[At one time Miss Johnson seems to have entertained the idea of writing for publication a series of articles entitled "Voices from a Sick-room." Whether she ever wrote more than one or not I cannot say. The following is the only one we can find among her manuscripts, and it is so thrillingly interesting as to make us wish for more. It is dated Sept. 5, 1859.]
Draw the curtains—shut out the light of heaven; the inner world is so full of darkness that the sunshine of the outer world becomes painful by contrast. Hush, little bird! don't sing to-day. There—all is dark and still. Now, O wretched heart, exult in thy wretchedness; draw the dark, heavy curtains of despair around thee; shut out the light of hope and love; hush the voice of praise and thanksgiving. Think of all thou hast suffered; think of thy present misery; crowd the future with black-robed phantoms; people every nook and corner with horrible faces, and over all let the thunder crash and bellow, and the winds moan and shriek, as they moan and shriek only when the great are dying.
Ah, what sad havoc do sickness and pain make of the poor body; but sadder still when they trample on the bright inhabitant within, and make it a slave to tremble at their bidding! "Bring chains—bring chains," cries the fell destroyer; and ere she has time to rally her forces around her, or even think of resistance, the poor Soul has become a helpless captive, and Disease wears a smile of triumph upon her ghastly cheek, and again lifts up her voice to shout "victory." And a complete victory it is: Self-control, Pride, Ambition—all are humbled; Hope is shrouded in sackcloth, and if she ever speaks it is only to whisper: "There is one secret passage by which thou mayest yet escape, but it winds through the kingdom of Death and the Grave." Reason herself grows pale and trembles, lest she lose her throne; for the thousands of obedient servants, which have never before disputed her authority, are all up in arms against her. Every nerve begins to quiver and vibrate; the whole body is in commotion; and no wonder the trembling Soul sits down amid the ruins of her former self and makes the whole place doleful with her cries and lamentations.
Don't chide her: she is no criminal waiting the demands of justice, but a prisoner of war, and therefore should be dealt kindly with. Don't gaze at her through her prison bars, as though she were a wild beast caged, or some curious object kept only for a show; but go to her enveloped in the mantle of love, upon your lips the honey-dew of human kindness, and in your heart the melting tenderness of Christian affection. Don't tell her she is escaping many trials and temptations to which she would be exposed if she came in contact with the busy world around her. Go to the imprisoned eagle, and, as he looks up longingly into the deep blue sky and beats his wings in agony, comfort him with the assurance that his wants are provided for, and he himself safe from the arts of the fowler! Aye, tell this to the free-born eagle, but disgust not the ever-yearning, restless Soul with such mockeries. She may listen, but she laughs you to scorn in secret and prays Heaven to be delivered from such comforters. She knows her struggles and temptations are inward; and she knows too, for that very reason, they are more terrible. There greater battles have been fought than the blood-dyed fields of Europe ever witnessed. Magentas and Solferinas fatten with the blood of heroes, but she carries on a never ending warfare "with principalities and powers"—the numberless host of hell—and legions of native passions.
Deal gently with her. Would you win her confidence? There is but one passage to her affections. Speak that word—bolt and bar fly open: she takes you by the hand and welcomes you to her most sacred and secluded retreat. That word is sympathy: let her feel it in your tender embrace, see it in the glance of your eye, hear it in the modulation of your voice. It is for this she yearns and sighs, and refuses to be comforted where it is not.
Bring her flowers—sweet, beautiful flowers. They are meet companions for her solitude. Gather blossoms from the whitening apple-bough, violets from the meadow, dandelions from the wayside. She will fold them more tenderly to her bosom than the rarest plants, for their faces are old, familiar ones, and she imagines they wear a look of pity.
But there are more precious things than human sympathy; there are sweeter flowers than violets or roses. They bloom on the prayer-consecrated mountains of Judea, amid the ancient olives of Gethsemane, along the Dolorous Way trodden by the Man of Sorrows, beneath the shadows of the Cross, and around the borrowed Sepulchre. Oh, gather them with no sparing hand: there are enough for you and her—enough for every sorrowing heart in the universe. Take them to the poor sufferer. Their fragrance will make the lonely chamber like a garden of spices; the tearful eyes will turn heavenward, and the pale lips—tremulous with contrition will whisper, "Father; forgive me, for I knew not what I did when I murmured at thy dealings." Then a solemn hush will follow—a holy twilight of the soul,—as if the sorrows of earth were blending with the joys of heaven, the pains of mortality with the blessedness of the angelic bards. Oh, these are the flowers for a sickroom! How dreary and desolate does it seem without them! The strong and healthy may live on, careless and irreligious, but what would become of the poor, grief-stricken, despairing Soul if she could not repose quietly in the bosom her Beloved, and say with child-like simplicity, morning and evening, "Our Father who art in heaven!"
SONGS OF HOPE
"HE GIVETH SONGS IN THE NIGHT."
Gloriously the sun sinks behind the western hills. Half the sky seems on fire, and the other half wreathed with light fantastic clouds. All nature is beautiful—can I be sad? Nay; away with sadness, away with sorrow; I will forget everything my strangeness, my blasted hopes, and seek for happiness where happiness only is to be found, in the sacred Oracles of God.—July 14, 1852.