“They tell me, that I should not loveWhere I cannot esteem;But do not fear them, for to meFalse wisdom doth it seem.“Nay,—rather I should love thee moreThe farther thou dost rove;For what Prayers are effectual,If not the Prayers of Love?”
“They tell me, that I should not loveWhere I cannot esteem;But do not fear them, for to meFalse wisdom doth it seem.“Nay,—rather I should love thee moreThe farther thou dost rove;For what Prayers are effectual,If not the Prayers of Love?”
“They tell me, that I should not loveWhere I cannot esteem;But do not fear them, for to meFalse wisdom doth it seem.
“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 moreThe farther thou dost rove;For what Prayers are effectual,If not the Prayers of Love?”
“Nay,—rather I should love thee more
The farther thou dost rove;
For what Prayers are effectual,
If not the Prayers of Love?”
“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 tothe 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 kindof 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 mypresence 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 utterlyimpossible 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 hecould 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 amso 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 wanther!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 thathe sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.
“And, comforted, I praised the graceWhich him had led to beAn early seeker of That FaceWhich he should early see.”
“And, comforted, I praised the graceWhich him had led to beAn early seeker of That FaceWhich he should early see.”
“And, comforted, I praised the graceWhich him had led to beAn early seeker of That FaceWhich he should early see.”
“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 fromherto-day.”
My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and I answered,
“From whom?”
“Fromher, 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 PresenceThat day within the ward.—Few thought of the young Private,Whose suffering, pallid browWas knit by torture, not by time,—Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.Few thought upon the agonyIn 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 theeRound 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 brainBy loving hands; and one fair curl,Severed for thee, sweet pain!If comfort be not mockeryIn 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 kneelAnd 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.
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 PresenceThat day within the ward.—Few thought of the young Private,Whose suffering, pallid browWas knit by torture, not by time,—Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.Few thought upon the agonyIn 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 theeRound 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 brainBy loving hands; and one fair curl,Severed for thee, sweet pain!If comfort be not mockeryIn 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 kneelAnd 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.
Military Hospital, July, 1862.
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.”
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 PresenceThat day within the ward.—Few thought of the young Private,Whose suffering, pallid browWas knit by torture, not by time,—Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.
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 agonyIn 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.
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 theeRound 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 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 brainBy loving hands; and one fair curl,Severed for thee, sweet pain!
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 mockeryIn 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 kneelAnd ask for strength to bear.
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.
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.
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 reasonfor 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 gatheredround 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,wrapperedand 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 feelingprovoked 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 “LaughingChorus,”—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 calledme 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 beenreturned 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.
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 sourceFlows seaward, how lonely soever its course,But what some land is gladdened. No star ever roseAnd set, without influence somewhere. Who knowsWhat earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No lifeCan 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 SpiritEcho, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”
“No stream from its sourceFlows seaward, how lonely soever its course,But what some land is gladdened. No star ever roseAnd set, without influence somewhere. Who knowsWhat earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No lifeCan 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 SpiritEcho, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”
“No stream from its sourceFlows seaward, how lonely soever its course,But what some land is gladdened. No star ever roseAnd set, without influence somewhere. Who knowsWhat earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No lifeCan 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 SpiritEcho, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”
“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.’”
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;”
“Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own,Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;”
“Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own,Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;”
“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 Lovebreathes 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 havetold 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 asmile, 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.