I never in my life saw
so forlorn a fellow, so ragged, so wretched; and even his wits seemed to
have been beaten out of him, if perchance he ever had any. He got an
order for the hospital; and there he has been, off and on, ever since,
till yesterday, when I received a message that he was dying, and wished
to see the Consul; so I went with Mr. Wilding to the hospital. We were
ushered into the waiting-room,--a kind of parlor, with a fire in the
grate, and a centre-table, whereon lay one or two medical journals, with
wood engravings; and there was a young man, who seemed to be an official
of the house, reading. Shortly the surgeon appeared,--a brisk, cheerful,
kindly sort of person, whom I have met there on previous visits. He told
us that the man was dying, and probably would not be able to communicate
anything, but, nevertheless, ushered us up to the highest floor, and into
the room where he lay. It was a large, oblong room, with ten or twelve
beds in it, each occupied by a patient. The surgeon said that the
hospital was often so crowded that they were compelled to lay some of the
patients on the floor. The man whom we came to see lay on his bed in a
little recess formed by a projecting window; so that there was a kind of
seclusion for him to die in. He seemed quite insensible to outward
things, and took no notice of our approach, nor responded to what was
said to him,--lying on his side, breathing with short gasps,--his
apparent disease being inflammation of the chest, although the surgeon
said that he might be found to have sustained internal injury by bruises.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184