fight was; it’s the typhoid I’ve got, and my head’s dreadful bad.” - -“Your hair is so heavy,” said I; “we’ll take some of that off and bathe -your head, and that will relieve it.” - -“Oh! no, ma’am; no, thank you; I don’t want it off.” - -“Why not? It would be much cooler, and do you good.” - -“Why, I’ll soon be well, and it looks so pretty when it’s fixed!” - -The time has come, since then, when I have quite agreed with David; those -curls do look very “pretty, when they’re fixed;” and I am glad he pleaded -for them so innocently. Let no one ever say that vanity is confined to -the breast of woman; the result of close observation has convinced me -that it lives and thrives with tenfold greater power in man; and this -little proof of it, just uttered with so much simplicity, only confirms -a preconceived opinion. I do not, however, confide these views to my new -friend, but advising him to keep perfectly still, I say goodbye, for -the present, and pass on. As I hurry down the ward, I am struck by the -expression of utter contentment and quiet, on a strange face--one of the -new men, evidently; as I come up to the bed where he is lying, he seems -to me to be actually _purring_ with satisfaction. - -“You look as if you were comfortable, my friend,” said I, “even though -you are not very clean.” - -“Oh! the blessing of this bed. If you could know, ma’am, what it was -to have been marching twenty miles, whether you could or not, again and -again, you’d soon feel what it was to be put on a bed and let to stay -there. Like the South, ma’am, I just want ‘to be let alone;’ I don’t the -least care whether I’m clean or dirty--I’m lying quiet, and I am happy.” - -“Well, after a bath and clean clothes, which they are giving the men -as rapidly as possible, you shall lie as still as you please; but I am -afraid that must come first.” - -“Don’t think, ma’am,” said he, laughing, “that I object to either of -those things; they’ve not been too plenty where we were, but I just feel -now as if I never wanted to move again.” - -“I can easily understand your feeling; enjoy your quiet as long as they -will let you, and I will bring you some supper, later.” - -I left him and hurried over to our room, where I found M. busily -employed, and hastened to take my share in the work. Just at this moment, -as we were flying about in every direction, now here, now there, with a -pad for one, a basin and sponge to wet wounds for another, cologne for -a third, and milk punch for a fourth, I felt Dick (our hospital dog, my -faithful friend and ally, a four-footed Vidocq, in his mode of scenting -out grievances,) seize my dress in his teeth, pull it hard, and look -eagerly up in my face. “What is it, Dick? I am too busy to attend to -you just now.” Another hard pull, and a beseeching look in his eyes. -“Presently, my fine fellow! presently. Gettysburg men must come first.” - -He wags his tail furiously, and still pulls my dress. Does he mean that -he wants me for one of them? Perhaps so. “Come, Dick, I’ll go with you.” -He starts off delighted, leads me to the ward where those worst wounded -have been placed, travels the whole length of it to the upper corner, -where lies a man apparently badly wounded, and crying like a child. I had -seen him brought in on a stretcher, but in the confusion had not noticed -where he had been taken. Dick halted, as we arrived at the bed, looked at -me, as much as to say, “There, isn’t that a case requiring attention?” -and then, as though quite satisfied to resign him into my hands, trotted -quietly off. - -I stood a moment to take an observation--to make a sort of moral -diagnosis before beginning my attack--to find out whether the man needed -direct or indirect sympathy. Very often, to a severely wounded man--not -of a nervous temperament, but suffering intensely,--a kind word, showing -that you appreciate and enter into that suffering, falls on the burning -wound with a soothing, cooling power, as beneficial, for the instant, -as a more visible application; on the wound, I say, for the answer is, -after a few minutes’ conversation, not, “Thank you, I feel better able -to bear the pain, now;” but, “Thank you, my arm doesn’t burn as much as -it did--my limb isn’t so painful--my head feels cooler, now.” But, on the -other hand, who that has suffered from unstrung nerves does not know that -what is most needed in such a case, is to divert the mind from itself--to -present suddenly some other image powerful enough to efface from it the -impressions of its own wretched self--to enable it to rouse itself and -rise above the weakness it is ashamed of, but has no power to conquer? -Any allusion to the suffering itself, in such a case, only adds fuel to -the flame. - -I had time to draw my own conclusions, and soon decided that Dick’s -protegé belonged to this latter class. He did not notice my approach; I -therefore stood watching him for a little while. His arm and hand, from -which the bandage had partially slipped, were terribly swollen; the wound -was in the wrist, (or rather, as I afterwards found, the ball had entered -the palm of his hand and had come out at his wrist,) and appeared to be, -as it subsequently proved, a very severe one. - -My boast that I could make a pretty good conjecture what State a man came -from by looking at him, did not avail me here. I was utterly at fault. -His fair, Saxon face, so far as I could judge of it as he lay sobbing on -his pillow, had something feminine--almost childlike--in the innocence -and gentleness of its expression; and my first thought was one which -has constantly recurred on closer acquaintance, “How utterly unfit for -a soldier!” He wanted the quick, nervous energy of the New Englander, -who, even when badly wounded, rarely fails to betray his origin; he had -none of the rough off-hand dash of our Western brothers, and could never -have had it, even in health; nor yet the stolidity of our Pennsylvania -Germans. No! it was clear that I must wait till he chose to enlighten -me as to his home. After a few minutes’ study, I was convinced that his -tears were not from the pain of his wound; there was no contraction of -the brow, no tension of the muscles, no quivering of the frame; he seemed -simply very weary, very languid, like a tired child, and I resolved to -act accordingly. - -“I have been so busy with our defenders, this afternoon,” said I, “that I -have had no time to come and thank you.” - -He started, raised his tear-stained face, and said, with a wondering air, -“To thank me? For what?” - -“For what?” said I; “haven’t you been keeping the rebels away from us? -Don’t you know that if it hadn’t been for you and many like you, we might -at this moment have been flying from our homes, and General Lee and his -men occupying our city? You don’t seem to know how grateful we are to -you--we feel as though we could never do enough for our brave Gettysburg -men to return what they have done for us.” - -This seemed quite a novel idea, and the tears were stopped to muse upon -it. - -“We tried to do our duty, ma’am, I know that.” - -“I know it too, and I think I could make a pretty good guess what corps -you belong to. Suppose I try. Wasn’t it the Second Corps? You look to -me like one of General Hancock’s men; you know they were praised in the -papers for their bravery. Am I right?” - -The poor tired face brightened