You remember, my Fanny, the thunder-storm which did so much mischief in many parts of the country about this time twelvemonth; the same that struck the great cedar in your father’s park. That awful visitation was sent to us also, and I shall never forget the sublime beauty of its gradual approach.
Harry Morton had been watching it for more than an hour from the garden wicket of Leaside Cottage, not many paces, as you may remember, from the house porch; within which stood the little Emily pale with terror, and shrinking behind the leafy screen every time the deep sullen sound of the yet distant thunder rolled round the dark horizon. But the fearful, trembling, little creature retreated no farther into the house, though her heart seemed dying within her; for there she at least could remain in sight of Harry and within hearing of his cheerful encouraging voice. Mrs. Morton, who had been all day oppressed with headache, had lain down in her bedchamber at the back of the cottage, and the little servant girl was absent on an errand to the village; so the two children were alone together gazing (with what different sensations!) on the coming of that memorable storm. A profound stillness was all about them — a deep and breathless hush; not a leaf stirred — not a wing of bird or insect was in motion — not a rain-drop yet descended — and though the blackness of darkness had now gathered overhead, not a flash yet darted from the electric cloud, and the muttering thunder had ceased for some moments.
“Come in! come in, brother!” implored the poor little girl; “let us go to mamma. Dear Harry! indeed, indeed, I would not mind a little thunder-storm; but that terrible black cloud will break just over us. How like night it is! I can hardly see you under the shadow of our great elm. Come in! come in, dear brother!”—”Little coward! little coward!” retorted the sportive boy, holding up his finger with reproachful archness; “who was it told me yesterday they would never never give way again to silly fears?”—”But this is such a storm, brother! and you know the lightning kills people sometimes.”—”But it does not lighten, little coward. Come, take heart, Emmy, and run across to me. I shall call you little coward again if you wont come.”—”Oh! no, no, Harry! indeed, indeed I can’t come to you there; — and see what great drops are beginning to fall!”—”Not one can reach me under our great tree. Well, well, if you won’t come for shame, come for love of me, Emmy.” — In a moment the poor little girl had darted from her shelter and stood beside her brother, panting and shuddering convulsively, as the boy, half frightened at the excess of her agitation, wrapped his arms round her, and tried to sooth her into composure. Another moment, and both children were lying apparently lifeless under the great elm, which was scorched and shivered from its top downwards. And there they were almost immediately found by their distracted mother, whose first thought had been for her darlings, when the tremendous report of the shock which had felled them to the earth startled her from her imperfect slumbers. I will not dwell longer on that first agonizing scene, my Fanny, than to tell you that, assistance being providentially at hand, the children were carried into the house and laid side by side on the same bed, where after awhile both began to show signs of returning animation, and neither, on examination, appeared to have received any external injury. The first that awoke to life was little Harry, and his immediate almost unconscious impulse was to look round for his sister. She lay beside him as if in a sweet slumber; and for a moment Harry gazed upon her with a bewildered consciousness, that something terrible had befallen her, of which himself was the cause. Then suddenly the whole truth flashed upon him, and the unhappy boy sprung up from the bed in a paroxysm of tearless agony, exclaiming, “I have killed her! I have killed her! — Oh, Emmy! Emmy! — I have killed my sister!”
Difficult it was to pacify the distracted child, and to convince him that his little sister was not only living, but fast recovering, as himself had recovered, from that temporary stupor. In a few moments not only her breathing became strong and regular, but a faint carnation tint again spread itself over her soft cheek, and a streak of blue was visible through the long fringes of her fair eyelids. Then, then, at last, Harry who had been kneeling over her, in pale breathless suspense, half blinded with the intensity of his gaze on her inanimate features, drew a deep gasping breath as he sunk on his sister’s pillow with a sudden feebleness like that of infancy, and, pressing his cheek close to hers, recalled her to life and consciousness with a passion of sobs and tears and kisses, and broken murmurs of unutterable love.
Tears were in the eyes of all (not in the mother’s only) who looked on that affecting sight; and the only placid countenance was that of the little Emily, who awoke as if from some happy dream, with an angel smile upon her sweet lips, as she turned them instinctively to Harry’s, and clasped her little arms about his neck. In another minute her voice was heard, low and tremulous at first; and the words she uttered were confused and disjointed, for the child was yet as if half in slumber, and quite unconscious of the past. At length, “Is it night?” she said, lifting up her face from Harry’s, and drawing back her head to look about her, as she half raised herself from the pillow, resting on her elbow—”Is it night, Harry? where are you? why does not mamma come to bed? but I am not afraid now.”—”My child! my child!” faltered Mrs. Morton, as, throwing herself on the bed, she clasped the smiling Emily, and looked into her eyes with a sudden agony of apprehension—”I am here, my Emmy! Look up, my precious child! It is not night! Look up at me, my Emmy.”
