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.
 “Can we see the rebel? Please to show us the ward where the
rebel is confined?”
“I am sorry, ladies, but it is quite impossible——”
“Eight punches for our ward, Miss ——, are they ready?”
“Yes, Williams, standing on the shelf there; take them on that
waiter.”
“The surgeon in charge has given strict orders that no visitors are
to be admitted to that ward, as there are some men dangerously ill
there, and he wishes it kept perfectly quiet.”
“But we’ve come a great way to see him, and we must get in.”
“Are you friends of his? If so, I will see the surgeon about it.”
“Friends of a rebel! Not exactly, thank you. We want to see what
he’s like.”
“I am sorry, but you cannot see him. However, I can assure you
that he is exactly like any of these men you see around you; were
you to go into the ward you could not distinguish him, unless he
were pointed out to you.”
Enter a man, with a large glass bowl of jelly.
“Mrs. ——’s compliments, and please give me the bowl to take
back.”
Mem. Jelly to be emptied; nothing to empty it into. During the
search, gloomy party gaze moodily upon the operation, but show no
signs of departure.
“Brown says, ma’am, you promised to poach him a couple of eggs
for his dinner; he sent me to see if they were done.”
“It is not dinner time yet; tell him they shall be ready when he
hears the drum tapped.”
“Have you a flannel shirt, miss, for this man? he’s just come in.”
 Look at the indignant party; they are evidently returning to the
assault.
“Where’s the head doctor? He’ll let us in, we’ll see if he won’t!”
“The Surgeon in charge is not here at present; the Officer of the
Day is in the office; you must have seen him when you were
admitted.”
“Oh, yes! not him; some friends told us to ask for the ladies; that’s
the way we got in; we knew they kept the rebel so close, no use to
ask for him.”
A woman with a basket of eggs.
“Some eggs from Mrs. ——; please let me have the basket.”
“Yes, and thank Mrs. —— for her kindness; she never forgets us,
and her nice fresh eggs are most acceptable to the sick men. And
now, indeed we must hurry, and put some of this mass of things in
their places on the shelves; for this table will be wanted, after
dinner, for the donations from the schools; it is the time when they
pour in.”
“Does he eat with the others?” Supposed to refer to the rebel, and
answered accordingly.
“Yes, madam, at the common dining-table.”
“Does he talk much?”
“That I cannot inform you, as I have never exchanged a word with
him.”
“Do they treat him kindly?”
“Precisely as the other men are treated.”
“And you think we can’t see him?”
“It is quite impossible, for the reasons I have mentioned.”
“Well, Jane, there’s no use waiting; come along; I heard there was
one at the —— hospital; let’s go there and try.” Discomfited party
depart abruptly.
I am glad that you should see this for yourself; otherwise I think
you would hardly credit my statement, that this has not happened
only once or twice, but literally every day this week, with different
parties, and variations in the modes of trying to gain admittance. It
is indeed difficult to account for this morbid curiosity with regard to
the Southern prisoners. I have sometimes thought that it might be
an unconscious tribute to loyalty, and that the crime of rebellion was
looked upon as such a fearful one, that it must of necessity affect
even the external appearance of all engaged in it; be that as it may,
I do most sincerely believe that were Du Chaillu himself to hold an
exhibition here of one of his Gorillas, it would attract less attention
than the presence of this one poor misguided rebel. There! while I
have been moralizing upon rebels and the rebellion, don’t you think I
have given that shelf rather a neater appearance, and that the table
is beginning to look a little less loaded; but oh, dear! look at this box
at the door; what more is coming? Oh! I see what it is. I know well
that box by the flag painted on the top. Kind friends from the
country send us that; we have a duplicate key; empty and return it
to have it filled and sent to us next week. The contents are most
acceptable, but as you see, it must be attended to at once, and as
exactly this work will go on till night, I think you have had quite
enough of it, and had better say goodbye to us and our room. This
day, just as you have seen it, is a counterpart of every day, not only
of this week, but of the last three months. It will not, of course,
continue; but, although we would be the last to check the generosity
of warm-hearted friends, it makes our duties here a little arduous
just at present.
And now let me go with you to the door, and say goodbye. If you
find that you are not too much wearied, I shall hope for another
visit, in some future week, when I may have time to take you
through the wards, and I can show you some of our interesting
cases; but I think what you have seen to-day, will furnish the best
answer I could give to your question, “What can the ladies find to do
there, all day?”
