Chapter III: Part 3

I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to him; of the kind way in which he had watched him, and how we had all noticed it; and won a promise from him, in his softened state, that henceforward he would try so to live as to meet him hereafter; and I really believe that at the time he was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the struggle against a sin so confirmed more fearful still.

Some days afterwards, he came to me, when there were others present, and said:

“I had a letter from _her_ to-day.”

My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and I answered,

“From whom?”

“From _her_, you know!”

“And who do you mean by ‘her?’”

“His sister, to be sure,” he said, in an injured tone, as though I should have known that, at present, there was but one subject for him.

“Oh, have you? What does she say?”

“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the grief were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; “but I just thought you’d like to know.”

At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me what she had written;--her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant some flowers where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his power, but there are those who will never forget to care for and cherish the low grave of that young Private.

MILITARY HOSPITAL, July, 1862.

What matters it, one more, or less?
A Private died to-day;
“Bring up a stretcher--bear him off--
And take that bed away;
Put 39 into his place,
It is more airy there;
And give his knapsack, and those clothes,
Into the steward’s care.”

So, it is over. All is done!
And, ere the evening guard,
Few thought of the Dread Presence
That day within the ward.--
Few thought of the young Private,
Whose suffering, pallid brow
Was knit by torture, not by time,--
Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.

Few thought upon the agony
In that far western home,
Where he, their hearts’ best treasure,
Was never more to come;
For Privates have both hearts and homes,
And Privates, too, can love;
And Privates’ prayers, thank God for that!
May reach the Throne above.

We know thee not, sad sister!
Whose name so oft he breathed,
Till it would seem that thoughts of thee
Round his whole being wreathed;
But by the love he bore for thee,
We catch a glimpse of thine;
And, by the bond of sisterhood,
We meet beside his shrine.

We meet to tell thee, stricken soul!
That strangers held thy place--
Sisters by Nature’s right, and he,
Brother, by right of race.
While pillow’d tenderly his head,
Cooled was his burning brain
By loving hands; and one fair curl,
Severed for thee, sweet pain!

If comfort be not mockery
In such a harrowing hour,
O, find it in his cherishing,
And let the thought have power;
Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st,
He, needing love and care,
Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel
And ask for strength to bear.

O men, his brothers, bear in mind,
For all, our dear Lord died!
Souls own but one Commission--
Love of The Crucified!
Right gallant are the Officers--
Men, noble, brave, and true;
But when you breathe a Prayer for them,
Say one for Privates too.

“LITTLE CORNING.”

Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place. One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine. How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen, never to be forgotten?

“Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he had been a sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain way he had of giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near him. He assured me most positively that such was not the case; but I still continue to think that he must have been, in some former state of existence, if not in this. Many men have been convicted before now on circumstantial evidence, why should not he be also? Perhaps he did not choose to confess the fact--no man is bound to criminate himself--therefore I see no good reason for giving up my first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo, I repeat that I think he had been a sailor.

I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He seemed to possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy all around him; many a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient quarrel checked, by his odd, dry way of placing things in a ludicrous light, and thus changing churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into merriment. Momus certainly presided at his birth, touched him with his wand, and claimed him for his own.

He had the best reason for his uniform cheerfulness; indeed, the only one which can ever secure it. His Christianity was of a truly healthy order, and certainly brought him both content and peace. During his residence of many months in the hospital, I never saw a frown upon his face, or heard anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or pleasant word from him. Often, in my rounds, I would come upon him, unexpectedly, in some obscure corner, poring over his Bible, apparently quite absorbed in it, and yet always ready to lay it aside when he could make himself useful, but returning to it as a pleasure, when his work was accomplished.

He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have often seen men of all sorts and tastes gathered round him, listening by the hour to Methodist hymns, for the sake, we must suppose, of those uncommon tones, rather than of the words which called them forth.

One morning he came into the ladies’ room, and informed us, with much delight, that Mr. ---- had promised to ask some of the pupils from the Blind Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, to give a concert, begging us to be present.

I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite impossible; it would be pleasant, but could not be arranged. He seemed much disappointed, but soon left the room, and I had forgotten all about it, when, an hour or two later, he burst into the room, quite radiant, exclaiming, “It’s all fixed, we’ve got it all fixed.”

“What’s all fixed?” said I, my mind intent on some refractory oysters which refused to boil.

“The concert, to be sure. Mr. ---- has arranged it for to-morrow afternoon, and now you’ll come.”