Emily’s large blue eyes obeyed that tender invocation, but they wandered over her mother’s features with a strange vacancy of expression, and the child’s face became troubled as she stretched out both her little hands to feel for Harry, still close beside her, and then said distressfully, “What makes it so dark, mamma? I cannot see any thing.”
The sweet eyes of Emily Morton were darkened for ever in this world. That electric stroke had instantaneously and irrevocably destroyed the optic nerves of both; and Harry, unhappy boy! had lured her, by an irresistible appeal to her love for him, to the spot where that fatal bolt descended.
What were the mother’s feelings on ascertaining her child’s misfortune, I will not attempt to describe, my Fanny; still less those that very soon consigned poor Harry to the temporary oblivion of a brain fever, which brought him to the brink of the grave, and from which his recovery was long doubtful. When consciousness returned, not only did he see his fond mother watching by his bedside, but a little angel face was bending over him with looks that at once dropped balm and bitterness into his very heart; so loving, so sweet, so pitiful was their scarcely changed expression. And when the dear child became sensible that Harry’s reason was restored to him, and that he knew his mother and herself, a light of more than human intelligence beamed in her sightless eyes, and, smiling like the seraph Hope, she stooped down to kiss her brother’s forehead and whisper, laying her soft cheek to his, “Dear, dear Harry! we will be happier than ever; I do not want to see.”
Twelve months, as I told you, have past away since that calamitous season; during which interval, God (who has more ways of helping us than we could point out to him) has been very gracious to the family at Leaside. The bequest of a distant relation has assured an humble competence to Mrs. Morton and her children; and our worthy curate, who needed no call to the house of mourning, but the knowledge that the hand of God had stricken its inmates, became so interested for the little family, especially for the poor boy who had been so fatally instrumental in causing the calamity of his sweet sister, that he has ever since taken Harry under his daily tuition; and Mrs. Morton now entertains a hope that, with his valuable assistance, and such farther aids as Providence and her own exertions may provide, her darling boy may be enabled to enter one of the Universities, and in due time take upon himself the holy ministry. Such is the highest aim of Harry Morton’s own wishes; and that, next to the service of God, he may devote his whole life to that sweet helpless creature whose claims on his tenderness are so sacred and so affecting.
Harry Morton is but ten years old; b
ut his mind has made greater progress during the last twelve months than, under other circumstances, it might possibly have attained in half as many years.
That heavy affliction and its results have perhaps subdued for ever his naturally high animal spirits, and he will probably grow up a serious and thoughtful man. But though he will never forgive himself for that momentary error, the memento of which is perpetually before him, the bitterness of his remorse is assuaged by time and the consolatory experience, that divine mercy has so mitigated the calamity of the blind Emily, so “tempered the wind to the shorn lamb,” that she is already half forgetful of the blessing she has lost, and so wonderfully gifted with that peculiar tact and increased acuteness of the other senses, often vouchsafed under the deprivation of sight, as to be indeed perfectly happy in her present condition, the very spirit of innocent cheerfulness, the blithest bird that wakes the echoes of bowery Leaside.
It is a remarkable fact that the little girl’s delicate frame and naturally feeble constitution have been gaining strength and stamina seemingly from that very day when blindness fell upon her. From that memorable epoch she ceased to be the victim of those nervous terrors which, though partly subdued, still haunted her enough to mar half the joys of her young life. “The night and the day,” “darkness and light,” are now indeed both alike to the sightless Emily: but then it may be said, with equal truth, that “darkness is no darkness” with her. The light of Heaven’s own peace is in her soul, and through the medium of that internal day the blessed child beholds in imagination all objects of the external world. And, then, Harry’s love is even about her “like a cloak,” and his incessant care and watchfulness ministering, like those of a guardian spirit, to her happiness and safety; and Harry’s invention and ingenuity are ever at work to devise occupations and amusements in which she may actively participate. Already little Emily is skilful in many small handicrafts, useful and ornamental; and some of the work of her fairy fingers might shame the more imperfect productions of many who possess the advantage of eyesight. That pretty little basket which stands on my work-table — you were admiring it yesterday, — that is Emily’s handy work: and, besides her skill in such “small wares,” she can knit her own and Harry’s stockings; and her work will bear comparison with that of the best knitters in our village school. Emily knows all the wild flowers, can distinguish each by touch and smell, and every bird by its song, as well as when she delighted to watch their unfolding buds and beautiful plumage. The day is never long enough for Emily’s quiet industry and active cheerfulness; yet never were slumbers so sweet and peaceful as those that fall upon her pillow almost as soon as Harry’s last “good night” has been breathed over her, and his lips have pressed their accustomed farewell on each of her closed eyelids. Not unfrequently a tear will mingle with that fond kiss, the seal of memory, and then only (if she feels the tender moisture) there is trouble in Emily’s sweet face and distress in her tremulous voice, as clasping Harry’s neck she whispers in his ear her loving passionate assurance, that she is happier, much happier than ever.