 A MORNING AT THE HOSPITAL.

“God’s finger touched him, and he slept.”

A steady, pouring rain. The fog, which in the early morning

hesitated whether to roll off and give us one of those beautiful,
bright autumn days, the more precious because we feel they are
gliding so rapidly from us, or to come down in rain, seems to have
decided at last, and a dreary, drenching rain is the result. As we[1]
enter the hospital, a glance is sufficient to tell that some depressing
influence is at work; instead of the bright, happy laugh which so
often astonishes us on our entrance, we see the men hanging
listlessly and languidly round; some grouped in a corner of the
dining-room round a piano, which a few generous hearts have
supplied for their amusement; some trying a game of cards or back-
gammon; others lying on benches, “chewing the cud of sweet and
bitter fancies,” the latter class having the ascendancy, to judge from
the countenance. Nor is the scene brighter in the wards; the damp
air has driven those suffering from rheumatism and fever to their
beds once more; and after the first bright smile of welcome, which
never fails to greet us, the words, “Poor William there, is dying!” are
sufficient to account for the depression, without waiting for what
follows, “and I expect I shall go next.”
It is often asserted that the sight of such constant suffering and
death, so hardens and accustoms the men to the fact, that they do
not appear to feel it in the slightest degree. My own observation has
led to a directly opposite conclusion. It is only natural, that a death
here, where every trace of it is necessarily so speedily removed, may
and must be as speedily forgotten; but, at the time, I have always
noticed a far greater effect from it than I could have looked for;
greater respect and sympathy for the feelings of any relations
present; greater solemnity in witnessing the awful change; greater
tenderness in the subsequent care of the body. As an illustration, it
was but yesterday, that one of the wardmasters, coming for a shirt
to lay out one of our poor fellows, just dead, said, “Give me any one,
one of the worst will do,” and then, as though the words struck a
chord, he added instantly; “One of the worst! Oh! how sorry I am, I
said that; poor fellow! poor fellow! he wouldn’t have said that for
me;” and as I turned, I saw the rough arm in its red flannel shirt,
brushing away a tear, of which he surely need not have been
ashamed.
“Poor William is dying.” Yes, too truly. We need not the words of
the Surgeon in charge, as he passes, “Don’t trouble him with that
poultice, it is too late;” one glance is sufficient; and yet as I
approached the bed I started involuntarily. The man had only been
here a short time, and had never seemed in any way remarkable; of
small size, very ordinary appearance, light hair, blue eyes, and a
quiet, gentle manner. He had not been considered in danger, though
suffering from an attack of acute bronchitis; for in this war truly may
it be said,

“Manifold
And dire, O Sickness! are the crucibles
Wherein thy torturing alchemy assays
The spirit of man.”

But now,—could it be the same? I looked at name and number to

satisfy myself. I have no wish to exaggerate, but transfigured was
the word which rose to my mind then, and whenever I have since
thought of that face. The wonderful change seemed already to have
passed upon the spirit, which looked forth from those large, clear,
blue eyes, double their usual size, as with an eager, wistful gaze they
were evidently fixed upon a vision too bright for our earth-dimmed
sight, while a smile, a radiant smile, played round his lips. It was not
the poor Private, dying afar from friends and home, alone in a ward
of a hospital, with the pitiless rain pelting overhead; it was a soul
passing from earth, resting on its dear Lord, strengthened and
comforted for the dread journey by a vision of the Guard of Angels
sent to bear it to its rest in Paradise; the unearthly peace, the
blessed brightness of that face, could not be mistaken.

“Death upon his face

Is rather shine than shade.”

The doctor’s hand is on his pulse, sustaining stimulants are

steadily given, and once more a fitful gleam of life appears; he rallies
for the moment. We hear the low voice of the chaplain, kneeling at
his side, “You would not object to a prayer?” The wandering eyes
say more than the languid lips, which can but frame, in a tone of
surprise, the word, “object?” The same bright smile, the same far-off
gaze as the words of prayer ascend.
“You are trusting, you are resting on the merits of your precious
Saviour?”