I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, promising to make all our necessary preparations for the supper of our sick men, quite early, so that we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, the next afternoon, “Little Corning” presented himself.

“Come, ladies, come quickly! the boys are all in the dining-room; I’ve brought chairs for you, and they’re quite ready to begin.”

“Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come first.”

“Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the boys are sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.”

“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe it. Go in, and we will follow you.”

But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there, he gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him, we hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go.

There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a crowd for our number of well men,--over a hundred, certainly; all who are fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well know, are not. See how they are jammed together; on benches, on the dining-table itself, in the windows, and on every available spot, battered and bandaged, _wrappered_ and wrinkled, suffering and smiling, in one promiscuous mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table on our right; he has been as ill as possible with typhoid fever, and surely can never sit through the concert in that position. Let him try for a while, however; the whole scene will do him more good, by amusing and diverting his mind, than the exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we glance around, it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and West, gathered together--in dress and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket, with its yellow facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you not read their characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly promised to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and after a little practice, one seldom makes a mistake,--at least never wanders far from the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point now, as the songs are beginning.

But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty, disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon give orders to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to preserve perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had been done; and now look--everything removed, and here he is. That was a very severe wound, from which he has been suffering for many months; he told me yesterday, that, in all, fifty pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the surgeons rather pride themselves on having prevented the necessity of amputation by the closest watching and care; and we cannot help feeling provoked with him for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is so essential to his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, for any length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness; but arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to my earnest remonstrances, he said:

“But, Miss ----, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?”

We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast following each other,--and certainly the applause is “sui generis.” Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such is the case.

Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!--he is trying again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song; make no noise, if you please.”

An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”--well-known here, but evidently a perfect novelty to these listeners.

For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop--a moment’s pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion--that it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed with laughter.

“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.”

But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment.

The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry, to-day?”

“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little Corning is in bed--actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.”

This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far from strong.

A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently suffering.

“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such a bad effect.”

But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it was quite plain that the suffering continued.

“Oh! Miss ----, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.”

“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost faith in me?’”

“Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the best medicine?--and it’s come near killing me--oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“That bottle, standing on the table at your side, Corning, is marked to be taken by the teaspoonful; perhaps, if you were to empty it at a dose, it might have the same effect. I never recommended such immoderate laughter.”

“Oh, please don’t speak of it. It brings it up so.”

The remembrance was quite too much, and one fit of laughter followed another, strangely interspersed with groans of pain, from the soreness of the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times most contagious; the men quickly crowded round, joining in it without asking any reason, and we bade fair to have the scene of yesterday re-enacted.

To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there was something so irresistibly ludicrous in the whole affair, but I felt that it must be stopped.

“Corning! this will never do; you must control yourself; you will be ill; and besides, you are disturbing our sick men.”

“I think, Miss ----,” said he, with a violent effort at composure, “if you won’t take it hard, if you’d just go away; if I didn’t see you, I might get quiet.”

“Certainly I will. I won’t ‘take it hard,’ at all, and I will come back when you are quieter.”

“Oh! please no! Oh! don’t come back; if you do, it’ll be as bad as ever again.”

The idea was quite enough; and the last sound I heard, as I withdrew my mirth-inspiring presence, was another of those clear, ringing laughs. How I longed to have the same effect upon the poor fellows in another ward, where I had vainly racked my brain for many days, to call up even a faint smile on their depressed and weary faces. I sent everything over to the sergeant’s ward through the day, not risking my dangerous presence there; and even at night judged it better not to go over to say goodbye, although it was Saturday night, and my duties for the week were over.

When I came again, my merry friend had been returned to his regiment, and that had been our final interview. I have often wondered since, how (if ever) we should meet again? Whether that last laughing parting will linger in his mind, or whether its memory shall have been crushed out by the stern realities of war?

NOTE.--The problem has been solved. To our amazement, the
week after the Gettysburg fight, Little Corning walked into
the ladies’ room at the hospital, fresh from the field--or
rather, anything but fresh. Tattered and battered, soiled and
moiled; his head tied up, and looking very much, on the whole,
as though he had been in an Irish row. He had been wounded in
the temple by a shell; but not dangerously, and had hastened
to “his old home,” as he called it, as soon as he arrived,
although to his great regret, as well as ours, he had been
placed in another hospital.

