CHAPTER XXIX.

THE HOSPITAL.

That a good deal of the ailing and suffering endured by humanity is superinduced by vicious habits of one kind or another is a pretty well ascertained fact. The staff of the General hospital could inform you that many of the “cases” who pass through their hands owe their debilitated or broken frames to excess or neglect of one kind or another. The General hospital, therefore, is, as well as the jail, an institution which the battered and enfeebled sinner resorts to when he can no longer stand up against the world’s buffets. You will find them there, the children of slothfulness and inebriety. Charity refuses to condemn them for faults which have their root in that weakness which is to a greater or lesser degree inherent in our common humanity. She has declared that their wounds must be healed, their quivering nerves steadied and their wasting vitality in general restored. This is done at the general hospital without money and without price. As many as are able to pay their way do so, but lack of this world’s goods does not preclude ailing mortality from shelter, food, medicine and healing.

The fretfulness of people who are ailing is well known, and every once in a while one hears of

COMPLAINTS AGAINST THE MANAGEMENT

of the hospital, either privately poured into a friendly ear or more publicly expressed in the daily papers. All of our public institutions are subject from time to time to this sort of criticism, and perhaps it does no harm, although doubtless it is galling to those officials, many of whom labor hard and long to render their establishments as perfect as possible. But perfection eludes the sons of men, and an approximation to it is all that can be looked for, even in what is called a “model establishment.” No doubt the medical superintendent at the hospital has many difficulties to contend against, and if he might speak out in meeting and let the people know what they are, more sympathy and credit would perhaps be awarded him.

At night the hospital looks like a building illuminated on a gala day. From each of its many scores of windows a beam of light cleaves the night shadows. If you cross the portal at this hour the first person you are likely to meet is a kindly-faced woman in a coquettish spotless muslin cap, plainly dressed, with that pure complexion which very generally distinguishes women who are much indoors and whose health is good. This is one of the night nurses. She might stand for a picture of the Goddess Hygeia—with modern trappings. One would half forgive fate for making him sick to be tended by such an embodiment of “sweetness and light.” All must agree with the opinion that it is a great point to have the attendants on the sick, persons whom it is pleasant for the eye to rest upon.

This young woman whom I have been speaking of goes up stairs and noiselessly glides down a ward. She carries a lantern, whose soft light, however, does not wake even the lightest sleeper. She passes two or three of the little cots, and at length arrives at one where

AN OLD MAN LIES.

He has a white bandage about his chin. She scrutinizes his features, and then passes on. Her last instructions before going on was to keep a watchful eye on this old man. He is a farmer, and a few days ago he was admitted to the hospital suffering from cancer. A great bunch of the devouring ulcer was seated on his left jaw. After examination and consultation among themselves the doctors told him that if it was allowed to remain there he must die; if, on the other hand, an operation was performed, he might live. They asked him to choose. He chose the operation. His vitality was low, and the surgeons knew that the chances were greatly against their utmost skill. They do not like a case like this. The probability is so great that the operation will merely hasten death, that it is an unpleasant one. Medicine is of no avail in this case. He is fed entirely on a milk and spoon diet. The operation was performed yesterday afternoon. After the old man recovered from the ether he lay in a state of stupor, breathing hard. In the evening the doctor saw him and shook his head, and then gave the night nurse explicit instructions regarding him.

The gas in the ward is turned down to a blue spark. Everything is very still. Not even a snore is heard. Snoring is generally the result of gross and heavy feeding, and the jaded appetite of the sick helps them to avoid gormandizing. Every five or ten minutes the nurse leaves her chair in the corridor and passes down the ward with her little lantern. Sometimes she gently awakes a patient to apply a poultice or cooling lotion. She always looks at the old man. At length she makes a longer pause and seems

DISTURBED BY WHAT SHE SEES.

The old man is breathing stertorously. Half of the eye-balls are hidden under the upper eyelids—the whites are turned up, and make a ghastly continuation to the white bandage round the chin. The nurse moves hastily away and summons one of the assistant physicians. Everybody else in the great still room is asleep, and in its pale light no token is given of the presence of the angel of death, but before the physician’s return the dread work is done, and the old man’s troubled spirit has passed into the land of shadows. The calling of the date was merely a matter of form. Everything is done quietly. No one is wakened. A screen is put about the little cot. Two stout men are summoned from below. The corpse is pinned up and carried away through the silent ward.