THE TWO ARMIES.

“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, tojudge 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.”

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,

“ManifoldAnd dire, O Sickness! are the cruciblesWherein thy torturing alchemy assaysThe spirit of man.”

“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, buttransfiguredwas 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. Itwas 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 faceIs rather shine than shade.”

“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!”

“Little skills it when or how,If Thou comest then or now—With a smooth or angry brow.

“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!”

“Come Thou must, and we must die—

Jesu, Saviour, stand Thou by,

When that last sleep seals our eye!”

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 influenceanywhere 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 saidourArmy 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 onething 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.

“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. Isaw 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 tobe 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 tearfultale 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 garrisonit 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 talkingalternately, 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?”

“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 wonderalike 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 agood 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, givenhim 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.

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 hasbeen 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 descriptionof 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 raysLight 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 airAs 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 faceThat 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 spaceA 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 soulsSuch vision of Angels may find!

THE TWO ANGELS.

U. S. A. Hospital, August, 1862.

’Tis a hospital ward, and the sun’s cheerful raysLight up many a bed of pain,As the sufferers, seeking so sadly for ease,Turn wearily once and again.

’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 airAs he pours the Baptismal tide.

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.

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.

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 faceThat no longer, as erst, is it night.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 spaceA path for the soul they have cleft;For we know, ere Amen’s last vibration is done,With the body alone we are left.

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 soulsSuch vision of Angels may find!

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!

“Alas, long-suffering and most patient God,Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us,Than even to have made us!”

“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 tofix 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 bejoyover 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 manto 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 procureany shad that day, at any price, as there was none in the market.

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