We welcomed him warmly, and were too full of his danger and our
own--his escape and our own, to revert to past days for more
than a word. He had not lost his old bright spirit, and when we
told him how pleasant it was to have our old friends for our
defenders, his eye sparkled, and he said, “Yes; I felt all the
time I was fighting for you.” And thus we met again.

* * * * *

“No stream from its source
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course,
But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose
And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows
What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature? No life
Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby:
The spirits of just men made perfect on high;
The Army of Martyrs who stand by the throne,
And gaze into The Face that makes glorious their own,
Know this surely at last. Honest love, honest sorrow;
Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,--
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary?
The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary?
Hush! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit
Echo, ‘He that o’ercometh, shall all things inherit.’”

GAVIN.

How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our brother! We walk daily by his side, and receive the cold exterior as a type of the inner life, forgetting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, may be only the crust of the crater, hiding the lava beneath. How comes it that, when, in our own case, we are all so well aware that,

“Not ev’n the tenderest heart, and next, our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;”

yet, we will not believe in the secret sufferings of others? Instead of seeking to win the unstrung instrument back to harmony, by the tender touch of loving sympathy, we mete out precisely the measure meted to us; oppose coldness to coldness, hardness to hardness, reserve to reserve, and thus a wall is built up between us, and all hope of influence is gone. We need more trust in, and more charity for, each other. Woe to the sick soul, suffering and sorrowful, its sickness only shown by the petulant word, the rude retort, the outward expression of inward wretchedness,--woe to such a soul, I say, were it left only to man’s tender mercies. Most mercifully it is not. Infinite Love breathes balm upon it. Infinite Compassion soothes it. When shall we even begin to imitate the one, or strive to attain to the other?

These thoughts were called up by a keen sense of the injustice of my own judgment, in a special case, only discovered this very day.

A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all improving, none dangerously ill; the most of them have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing, or play at such games as cannot be carried on in-doors. Everything has a more cheerful aspect than usual. If melancholy and depression are infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety; and as the chorus of one of our favorite army songs rings out on the air, I find myself joining in it, as I spring up the stairs, two at a time, on an errand. Scarcely noticing where I am going, I suddenly stumble upon something on the stair.

“Why, Gavin, can that be you?”

Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude denoting utter despair, he does not even move or notice my question.

While I am standing, looking and wondering, let me give you a little knowledge of him, as he appears in the wards. Some time since I was much struck, on coming to the hospital, by the soldier acting as guard at the door. His erect and military bearing, well-made figure, and broad chest, with the certain “je ne sais quoi” of a gentleman, rather impressed me, as he lifted his cap and saluted as I approached.

“Who is our gentlemanly guard to-day?” said I to M., on entering our room.

“Just come; a fine-looking fellow, isn’t he? I have just been finding out his history. He is terribly reserved, but I have made out that he is a Northerner who went to the South to settle; was impressed, sorely against his will, at the time of the breaking out of the war; was taken ill, and allowed, as he was useless, to come here to see his mother, who was also ill; he, of course, never returned, although he had letters from his Colonel, which he showed, first offering him a Lieutenancy, and then a Captaincy; but he prefers, he says, to be a Private in our own army, to the highest position in theirs.”

“Well?” said I, as she paused.

“That’s all; he told me nothing more; but that as soon as he came North he enlisted, was taken sick in camp, and sent here.”

“His history, then, is still to hear,” I said; “he hasn’t accounted for his interesting melancholy, or the mournful expression of those large, dark eyes which strike you the moment you look at him, and yet there is something about him--a sort of dark look--which I don’t altogether fancy.”

“Oh! you want to make up a romantic story for him, do you? Well, find it out, if you can; I have told you all that he would tell me, and yet, I confess I was struck with his language; it was certainly much above that of most of our men here.”

Weeks passed by, and as Gavin was not sick enough to need care, we had little to do with him, and that little did not encourage us to go further. Often a word of greeting, in passing, will call forth something more, but his cold, forbidding manner, joined to a certain distant politeness, so repelled me, that I resolved to let him alone; and yet I felt sorry for him, for I could not fail to notice his unpopularity among the men. He walked alone, mentally and physically, and seemed to desire no intercourse with any one.

One morning I found him gloomily seated in a corner of the ward, apparently unconscious of everything around him.

“What a terribly long face,” said I, trying to rally him; “you will never get well till you learn to laugh.”

“To laugh!” said he, with intense bitterness; “then I am invalided for life. Little enough is there on earth to laugh about, I think;” and rising hastily, he brushed past me, and left the ward.

