During the early days of the war and the hospital service we all know how inadequate were the supplies for the sick and wounded; how meagre the equipments for the hospital nurses. A poor, little circular stovepipe served the indefatigable Mother Angela on which to prepare with her own skillful hands the early cup of gruel for her patients, rising as four, or, if need were, at three in the morning to answer the first call of the sufferers; and the character of the stores provided was such as few could realize one year later. At this time the Commissary Board sent a visitor to the camp and hospital where Mother Angela and her Sisters were stationed. During all these months nothing could exceed the courtesy of the officers, who always shared any choice provisions which came to them with the Sisters, as they supposed, while the Sisters as scrupulously passed on to their patients everything which could tempt the sick appetite, sharing, in fact, only the rations served regularly to the hospital wards. When the Commissary visitor arrived he was duly escorted to the hospital, which excited his warmest approbation for its order, neatness, comfort of every sort; but as he was bowing himself out in the most complimentary manner from the presence of Mother Angela and her band of Sisters, she said to him: “But, Mr. ——, you must allow us to show you some hospitality. Pardon our lack of silver and porcelain, but take a cup of hospital tea!” “Thank you, thank you, Mother Angela, but I have taken dinner already with the officers, and need nothing.” “Allow me to insist!” and before another excuse could be urged a Sister appeared with a snow-white napkin and the tincup and spoon of the hospital and—the anything than fragrant beverage of hospital tea. “Sugar, Sister,” said the sweetly-ringing voice of the gentlewoman, Mother Angela, and before our Commissary visitor could wave off this fresh specimen of hospital luxury, Mother Angela had dumped into the tin cup what resembled the scrapings of the molasses barrel more than sugar. Our Commissary visitor was a gentleman from the toe of his boot to the crown of his head, and he drank the cup of tea, well stirred, to its dregs, without a grimace, bowing as he handed the empty tincup to the Sister, while Mother Angela rubbed her little hands with unmistakable glee, and the full merriment of laughing eyes, as she said: “I knew, Mr. ——, you would wish to taste of our hospital tea!” And the Commissary visitor vowed in his heart as he turned from the hospital door that the next train, on his arrival home, should take, as he said in his letter to Mother Angela, such stores to her own and to every hospital under his charge as a Christian man could accept without shame from the hand of any hospital nurse in the land.
There was another Sister Angela who was prominent during the civil war, but who was not so conspicuous as her illustrious namesake. She is thus referred to in a recent work:[24]
“Sister Angela became a member of the Community (Visitation Sisters) about 1819. She was one of those characters who convey to the mind the image of a soul of spotless innocence. She celebrated her golden jubilee and lived for several years afterwards, retained to the last her full mental faculties and childlike simplicity. She was made Superioress of the foundation in Philadelphia. On the breaking up of the house there she was recalled to Georgetown. Then for twelve years at different times she served as Superioress of Georgetown Convent and governed with a gentle firmness and a lovely spirit of forebearance; enduring the many trials incidental to authority with the utmost patience.
“During the civil war her energy and wisdom shone forth especially. She was at that time most generous in trying to aid poor chaplains, and she showed a true zeal for souls in the advice she gave to soldiers who applied to her for help. Her charity was remembered, as the nuns of Georgetown had reason to realize not long ago, during the encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic, when one of the veterans called to see “Sister Angela,” not knowing she had been dead several years. The veteran gave as his reason for desiring to see her that the angelic Superioress had converted him. Whenever worn out with marching and laden with dust, regiments halted in front of the Convent during the war, a liberal lunch was served to the weary soldiers, and objects of piety sent out to those who wanted them by Sister Angela.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
MOTHER ANGELA.
Related to many eminent men of the century; her tranquil death in the convent in Indiana; her ability as a writer and an educator. An incident of the war told by her in a powerful and dramatic style. The original of a Holy Cross Sister portrayed in a poem.
Mother Angela, who performed such valiant service as the head of the Holy Cross Sisters, departed this life on March 4, 1887. Her death was so calm and peaceful that it seemed as though she were gliding into slumber rather than passing from life into eternity. “Mother Mary of St. Angela” was the name of this devoted woman, who was previously known to the world as Eliza Maria Gillespie.
As stated in the preceding chapter Mother Angela was of distinguished lineage. Her godfather, the elder Thomas Ewing, was one of the great Whigs and Secretary of State under President William Henry Harrison. James Gillespie Blaine, her first cousin, was the idol of his party, member of Congress, United State Senator, Secretary of State, and the Republican candidate for the Presidency. General William T. Sherman, another relative, ranked second only to Grant among the Union generals in the civil war. Phil. B. Ewing, her brother-in-law, won the reputation of an eminent jurist in Ohio. “Young Tom” Ewing distinguished himself in the Union army. Her only brother, Rev. N. H. Gillespie, was the first graduate of Notre Dame University, and afterwards became its vice president and editor of the “Ave Maria.”
Mother Angela was born in West Brownsville, Pa., February 21, 1824. Her parents lived in a large stone house. It was a double structure, and in the other half of it lived her uncle and aunt, the parents of James G. Blaine, who was born there six years later. Mr. Blaine’s mother and Mother Angela’s father were brother and sister, and the two children were reared together until the one was twelve and the other was six years of age. This childish association caused a sincere attachment, which lasted through life.