Once more that strife, that sore struggle to speak; and suddenly,
as though the will had mastered the flesh, sounds forth, in clear,
strong tones, which ring through the ward, “My only base, my
foundation!” Blessed for us all, when that awful hour is upon us, if
we can so trustfully, so fearlessly meet it; so fully and entirely realize
the One Eternal Rock to be our “foundation.”
We dare no longer call him “poor William;” rather, as we kneel by
his side, let us breathe forth a thanksgiving for such beautiful
assurance, that his last battle is fought, his victory won.
“Little skills it when or how,
If Thou comest then or now—
With a smooth or angry brow.

“Come Thou must, and we must die—

Jesu, Saviour, stand Thou by,
When that last sleep seals our eye!”
 THE TWO ARMIES.
U.S.A. Hospital, September 29, 1862.
I trust, dear C., this bright, beautiful day may have brought you as
much pleasure as it has done to me, and that you have been able to
enjoy it as you would most wish to do. I escaped from my duties
here for one hour, and spent it you know where. On my return, we
were favored with a visit from the Bishop of Minnesota, who is here
on his way to the General Convention.
He seemed much interested in going through the wards, had a
kind word and friendly greeting for each man. One thing particularly
impressed me,—his tact in addressing them. Instead of boring them
as I do with “What is your name? What is your regiment?” he
glanced his eye upon the card at the head of the bed, whereon all
such particulars are written, and then said, “Who is the colonel of
the Forty-fourth?” or, “Was the Eighteenth Massachusetts much cut
up?” Instantly the man would brighten, feel that there was one who
took a personal interest, and answer with promptness and pleasure.
This may seem a trifle, but to gain an influence anywhere trifles
must be considered, and are often all-important. My inward
exclamation was, immediately, “Here is one who has been
accustomed to dealing with men, and knows how to reach them.” A
few well-chosen questions will often go further, and be of more
benefit, than a long sermon.
As you have expressed some interest in L——, you will forgive me
for repeating a conversation to which this visit gave rise. A little later,
I returned for some purpose to his bedside.
“That’s a nice man you brought here; what was it you called him?”
“The title I gave him,” said I, “he gained by promotion in our
Army.”
 “Our army! I knew it, by the way he talked; then he’s a
volunteer?”
“Yes.”
“Ever been in a battle?”
“Many of them.”
“Wounded?”
“Often.”
“That’s bully. But what battles? Fair Oaks? That’s where I was hit.”
“He never told me so, but I should judge his hardest fights were
before the breaking out of this rebellion.”
“Ah, in Mexico?”
“No, I never heard of his being in Mexico.”
“A foreigner?”
“No, I believe him to be an American.”
“It can’t be, then, for he looks too young for our other war. Didn’t
he tell you what battles?”
“No, he never told me, nor did any of his friends.”
“Then how the ——, I beg ten thousand pardons, miss, but how
can you know he was in them?”
“Because it is my privilege to be a Private in the same Army. I said
our Army was the one in which he had gained promotion; and It’s
peculiarity is, that It will receive as recruits both women and
children.”
Impossible as it may appear to you, he fixed his eyes upon me
with an air of bewilderment, and remained perfectly silent. I
continued:
“Although I am not eligible for promotion as he is, but must
remain a Private always, I have had some of the same battles to
fight, and——”
“Psha! you’ve been fooling me all this time, and I never saw it.”
I smiled. “Not fooling,” I said, “but answering a question you
asked the other day. Have you forgotten when you said ‘Little you
know of battles!’ that I replied, ‘And yet, maybe, I have fought
harder ones than you ever did?’ You then asked me what under the
sun I could mean? I promised to tell you, and I have only done so in
a round-about way. Have you forgotten one thing more? What was it
I asked you to give up, when you said you had rather be shot?”
His color rose, but he said nothing.
“Doesn’t that prove that my battles, and those of that ‘nice man,’
as you term the bishop, are harder to fight than yours?”
“Well, it’s truth you’re saying; I’d liever go back to my regiment to-
morrow, wounded as I am, than do what you want, though I know
you’re right, too;” and warmly shaking my hand, he drew the cover
over his head, and I left him to meditate upon the two Armies.
You will say that the strain after originality in such conversations,
is not likely to be an over-tax of the mental powers; but you must
remember, that what to you may be but a wearying platitude, may
be a seed, to one who receives the parallel as a novelty, to
germinate in later years.