“I don’t like that Gavin,” I said to M., “there’s something so dark and hard about him; I can’t make him out.”

“Ah! no story yet? I thought he was to have a romantic story, with his interesting dark eyes.”

“Story! He never opens his lips to any one; and unless he shall need something, I have almost determined never to open mine to him again.”

Such was the man whom I have left all this time lying upon the staircase. Knowing as I did that whatever his faults might be, intemperance was not one of them, I once more address him; he evidently has not heard me before, for, starting up hastily, and forgetting his usual politeness, he exclaims, petulantly, “I thought I could be to myself here, at least.”

“So you can, as far as I am concerned; I merely came up stairs on an errand, without an idea that you were here; but another time when you wish to secure perfect privacy, I should scarcely advise you to choose a staircase.”

“It matters little,” said he, sitting down on the stairs, resting his elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, “one part of the world or another; it’s all the same; dark enough to wish to be well out of it.”

“Gavin,” said I, sitting down on the stair beside him, “do you remember that you told me how terribly your back ached from carrying your knapsack and blanket on that long march?”

A dull, uninterested assent.

“What would have been most welcome, when the pain became intolerable?”

“To unload, of course;” his head still buried in his hands.

“At times, in the long march of life, I have borne a heavy, moral knapsack; and when the pain from its weight became intolerable, no words can tell the relief of unloading, and sharing the burden with some loving heart, with whom it was as safe and as sacred as with myself. Your heart, just now, is aching worse than ever did your back; might it not ease it to try the experiment?”

He raised his head quickly; fire enough in those eyes then.

“Ease it!” he said; “doesn’t it feel every day and every hour that it must burst, unless I tell what I am suffering? I walk among the men here, and they pass me as cold and stiff, when, God knows, I’m on fire inside; I’m burning up, burning up, here,” added he, pressing his hand on his brain.

This was enough. The buckles were unstrapped, the burden would follow.

The first thing that roused us was the tap of the drum for supper. The long hours of that sunny summer’s afternoon had slipped by, as I listened to a story, which, in Victor Hugo’s hands, would be worked into a romance quite as thrilling as anything he has ever penned; whilst in mine it must remain forever,--a deposit sacred as the grave. My object was accomplished. With a smile, he rose--the first I had ever seen on his face--saying, “You were right about that moral knapsack; my heart feels lighter than I ever thought it could again.”

“And you will do as I say?”

“I will try.”

“And you will try too, won’t you, to remember my first advice, some time since, and learn to laugh a little more?”

“Indeed I will; and it seems as if it might be possible now, but let me tell you----”

“Nothing more to-day,” said I, laughing; “I must refuse any further confidence;” and running down stairs to our room, I was complimented upon the promptitude with which I performed an errand. No matter, thought I;--if one sad soul has found comfort in pouring out the bitter sorrows of a life, the hours have not rolled by in vain. Are we not all responsible for each day, nay, for each hour, as it passes? Not alone for the right use of time in improving our own souls, but for the manner in which we act upon others. Influence! The language scarcely holds a more solemn word,--the mind scarcely receives a more fearful thought! How has this power been exerted? We all possess it in greater or less degree. We all shall have to render an account for the use or misuse of such a terrible talent.

“The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past,
But they shall last;--
In the dread judgment, they
And we shall meet!”

Time was, when, to my mind, it seemed only humility to believe that such a speck in God’s creation--such an atom, great in no one thing, mentally, morally, or physically--must be without power for good or evil--without influence upon any single soul. It will not do. Humility is doubtless a great gift; Truth is a greater. No mortal being into whom God has breathed the breath of life, can live upon this earth and not act upon his fellow mortals in some manner. We cannot be merely negative; we are, we must be positive.

“Where we disavow
Being keeper to our brother, we’re his Cain.”

A word, a look, aye, even a tone may be the making or undoing of a soul. My brother! remember that to those amongst whom you are thrown, you must be, morally, either air or water. Air, to fan the smouldering spark of good, till its white flame mounts higher and higher, encircling your head with a halo of glory; or water, to quench that same spark, which, in dying, will envelop you in the blackness of darkness for ever and ever.

HASTY JUDGMENT.

How little, in this world of ours,
One heart doth know another;
Man treads alone the path of life,
A stranger to his brother.

The heart hath its own depths--it strives
With sacred awe to hide,
E’en from those round us, journeying on
Unconscious at our side.