instantly. The random shot had hit the -mark. - -“Yes, Second Corps. Did you know by my cap?” - -“Your cap? You don’t wear your cap in bed, do you? I haven’t seen your -cap; I guessed by that wound--it must have been made where there was -pretty hard fighting, and I knew the Second Corps had done their share of -that.” - -But this was dangerous ground, as I felt the moment the allusion to his -wound was made; the sympathy was too direct, and his eyes filled at once. -Seeing my mistake, I plunged off rapidly on another tack. - -“Did you notice my assistant orderly who came in with me just now? He had -been over to see you before, for he came and told me you wanted me.” - -“I wanted you! No, ma’am; that’s a mistake; no one’s been near me since -they bathed me, and gave me clean clothes--I know there hasn’t, for I -watched them running all about; but none came to me, and I want so much -to have my arm dressed.” And the ready tears once more began to flow. - -“There is no mistake. I told you that my assistant orderly came to me in -the ladies’ room, and told me that you needed me. Think again--who has -been here since you were brought in?” - -“Not a single soul, ma’am,--indeed, not a thing, but a dog, standing -looking in my face, and wagging his tail, as if he was pitying me.” - -“But a dog! Exactly; he’s my assistant orderly; he came over to me, -pulled my dress, and wouldn’t rest till I came to see after you. I am -surprised you speak so slightingly of poor Dick.” - -Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I entered at large upon Dick’s -merits; his fondness for the men--his greater fondness, occasionally, for -their dinners--his having made way with three lunches just prepared for -men who were starting--(the result, probably, of having heard the old -story that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) our finding -him one day on our table with his head in a pitcher of lemonade, and -how I had tried to explain to him that such was not the best way of -proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but I feared without -much effect--in short, I made a long story out of nothing, till the -wardmaster arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor’s orders were -that the new cases should all take something to eat before he examined -their wounds. My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in listening -to Dick’s varied talents, and allowed me to give him his supper very -quietly, as I found he was really too much exhausted even to raise his -uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure of seeing him smile for -goodbye, and having given him rather more time than I could spare, -hurried away, with a promise of seeing him the next day (Sunday), for -they were too ill not to be watched. - -But oh! for a little more daylight! It is getting so dark, and yet I -must stop and make acquaintance with each new face--or rather, I long to -do so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear blue eyes, over -there--just what the French call “les yeux de velours!”--I cannot surely -pass them without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. What a -contrast their owner presents to poor Stillwell, my tearful friend, whom -I have just left. A sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light -hair, and something very winning in his open, frank expression, which -attracts you to him at once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded -that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look on the bright side of -everything. - -“You don’t look as though you were suffering much; I hope you’re not -badly wounded.” - -What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends his hand to me at once! - -“Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; it’s pretty painful, but I -guess I’ll be all right in a few days.” - -How little could I imagine, from his words, what I found out a few days -later, that I was standing at that moment by one of the very worst wounds -that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told me that he considered it -a most critical case, and that, had the shot gone one half inch further, -it must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that Dick and I between us, -had discovered the two most severely wounded men in the whole hospital. -For many weeks after that they were dangerously ill, requiring close and -careful watching every hour, but rewarding us in the end with the hope of -perfect recovery. - -“I am glad to hear it,” said I, in answer to his too sanguine view of his -wound, “for you don’t look as if you had seen much sickness, and maybe -you wouldn’t bear it very well.” - -“I’ve never been a day in bed in my life before this, and I hardly know -what to make of it. I’m an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in -the open air, and I couldn’t stand being shut up here at all; it’s as bad -as the Libby prison.” - -Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison! - -“Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the -confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget -that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever, -have you?” - -“Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in -here.” - -“Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been -there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when -you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But -now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow, -to see how you all are.” - -“Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it -won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending -his hand, he said “good-night.” - -So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious -Gettysburg fight. - -The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves -are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has -provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately -massed in our midst, are scattered; some--too few, alas!--returned, -cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of the war) -discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the -remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy--as I raise his head to -give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear. - -“What is that, Henry?” - -“What is that, do you ask, Miss ----? That is only some of our poor -Gettysburg boys _going home_;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see -the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by. - -Time has gone on; new faces, new forms, have filled the places of the old -ones, and still our labors, our hopes, our Prayers, continue for our dear -and bleeding country; still continues, also, our abiding faith and trust -in the ultimate triumph of the right; and, leaving the event in Higher -Hands, fearlessly we abide the issue. - -THE END. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Notes of hospital life from November, -1861, to August, 1863, by Anonymous - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTES ON HOSPITAL LIFE, 1861-1863 *** - -***** This file should be named 54171-0.txt or 54171-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/7/54171/ - -Produced by MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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