We can but try all means, and leave events to God.
 THE CONTRAST.
“I wish to goodness they would not send their men here, just to
die!”
Such was the exclamation, in no very amiable tone, which greeted
my ear, as I opened the door of one of the wards of our hospital.
“What is the matter, Wilson?” said I, to our usually cheerful
wardmaster.
“Oh! nothing, miss; I beg your pardon, only there’s a young
fellow, just brought in, who, the doctor thinks, can’t live over the
day, and I hate to have them dying on my hands, that’s all.”
“Wounded or sick?”
“It’s the typhoid, and as bad a case as ever I saw yet, and I’ve
seen a heap of them, too. There he is, but he’s past speaking; he’ll
never rouse again.”
I approached the bed, where lay a “young fellow,” truly: a boy,
scarcely more than sixteen; his long, thick hair matted and tangled;
his clothing torn and soiled; his eyes half closed; his lips dark and
swollen; a bright flush on his cheeks, and his breath coming in
quick, short, feverish pantings, as though much oppressed. I saw it
was quite in vain to speak to him, and merely tried to make him
swallow the beef tea, which had been ordered to be given him at
certain intervals.
He swallowed with much difficulty, but still it was something that
he could do even this; and I found that although unable to speak, he
understood and endeavored to obey, directions. I therefore ventured
to doubt Wilson’s verdict, and continued to administer the stimulants
as directed. Towards afternoon there was a perceptible improvement
in his swallowing; he roused partially, and attempted to turn. I
begged Wilson to watch him closely through the night, keeping up
the nourishment and stimulants; urging as a motive that, as he
wasn’t fond of deaths, this was the best mode of preventing them.
He shook his head. “I’ll watch him as close as you could, miss, but
it’s no use. I’ve seen too many cases to think that poor lad can
weather thro’ it; I reckon you’re new to this sort of thing, or you
would know it too.”
“Did you ever hear a saying, Wilson, ‘Duties are ours, events are
God’s?’ Try, I only ask you to try.”
The next morning, when I walked in, I scarcely recognized our
patient; in addition to clean clothing, combed and cut hair, his eyes
were open, large, bright, and sparkling with a feverish brilliancy. He
was talking in a loud, excited tone; evidently the stupor had passed
off; whether a favorable change, or denoting increase of fever, I was
not competent to decide.
As I drew near, I was a little startled by the abrupt question, “Are
you the woman gave me the drinks yesterday?”
I assented, sure that no discourtesy was intended by the use of
the good old Anglo-Saxon term. Strange, that by some singular freak
of language or ideas, which, I think, it would puzzle even the
learned Dean of Westminster himself to explain, this once honored
title has, at the present day, come to be almost a term of reproach;
certainly, as I have said, of discourtesy. Were this the place to
moralize, I might see in this change a proof of the degeneracy of
modern days; and question, whether in yielding this precious name,
—sacred forever, and ennobled by the use once made of it,—Woman
is not in danger of yielding also the high and noble qualities which
should ever be linked with its very sound.
My assent was followed instantly by another equally abrupt
question, “Then you’ll tell me where do people go when they die?
That man, there—I heard him—said I was dying; I’ve been asking
him all night, and he won’t tell me.”
 “If you will mind what I say now, and try to be very still, when you
have less fever, I will talk to you and tell you all you want to know.”
“I’ll be dead then, and I want to know before I die.”
Very sure that any excitement at present must be injurious, after
several ineffectual attempts to divert his mind, I deemed it best to
leave him, making an excuse of other duties, and promising to
return if he would try to keep quiet. The surgeon’s report was
favorable; the change in him was quite unexpected, and recovery
was possible, though by no means probable.
I left him alone, purposely, for some hours; but the moment I re-
entered the ward he exclaimed, “Now you will tell me.”