Recesses, which, to the world’s gaze,
Are dark and barred from view;
Hence comes it that the public eye
So rarely reads us true.

And yet a light does reach those depths--
Those Portals have a key;
They’re brightened by Love’s silver beams,
Unlocked by Sympathy.

Those ashes, which, to common view,
Cold, dark, and lifeless seem,
When stirr’d by Sympathy’s soft touch,
Send forth a brilliant gleam.

Then pause, nor judge thy fellow man;
Remember it may be,
The heart is beating underneath,
But thou dost lack the key.

CHRISTMAS AT THE U.S.A. HOSPITAL, ---- ----.

I promised, when we parted, dear C., that you should have some account of our Christmas doings; but the busy days have slipped by, till now, without my finding a moment to redeem that promise.

You know how we are all occupied at that time; but no matter how much there is to be done, in these days “private interests” have a different signification, and demand attention.

The morning of Christmas Eve, therefore, found ---- and myself on our way to the hospital. With that ready interest which, with her, always rises to meet the emergency, even at the busiest moments, she has offered to go with me and help us in our work; and you know how it doubles my pleasure for her to do so. Several of the ladies have agreed to meet here to-day; some for the purpose of superintending the cooking for the Christmas dinner, plum-puddings, etc.; others to make and put up the greens for the Christmas decoration; we, as you may suppose, are among the latter class. Our quiet ladies’ room is quite a scene of bustle this morning; the ladies in charge for the week carrying on, or attempting to carry on, their usual duties; others flying in and out for various purposes; green wreaths strewing the floor, and vain attempts are being made to twist them into some available shape.

This confusion will never do. Nothing can be accomplished in this way. Let us go into one of the wards, where it is quiet; and soon we find ourselves seated by the stove, endeavoring to form a green sentence by covering the letters with moss and ground pine; they have been nicely cut for us by the genius of the hospital, and we are pressing into our service all the men who can sew, or rather, all who say that they can, which is sometimes quite a different affair.

But before we begin, we must go and speak to poor James, who has been so ill; he is actually sitting up; but how pale and weak he looks, and what a languid expression, as he smiles! He tells us that he hopes to be in the dining-room to-morrow, and in a few days to start for home. Ah! James, that photograph so carefully concealed beneath your pillow, peeps out occasionally, and we all know that you left a two weeks’ bride to serve your country.

He has been suffering from fever; but worse than this, he is subject to epileptic fits, which he had hoped were cured; but hard life and exposure have brought them back, and he has had several very severe attacks since he has been here. His gentle, winning manner has made him a general favorite, and we are all glad to see him better. He begs to have his chair moved up to our circle, where he can, at least, look on, while we work; and he is always sure to find plenty of ready and willing hands to do any service that he needs.

But our work must not stand still; and lo! at this crisis, we find ourselves without implements. We had supposed we were simply to twine and festoon wreaths, instead of which, or rather, in addition, we find the green must be sewed on to those thick book-binders’ board letters. Oh! why were they not pasteboard, and why have we no thimbles? But these are not the first wounds we have received in the service of our country; so, as we have a few needles, never mind, let us do our best; and, as our number is increasing,--one after another coming up “to see the fun,” and being at once enlisted in our service,--no doubt we shall accomplish the task.

The men, who are always ready to help us, are specially so to-day, when the bright spirit of the season seems to communicate itself to all.

Is there not something singularly striking in thus preparing to hail the birth of the Prince of Peace in the midst of an army hospital, where we are surrounded by all the dreadful effects of war? Surely in no other spot, save the field of battle itself, could we as fully appreciate the priceless blessings contained in that Title.

Those who cannot sew, aid us in other ways. One of our lieutenants prefers to collect the little bunches of green, and hand them to me to sew on, rather than try his hand at sewing himself; as he is busily engaged at this work, one of the men, in passing, laughingly rallies him on his occupation.

“Pretty work for a commissioned officer!”

“To oblige a lady, Horstman, is never beneath any officer, no matter what his rank. General ---- himself will tell you that!”

This from me,--a word by the way,--very sure that no matter what assertion I cover by that name, it will be received by him for truth. There is something very beautiful to me in the pride and heartfelt love which the men so often express for their generals. It is this feeling of trust and confidence in their leaders which is one of the most important elements of success, and upon which victory itself often depends.