And now I will wind up my long story, which has made you look very sad, my little Fanny, with a few verses, which you must get by heart some day; and I am sure they will recur to you in after life as beautifully applicable to all our trials. They were composed by a blind lady, Marianne Erskine, and the sentiments they express are such as compel one to envy rather than compassionate the person who made “such sweet uses of adversity.”
Let not vain man of partial fate complain: If few know happiness without alloy, ’Tis that most men their happiness destroy, Treating possession with a proud disdain; Of miseries and ills a countless train Their ever restless rankling thoughts employ; The present hour they never will enjoy; The past, the future, rack their souls in vain. Not that to us whatever is, is right; But compensations may be found if sought: Though I am born without the sense of sight, What circumscribes to me the range of thought? Thus study, friendship, intellectual light, May yet be mine; and life is still with blessings fraught.
SISTERS OF CHARITY.
“Oh! what a singular dress that young lady has on, and how thoughtful she looks,” was the observation of Blanche Wilson, a lively girl of ten years old, as she drew from a portfolio the engraving which represented one of the Sisters of Charity.
“That lady, my dear,” replied her mother, “belongs to a community whose lives are passed amidst scenes of suffering and distress. It would not therefore be very surprising if sympathy with the afflicted should have given a sedate expression to features lovely as those before you.”
“Oh! do tell me her history,” exclaimed the little girl eagerly,—”where you first saw her, and why she wears that singular costume? I long to know all about her.”
“I will answer your last query first,” replied her mother: “She wears that dress simply because it is the habit of the Charitable Order of which she is a member — an institution peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, at once its highest boast and its brightest ornament.”
“But what are the particular duties of these Charitable Sisters?” inquired the little girl.
“Those of the Samaritan of old, my dear — to visit the sick poor, both at their own houses and at the public hospitals. To nurse and administer medicines, and to afford them the consolations of religion. These are the occupations of a Sister of Charity: duties, simple in their enumeration, difficult in their fulfilment, but boundless in their importance and extent.”
“But, Mamma, if their object is so praiseworthy, why have not we Sisters of Charity, as well as the Roman Catholics?” inquired the little girl.
“That is a question, Blanche,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “that I have often put both to myself and others; but to which I have never received any satisfactory reply. I cannot believe that we have less benevolence among us than our Gallic neighbours. I am, therefore, bound to suppose, either that the idea has never occurred to the influential or humane, or that hitherto no ladies have been found of sufficient nerve to brave the misrepresentation and ridicule which would, in the first instance, attach to the establishment of a Protestant Sisterhood.”
“But, Mamma,” interrupted Blanche, “how often have I heard you yourself say that,
Evil and good report, if undeserved, Is soon lived down.
Think how different would be the lot of hundreds of unhappy convicts if Mrs. Fry had been deterred from attempting to better their condition from the mere dread of ridicule and misrepresentation.”
“That is most true, my dear; nor do I yet despair of seeing among us, at some future day, an establishment very similar to the one founded by Vincent St. Paul two hundred years ago. Meantime, I am happy to inform you, that at this very period a house is erecting between St. Leonard’s and Hastings for a community of these Charitable Sisters; who, in addition to the duties before enumerated, propose taking upon themselves the further responsibility of educating and fitting for domestic servants as many of the destitute poor as the funds of the institution will permit. In this labour of love, to use their own words, they ‘neither make distinction of sect or creed,’ nor accept or expect any remuneration whatever.”
“Oh! how very kind,” interrupted Blanche; “but have they always been equally liberal in the distribution of their charity!”
“Always, from its first foundation. The benevolence of its projector was of too diffusive a character to limit his wish of relieving distress to the members of his own church; and this truly Christian spirit is a distinguishing feature of the society to the present day. To the unwearied care of the Sisters are many hundreds of English wives and mothers indebted for the very existence of those they most love. Thousands of British subjects, whilst languishing as prisoners in the hospitals of France, have borne witness how literally these Daughters of Pity fulfil the injunction of their Divine Master—’If thine enemy hunger, give him bread; if he thirst, give him drink.’ Many of our fellow-countrymen are there at this moment who can adopt the words of Scripture a
nd say, ‘I was hungry, and ye gave me bread; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was sick and in prison, and ye visited me; I was a stranger, and ye took me in!’”
Tears filled the eyes of the child as she continued her mother’s quotation, and repeated the reply of our Lord to the query of his disciples of “when they had ministered unto him,” “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of my people, ye have done it unto Me.”
Both parent and child were silent for a few minutes; after which the former of them continued the conversation.
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