Judging it better to quiet his mind, I sat down and spoke to him
quietly and gently of his home. Home! the talisman which charms
away all pain and soothes all sorrow. Should any one ask how to
reach the men? how gain an influence over them? I would reply by
pointing them to Napoleon’s policy, or later, to our own Burnside,
and let the fields of Roanoke and Newbern bear witness to the
success of the experiment. Attack the centre. Storm the heart. Make
a man speak of his home. Listen, while he tells with bitter self-
reproach, how he enlisted without consent; and how, since then, the
night wind’s wail seems mourning mother’s moan; listen to the
tearful tale of the loneliness of some brave-hearted wife, who sent
her treasure forth, and battles nobly on at home; (which is the
harder strife?) or of the parting hour, and clinging clasp of little arms
round that rough neck, which would not be undone, and which may
never tighten there again. And once more listen, as I did yesterday,
to an account of a return home, on a furlough, of one bronzed and
weather-beaten by severe service and exposure; the joyful
expectation; the journey; the gradual approach to the well-known
gate; every detail dwelt upon and lingered over; “And, if you’ll
believe it, my Charlie didn’t know me! I couldn’t stand it nohow;”
and the tears which will not be repressed, fall thickly on the crutches
at his side. Lead a man, I say, to tell you such things as these, and
he can never again feel towards you as a stranger; he will bring you
his letters, or tell you their contents, with a feeling that you know
the persons therein mentioned, and will sympathize with either his
joy or sorrow. The citadel is won; he has put the key into your hands
which you may fit at any moment to the lock of his heart, and enter
at will; thus is a bond established between you, for the proper
improvement of which you will be responsible in the sight of God.
But this victory, like many another we have won, is a very partial
one; the fortress may be gained, but the difficulty is to hold it, and
garrison it with the troops that we would fain see there. Golden
Charity, the commander-in-chief of our forces, has had, and will yet
have, many a weary battle to wage, ere She can obtain even a
foothold in such unwonted quarters; but with the all-important aid of
Her staff officers, Faith and Hope, we look for final success, even
though we may not be permitted to see it.
But do not imagine that poor Ennis has been the victim of this
digression. After a few moments’ conversation, the eager, excited
tone died away, and he told me quietly that he had been brought up
in “the woods of Jersey;” had driven a team there, and worked on a
farm; spoke of his ignorance with pain; the great grief seemed to be
that he could not read; if he should live, wouldn’t I teach him?
“Nobody never taught me nothing; will God mind, if I should die?”
“Did your mother never teach you your letters?”
“She don’t know ’em herself.”
A little more talk, and the sentences became broken, the words
disconnected, and ere long I left him in a natural, comfortable sleep.
He suffered terribly from pain in his head, and the doctor had
forbidden all unnecessary noise in the ward. I was therefore not a
little surprised the next morning as I approached the door, to hear
loud, noisy singing, laughing and talking alternately, such as I had
never at any time heard since I had visited the hospital.
I paused at the door, hesitating to enter, and knowing the state in
which I had left Ennis, both provoked and indignant. Just at that
moment, one of the orderlies came out, and to my question as to
the meaning of the disturbance, informed me that a new case of
violent fever and delirium had just been brought in, and as the other
wards were crowded, it had been a necessity to place him here.
Thus re-assured, I walked in, when Wilson at once came up to me
with, “Oh, Miss —— if you would only try. This man’s out of his head
—he can’t live—and the doctor ordered us to find out where his
friends are, if possible, and let them know. He has a good deal of
money in his knapsack, and we should like to know what to do with
it; if his friends are far off, they couldn’t be here in time, but we
can’t tell.”
“Has he had no intervals of consciousness?” I asked, not caring to
show how I shrank from the task.
“None, and he won’t have till he goes into a stupor, and then the
game’s up.”
I was too much worried at the time to ask whether an “interval of
consciousness” was supposed to exist during a stupor, as his words
seemed to imply, and merely said,
“But if you have tried in vain, what object is there in my speaking
to him?”
As I spoke, a burst of noisy, insane laughter came from his lips,
and rang discordantly through the ward; he tried to spring from his
bed, but was forcibly held on each side.
“Perhaps it’s no good, miss, but it seemed our last chance, and if
you’d just try?”
Here was a trial. And yet, had I enlisted only for sunny weather?
Was I to shrink at the first chance of service? Nevertheless, I did
shrink, and, I fear, very visibly, too; but I felt I must go forward, or
deserve to be stricken from the rolls. Could the exact springs of all
our actions be known, I fear it would too often be seen that they
arise in many cases from motives which we should be most unwilling
to confess; so in this case, I sincerely believe that it was the shame
of uttering the simple truth “I am afraid of him,” which led me
straight to his bedside, far more than the benevolent wish of
informing distant relatives of his dying condition.