Ah! here comes M. We have been wondering where she could be, and why she did not appear. Her hands full, as usual, and stopping for a Christmas Eve greeting with each man, as she comes along. And see who she has brought in her train! Men and boys laden with green wreaths; more still? we shall have quite a bower; and look at that great tree; where can that have come from, and what can she mean it for? It has been given to her, she says, and we may use it exactly as we like best; therefore ---- suggests that it shall be a Christmas tree for James, who has just announced his intention to hang up his stocking, and she proposes this in its place. We all take it up as an excellent joke, and declare he shall have it. He seems to enjoy it too, and smiles with that sweet smile, which I am sure first won his young wife’s heart, though I should be sorry that she saw it now, with that weak, languid eye and pallid brow; we must put a little color into those cheeks, before we send him home. Having nothing else to do, this busiest day of the whole year, ---- promises to supply all the needful, for dressing the tree, when she returns from dinner, says goodbye, and leaves the men all in high spirits.

The work goes briskly on; some of the men have got tired and left us, but most of them are faithful still, especially my friend there,--that tall Yankee, with his crutches laid at his side. He is a New Hampshire man; and, with true Yankee perseverance, has never moved since he concluded to try his hand at “greening letters,” as he calls it. He “calculated he could do that as well as anything else, though he had never tried before,” and wonderfully has he succeeded. Many a merry laugh rings out, as the different ones hold up the results of their work to know if we have an idea “what that letter is intended for?” and truly we often find some difficulty in recognizing them, but trust their position in the sentence may be more suggestive than when they stand alone. It is tough work, and I am almost inclined to agree with one of the men, who, as he puts the last stitch to his work, starts up, exclaiming:

“Well, any man that can do that work, is fit to go back to his regiment; I’ve done nothing like it since I left the Peninsula.”

As we are hurrying on, to meet the constant demands from the dining-room, “Can’t you give us an E?” “Isn’t that A done?”--a quiet little man at my side turns to me, and says, in an under tone:

“No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here this morning,” pointing to the bed directly back of the spot where our merry group is gathered.

“Died here! To-day? Who? When?”

“Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you never saw; only brought in a few days since.”

Could it be possible that here, where we had all been so full of mirth and gayety, but a few hours since, on this very spot, on this Christmas Eve, too, a soul had passed from earth--from its vigil here--to keep the Festival--where? None knew, and none can ever know, till the Awful Day, when “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.”

There was a special sadness about this death. I found, upon inquiry, that the case had not been considered a serious one; that the man had even spoken of being at home on New Year’s Day; that the ladies had brought him a drink that morning, which they had prepared for him; and scarcely half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had been struck by his appearance, went up to him, and found him quite dead. Apparently he had died calmly and without struggle; this seemed more probable from the fact that those in the nearest beds, even, had no idea of it; but there was a loneliness about that passing which I could not forget.

Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered into its shadow? Had he longed to speak--to call--and had no power? Had he yearned to send one last message--one parting word of love--to those far-away dear ones? We may not know; and if a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay almost upon the spot where he so late had been, was it not a type of earth, and of the constant mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which we may never escape long as we linger here?

“Sorrow and gladness together go wending;
Evil and good come in quick interchange;
Fair and foul fortune forever are blending;
Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their range.”

I have dropped my work, and am dwelling sadly on these thoughts, when I see one or two start up, and rush over to James. What is it? They are lifting him from his chair, and placing him upon his bed. Ah! it is one of those terrible fits; and see, four men are holding him down. Here comes the doctor; let us move away all this work, and keep him quiet. Is it our fault? Have we tired him by our noise, and thus brought it on? Oh no! the doctor is consoling; he does not at all attribute it to us; he has them often, only he must be kept quite still; and goodbye to all hopes of his Christmas dinner in the dining-room to-morrow. The usual remedies are applied, but it is a severe attack, and leaves him utterly prostrated.

We all repair to the dining-room, and here is, indeed, a scene of bustle and confusion. Ladders against the wall, men putting up the half-finished sentences, festooning the green wreaths, hanging the flag in graceful folds, so as to dispose its bright colors to the best advantage amidst the greens, hurrying in and out on various errands, and busying themselves about one scarcely can tell what, only all adding to the general confusion and excitement. Can any one wonder that no sad impression can continue where there is so much to turn the attention and divert the mind? We are conscious ourselves of its influence; and, of course, men, in whom the feeling is not a deep one, must be much more open to it.

