Attended church
to-day at the Second Presbyterian, or "Union Church" as it is called.
It is the only one in the city, I am told, where one is sure of hearing
sentiments of loyalty. Rev. Mr. Allen is pastor. He does not fear now, under
the shadow of Fort Negley, and with so many "blue coats" about, to
"Lift up his voice like a trumpet, and show the people their
transgressions and the house of Jacob their sins." I believe, however,
that he was obliged to leave the place previous to the entrance of our troops.
I saw a pomegranate
flower for the first time, to-day. It is of a dark red color, single, about the
size of a plum blossom. It is of the same family I think, though cannot analyze
it, for want of a botanical work.
In passing through
ward 1 of the hospital last Wednesday, and asking advice of the chief nurse—who,
by the by, is soon to complete his studies as surgeon—as to what we could do
for the benefit of the invalids, he said there were two cases who would die
unless some one could by attention and cheerful conversation save them. That
they had been sick a long time, were very low, but the trouble now was nervous
debility from homesickness and despair of life. Had himself done what he could
for them, but was worn out with care of the ward and loss of sleep. And he
added:
"The Surgeon
has given them up, and I will give them into your charge, and if they live it
will be your care which saves them."
"Would anything
be injurious for them to eat?"
"No, if you can
get them to eat anything you will do better than I can."
Upon inquiring which
they were, he pointed them out, when I told him that I had spoken to both only
a few moments before, and that one would scarcely notice me enough to tell me his
disease, while the other would not answer at all, but drew the sheet over his
face.
"Oh, yes,"
he replied, "they think no one cares for them, that they're going to die,
and the worst one is in a half stupor much of the time. But pass your hand
gently over his forehead to arouse him, and then you know how to interest
him."
He then directed the
nurse of this one to go with me and see that everything was done which I
directed. The nurse and patient were both from Indiana, and the former going to
the side of the bed toward which the face of the sick man was turned, said in a
peculiarly pleasant and sympathizing tone:
"William,
there's a lady come to see you and she wants to make you well if she can."
Passing my hand over
his forehead, as directed, I added as cheerily as possible :
"Yes, William,
I've come to see if I can't do something for you; if I shall write some letters
for you, or bring you something to eat to make you better."
He roused up and I
knew he was listening, but not wishing to excite him too much I then commenced
asking of the nurse about his company and regiment, and the length of time he
had been sick in that hospital. But I had scarcely done so, when the sick man
turned his face down into the pillow, burst into tears and grieved and sobbed like
a child, fairly shaking the bed with the violence of his emotion. The nurse
bent down to him, and said as if pacifying a sick child:
"Don't fret so,
William, this lady loves you, and she's going to try to make you well."
I knew the tears
would do him good, but I spoke low and slowly, and the sobs grew less as he
listened:
"You've been
sick a long time, I know, and have grown discouraged and have thought you were
never going to get well, but the Doctor says there is nothing to hinder if you
will only try. I was once sick myself with a low nervous fever, and felt just
as you do for a long time. And the physician told me at last that I wouldn't
live unless I made up my mind to try to live. And I did try and worked hard for
it for a long time else I should never have got well. And now if you will do
the same and think all the time of what you are going to do when you get well,
I will come and see you as often as I can, and bring you anything you wish to
eat. Wouldn't you like to have me write for you to ask your wife, mother, or
sister, to come and take care of you?
Just then the nurse
tells me he is "single" and I repeat the question of his mother and
sisters.
"No," he
replied, in a sad, grieved, hollow voice, "they wouldn't
come."
"Shouldn't I
write to his father to tell him how he was." "No," he didn't
"want any letters written."
"Could he think
of something he could eat."
He said he could
not, but the nurse exclaimed:—"Why, William, don't you remember you said
the other day you could eat some pickles, if you could get them?"
"Yes, I could eat some pickles," said the slow, hollow
voice. A little inquiry found that it was possible he could eat a cookie also,
so it was arranged that the nurse should call at the home of the Christian Commission,
where I was stopping, for the articles.
I also learned that
the sick man had not been bathed since having the fever, and his face looked
like dried parchment. I made a prescription of castile soap and warm water for
his benefit, to be applied to the whole surface of his body—the application
to take place immediately after my departure. After the bath, the nurse called
and I sent some cookies and a small jar of pickles.
The other patient to
whom I was referred, was scarcely less interesting, but have not time to note
the particulars. I visited them again yesterday, and found my directions with
regard to each had been carried out, and both were better and glad this time to
see me. William rejoiced in the jar of pickles upon his stand, out of which he
had gained sufficient appetite to "reckon," he "could eat a few
dried peaches, if he could get them." A small jar of those was prepared
and sent to him, with a second edition of cookies.