“Have you ever heard him mention any of his family at any time?”
said I to Wilson, as we crossed the ward, half to keep him with me,
and half to know how to address this dreaded, wild-looking creature.
“Yes, he did say something once about a sister, but if we ask him
anything further, he bursts out singing or laughing, and it’s no use.”
The power of the eye I had frequently heard of, and also that a
single, direct question, often steadies the unbalanced mind. I could
but try them now. I had an indistinct impression, as I drew near, that
it would be easier to face the hottest fire of the fiercest foe in the
field, than the glare of those eyes; but, trying to look at him steadily,
I said, slowly and distinctly,
“What is your sister’s name?”
He looked at me for a moment, surprised and perfectly silent, and
then, to my utter amazement, replied with equal distinctness,
“Susanna Weaver.”
“Where does she live?”
“Westchester, Pennsylvania.”
This was so evidently a success, that I ventured further, though
doubtful of the result.
“How do you direct your letters?” No hesitation,
“Mrs. Susanna Weaver, care of James Weaver, shoemaker,
Westchester, Pennsylvania.”
As he uttered the last word, a man who had just come in, came
up to me.
“What he says, ma’am, ain’t no use; he’s out of his head, and he
don’t mean it.”
I said nothing in reply, but was satisfied as to the truth of my own
conclusions, when, two days afterwards, I walked in to see the
veritable Susanna, wife of James Weaver, shoemaker, portly,
patronizing, and polite, fanning her apparently insensible brother,
and applying ice to his temples, for the dreaded stupor had come
on.
My poor Ennis lay for a long time in a low, exhausted state; but
the doctor gave hope, and at length he began perceptibly to
improve. His eagerness to be taught—more especially upon religious
subjects—continued; there was something so simple and childlike
about him; so touching in the terror which he felt with regard to
death; so winning in his weakness, so gentle in his goodness, or his
aims after it, that I could not help becoming deeply interested in
him. He knew that there was a God—a Being to be dreaded in his
view—a Life after death; beyond this—nothing. Our blessed Lord’s
life and death, His work on earth, His giving His life for us, all
seemed new and strange ideas which he could with difficulty grasp.
Never can I forget the intense interest with which he followed me,
step by step, through the dark and dread story of The Last Week; I
almost feared the excitement which burned in his eager eyes, till, as
I closed, his pent-up feelings found vent in the words, “It was too
bad!” His powers of language were limited, not so his powers of
feeling; and I imagine that we, to whom that mighty mystery is so
familiar from childhood, can scarcely conceive its effect when heard
for the first time. He took perfect delight in hearing and learning the
prayers from the Prayer-book, and would ask for them constantly.
And here I must speak of the wonderful power which seems to live,
in the short, terse nature of our matchless Collects, to stay a weak
and wandering mind; “the soul by sickness all unwound” cannot bear
many words; but the concentration of devotion, in many of those
short, earnest sentences, seems to meet every longing and to supply
every want. As Ennis so greatly needed instruction, at my request a
clergyman, who had frequently visited the hospital, and whose
ministrations were always peculiarly acceptable to the men, came
often and spent much time with him.[2] At one time, when I was not
on duty, he sent for me. “Why did you want me, Ennis, the ladies
who are here are so very kind to you, and do everything you can
want?”
“Not you, but I do so want that pretty prayer you know.” The
“Prayer for a sick person” from our Prayer-book. I doubt whether
any one was ever more gratified, by being told that they were not
wanted personally, but merely for what they could bring.
I must return here, for a little while, to my old friend, whose
delirium and stupor, to the wonder alike of physicians and nurses,
passed off, after many weeks of tedious suffering, during which time
I had talked to him, read to him, and written letters at his dictation,
quite unconscious that he was still very much under the influence of
fever. His sister remained till she saw that he would probably live,
and then was obliged to return to her home. He could carry on a
perfectly rational conversation, although always inclined to
excitement; and it was quite evident, from the whole tone of his
remarks, that his “hoary hairs” were anything but a “crown of
righteousness.” I link these two cases together because they were so
linked, strangely enough, from the beginning, and still more in the
end, and so must ever remain in my mind.