But here is ----, with all her promised parcels for the Christmas tree; how sorry she is to hear of poor James’ fit; but we decide that it will be best to make the tree for him, and have it placed at the foot of his bed to-morrow, to atone for the loss of the dinner; not to-night, the doctor forbids all excitement at present.

And now, here is the tree, but how shall we plant it? Some suggest one mode, some another; but none take it in hand, till our ever-obliging Corning, wardmaster of our first ward, appears; prompt to do, and ready to act, he wastes no time in words, but bears off the tree, and soon returns with it firmly planted and ready for service. Thank you, Corning; what a satisfaction there is in being so promptly and pleasantly served. And now we have hands enough. ---- unfolds her treasures, and wondering eyes and busy hands are soon occupied with them; and ere long the tree stretches out its green arms, laden with golden glories of gilt balls, soldiers in every conceivable costume, pocket mirrors, which may yet look upon more warlike scenes than those they now reflect,--in fact, decorations of all sorts, suspended by red, white, and blue cords, and glittering gaily in the gas light. Ah! here is an addition; thank you, Lawrence; those bright red apples, which he has just washed and polished, will have quite a fine effect, as he is hanging them among the other miscellaneous specimens which this wonderful tree produces.

We are all satisfied and delighted with it, but the great drawback is that poor James cannot see it, now that it is done; but Price, his wardmaster and faithful nurse, has promised to lift it in, and place it at the foot of his bed, in the morning, and we know that he never neglects a promise.

The Chaplain is to hold a Christmas Eve Service here, this evening at seven o’clock; so we are anxious to have everything in order; and really, it all looks very nicely, and we regard it quite complacently, as we take a final survey of our day’s work. That star, which ---- brought with her, covered by kind hands at home, shines out beautifully, surmounted by the green cross; and our Lectern holds up its head, quite proud of itself in its Christmas vestments.

But now, we really must wind up, for the night has come; and with mutual good wishes for to-morrow’s enjoyment, we say good-night.

As for the day itself, I can give you little account of that, as, of course, I could not be present; but the dinner was described to me, in glowing terms, by those who were.

The turkeys, the pies, the plum-puddings; the toasts that were given and drunk with “three times three” in beer, generously given for the purpose,--in fact, everything seemed to have passed off “a merveille;” but the best part of the whole, was the orderly manner in which it was conducted--not a single case reported for the guard-house. This pleased us especially, as it seemed to prove that our efforts for the men’s enjoyment had been attended with no bad results, and to make the remembrance of our Christmas of 1862 one of the bright memories of our hospital experience.

May God grant that ere we hail its dawn again, those now in rebellion may have returned to their allegiance, and thus enable us to proclaim a blessed peace throughout the land. But there is something first. Before Peace must come Prayer. We need Prayer; the nation needs Prayer.

Do not point me to the little band of people or parishes, where the Daily Offering is made,--where throbbing hearts, and souls yearning for the safety of their loved ones, daily kneel before God’s altar, and in lowliness and penitence send up that pleading wail, which seems as though it must pierce the very Heavens, and cleave a pathway to the mercy-seat:

“O, most Powerful and Glorious Lord God, the Lord of hosts, that rulest and commandest all things; Thou sittest in the throne, judging right, and therefore we make our address to Thy Divine Majesty, in this our necessity, that Thou wouldest take the cause into Thine own hand, and judge between us and our enemies.”

And again:

“Hear us, Thy poor servants, begging mercy, and imploring Thy help; and that Thou wouldest be a defence unto us against the face of the enemy.”

Most thankful am I for this, and for all that we have, little as it is; but I am now looking at our country as a whole.

We know the South to be wrong; we know ourselves, or rather, our cause, to be right. If, then, we have right, truth, and justice on our side, why do we not succeed--why have we not succeeded?

Is it not that we have been--we are--a sinful people, pluming ourselves upon our powers, priding ourselves upon our prosperity, till we have come to look upon the fair beauty of this land, lavish in its loveliness, as a possession which is our right, and not as a loan, for the use and enjoyment of which we are bound to return the offering of grateful hearts?

Is it not that we have gone on in a suicidal career of extravagance, luxury, and dissipation, which has finally brought its own punishment upon us? Sorely did we need humbling, and sorely have we been humbled. Bitter has been our lesson, but bitterly was it needed. The thought will sometimes arise, would that the trial had come from foreign foe; would that friend had never lifted hand against friend, nor brother against brother! Had that grand rising, at the sound of Sumter’s wrong, which swelled throughout the North--had it, I say, but thrilled through our whole land with a mighty throb, till, with one heart and hand united, we had joined to defend that Flag, so treacherously assailed, where is the foe we should have feared to face--where the enemy, which, humanly speaking, we might not have conquered?

