Rest! Ah, what a delicious word to the sick and
wearied man. Rest in mind and body! How
unsatisfactory appear the gaudy pictures of the dreamer
of Patmos compared with the simple words of the Master,
“I will give you rest.” I can hardly
say why I selected Hampton for rest. I knew nobody
here, and had never been here. But somehow I had
taken up the impression that it was one of those old
East Virginia towns that had been blown ashore by
the tempest of civil war and lay stranded on the beach
of the briny ocean of life. And that was the sort
of place that quiet was to be found in. My first
night was a happy confirmation of my choice.
Standing on the wharf at which lay a little steamer,
the scene was beautiful. The new moon hung in
the west and cast its glittering line over the water
for miles and miles away. Thick in the little
harbor lay the slender masts of vessels with steady
lights glowing in their rigging. Across the narrow
bay stood the Normal School with its three stories
brightly lighted, and further away was the gigantic
Soldiers’ Home with a thousand lights burning.
To the east was the long bridge across Hampton creek,
with every few minutes a lighted omnibus or a pair
of carnage lamps going leisurely across. Further
yet was a railroad train lighted and flying across
the trestle bridge. At the opening of the little
bay were fisher boats, coming in with all sail spread,
the loud laughter and chaffing of the men easily heard
at this distance. Turning inland, you see a broad
street, with shade trees on each side casting dark
shadows. The lights twinkle its whole length
and at one point there is a bright spot—a
pretty, white hotel with a treble deck of verandahs.
That is my home for many days to come and there I
am to be at rest. The call of the bugle sounds
on the night air; it is the “taps” at
the Soldiers’ Home; the salt water is beating
with lazy monotone against the shore; the fisherman
have tied up their boats; the last omnibus has crossed
the bridge; the young moon is getting to her bed and
I turn my face toward the long street and the bright
hotel. A man of high-toned and poetic mind would
here insert something about his thoughts turning to
his mountain home. Alas! mine are turned with
eager curiosity to what my breakfast tomorrow would
be, reflecting as I do that I am now in the land, or
rather water, of oysters, soft crabs and fish.
After all, of what common clay we are made!
* * * *
*
The redeeming feature of ill-health, to me, has been
that for the last few months I have been thrown with
many invalids and enjoyed their confidence to the
fullest, (and sometimes the most, to some extent).
There seems to be a sort of free-masonry among sick
people by which they at once become friendly and familiar.
There is, also, if you only knew it, an aristocracy
of ill-health; that is, a man with two complaints