Several weeks passed by, during which I was not at the hospital;
and when I returned, what was my surprise to find our patient up,
dressed, and seated by the stove. “Why, Jackson, is it possible? How
glad I am to see you so much better.”
He looked at me without a sign of recognition, rose, bowed, but
said nothing.
“Don’t you remember me, or what is the matter?” said I,
thoroughly puzzled.
“I never saw you before, ma’am, did I? Never to my knowledge.”
“Well done for you, Jackson!” and “That’s a good one, isn’t it?”
burst from more than one of the men, with a hearty laugh.
He looked troubled and bewildered. I saw the whole thing at once.
“Never mind, Jackson,” said I, “you have been very ill,—as ill as it
was possible to be to recover, and you remember nothing of that
time; I suppose it seems like a long dream.”
Such was precisely the case. Even the weeks when I had
supposed him perfectly conscious, were all a blank; he had not the
slightest recollection even of being brought in, and of nothing
afterwards until the weeks during which I had been away.
My pale, attenuated boy, too, was changed into the round, ruddy
young soldier, looking particularly well in his uniform. As is so
frequently the case in typhoid fevers, he had gained flesh rapidly, as
he recovered, and felt all the buoyancy and brightness of a thorough
convalescence. I could not avoid comparing and contrasting the two
cases. Both brought in with the same disease; in the same
apparently hopeless state; the same surprise excited by the recovery
of each; but here the parallel ceased. The one, scarcely more than a
child,—a beardless boy, with smooth, polished brow, rising with all
the vigor of youth from this terrible illness, and throwing off the
disease as completely as though it had never touched him. The
other, worn and scarred by life’s conflicts more than by time; his
brow deeply furrowed more by excess than years; his hair
prematurely whitened, rising, it is true, from the disease, but how?—
without spirit, energy, or any sort of spring; wearily dragging one
foot after the other; listlessly and languidly sitting hour after hour
upon his bed, scarcely noticing or speaking to any one. His time of
life would of necessity give a slower convalescence, but there was
far more against him than this: a constitution broken and ruined, as
we soon found, by bad habits, which he renewed as soon as
permitted to go out, producing, of course, a relapse. Long before I
knew this, I was conscious that I could never overcome my
repugnance to the man; at first I attributed the feeling to the
extreme dread of him I had felt at our first meeting, and which I
could not forget; but I soon became convinced that there was a
stronger reason. If inward purity writes itself upon the outward form,
(and who can question that it does?) the converse is equally true.
There is a sort of instinct, or rather—for that is too low a term—a
sort of spiritual consciousness, which warns us when evil is near;
that part of our being puts forth feelers, as it were, moral antennæ,
which extend themselves in congenial soil, but recoil at the touch of
corruption of any sort.
Ennis soon brought me a spelling-book, given him by one of the
men, and claimed my promise to teach him to read. Most faithfully
he studied, but just as we were priding ourselves upon our progress,
and he was triumphantly mastering the mysteries of “It is he,” “I am
in,” the order came, and by a strange chance, Jackson and he were
to go on to Washington together, to rejoin their different regiments.
This I exceedingly regretted, as I looked upon Jackson as very far
from a desirable companion or example for a young boy like Ennis.
This feeling was confirmed, when, on the morning of their
departure, Jackson came to bid me goodbye, with unsteady step and
bloodshot eye. I spoke as I felt, strongly and sternly, as I could not
but feel towards one so lately raised from the very gate of death,
and thus requiting the Love and Mercy which had spared him. I
know not, and it matters not what I said, but when I spoke of the
fearful responsibility which would rest upon his soul, should he lead
that child committed to his care into sin, he looked surprised and
startled, and promised me, in the most solemn manner, that he
should come to no evil through him. It would have eased my heart
of a heavy load, could I have relied more implicitly upon that
promise; but, after all, such feelings are but a want of Faith;
because the visible guard was the last that I should have chosen for
him. I forgot that that young boy went forth attended by a bright,
unseen Guard, to guide and protect him through every step of his
way. And so we parted. Weeks have formed themselves into months,
and months have formed themselves into a year, but I have never
heard of them, or even seen their names, and cannot tell whether
they are numbered among the living or the dead.
I can scarcely tell why it is, but there are no cases, in all the
memories of hospital life, which stand out so clearly stereoscoped
upon my brain, as the two of which I have just spoken.