But so, the lesson had been lost. We had but gained further food for pride, further motives for self-glorification. The medicine would but have increased the disorder, the remedy added to the disease. We must acknowledge--we must recognize the Chastening Hand which is dealing with us. Where is the victory which has ever yet, as a people, sent us to our knees? Where the defeat which has ever yet been attributed to any but secondary causes? Want of reinforcements, want of supplies, want of suitable weather, want of skill in the commanding officers,--any and every want but the true one.

We send our men forth wanting the one weapon, which, springing from its scabbard, and flashing in the bright sunlight of Faith and Trust, must insure success. It is the Sword of Prayer.

“’Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar;
Gains wings, and through the ever-opened door,
Swift as the image of the twinkling star,
Shows its reflection in the Ocean’s floor;
It moves the inmates of that Heavenly Shore,
As, gently rippling o’er the leafy shade,
Comes the soft, sighing gale, and passes o’er;
E’en so in Heaven, each Prayer, in secret made,
Ruffles a thousand Wings prepar’d for instant aid.”

I humbly beg pardon, dear C. You asked for some account of our Christmas festivities at the hospital, and I have been betrayed into what, I fear you will find, a tedious expression of my feelings upon the questions which have such an absorbing interest at the present time. Forgive me this once, and I will promise to spare you in future.

POOR JOSÉ!

“But these men have no feeling.”

The stormiest day of this stormy winter. Hail, rain, and snow seem to have formed a precious triumvirate to take possession of the day, “vi et armis,” and claim it for their own. I know not whether it is a certain perverseness of nature, or a desire to overcome difficulties, which leads me to prefer such blustering, battling days, to more serene ones; whatever may be the cause, the fact will account for my finding myself, on this particular morning, seated on the kitchen table, before the hospital fire, carrying on a _warm_ discussion with one of the men, on the merits of Ruskin, as I dried my dripping garments. A chance word led to a quotation by him from one of Ruskin’s works, and we immediately “opened fire” in more senses than one.

I found him a man of keen intelligence, self-made, of course, but a great reader, and quite familiar with a higher style of literature than we usually look for here. Doubtless, in his far-away home, grander halls have echoed to the praises of the great Art-teacher of the nineteenth century, made by more appreciative critics; but I very much question whether he has ever had more earnest, zealous, enthusiastic admirers than the two that day met, before that kitchen fire, on the shores of another continent.

As I walked through one of the wards, a little later, I said, in passing, “You are better to-day,” to a man who had been suffering from such a severe attack of erysipelas in his head, that his eyes had been closed for many days. The enormous swelling of his head, added to his long, matted beard and thick, tangled black hair, had given him a fierce, brigand sort of air, which was far from being dissipated by the appearance of a pair of large black eyes, opened to-day for the first time since I had seen him in the hospital.

“Better,” said he; “but oh, lady!--”

He turned his head away, shaking it sadly.

“What is your grief?” said I, sitting down beside him.

“My little ones, my little ones! Where are they? Five weeks, dear lady, have I lain here, and no word have I had from them.”

A long, and most sorrowful story followed, of which the main points are these: a Spaniard by birth, he had come to this country in search of employment, settled in Philadelphia, married, and for several years was prosperous and happy, till his wife fell into bad habits, wasted his earnings, and brought them to utter poverty and wretchedness. On one occasion he had gone to a neighboring town on business, and on his return found their comfortable home broken up, the house and furniture sold, and his wife and their three little ones in a poor hovel, in one of the worst parts of the city.

No one who did not hear him, can imagine the pathos with which he described his little girl’s illness, with all the fervor of his warm Spanish nature; his care of her; his walking the floor with her night after night, her little arm around his neck and her head upon his breast; “for you see, lady, it was worse than if she had had no mother.” His love for her seemed to amount to a passion; his boys, he said, were “nice little fellows,” Juan and Henriquez; but evidently his feeling for them was nothing in comparison with the idolatry lavished upon his little Rosita, as he called her, a child of four years old.

“I lie here at night,” said he, the large tears rolling down his cheeks, “and think if I could just once have that little hand in mine, that little head upon my breast, it would cure me faster than all this doctor’s stuff, far away faster.”