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!”