HOSPITAL ATTENDANTS.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXII, Issue 5043, 23 May 1877, Page 2 (Supplement)

HOSPITAL ATTENDANTS.

“In the Hospital ?” “Yes, he’s been there seven weeks, now. Met with an accident. Come and see him. I am just going.” Ten minutes afterwards, I was in oue of the wards of a noble hospital, in a flourishing Australian city. There, stretched on a bed in a room (as it is called) by himself, was the acquaintance after whom I had asked, on meeting another acquaintance in a crowded street. It was about sundown. The horizon was glorious with that clear, pure light which is so common in Australia ; tho pale golden tiut flushed up to the zenith, and all overhead was glorious. But the light was not strong enough to be reflected back ; and the great piles of brick or stone buildings loomed heavily, their mere weight of gloom seeming to extinguish the lesser hulk of the one-storeyed shops which nestled beside them.

The interior of the Hospital was bright with gas-light; and its corridors were filled with that indescribable, sickly, close smell which seems so inseparable from such places, when situated in towns, and which no amount of cleanliness and care can prevent. My acquaintance was doing well, and was cheerful. We talked of many things, in the gloomy light of the recess in the great ward which constituted the separate room, and as we talked wo heard the sounds that flow from restless suffering men : the groans of those who were in anguish acuter than that of the majority ; and the half shriek and the wretched moaning mutteriugs that came from the lips of one or two who were temporarily delirious.

While we were talking there glided into the recess a man nearsixfeethigh,broad shouldered, “in-kneed,” and shuffling. He wore oinfcmonty black clothes ; his small stock of hair was plastered across his head, and his deep-set eyes looked the more cavernous because of the expanse of tallowy flesh in which they seemed to he set. Some reference was made to the poor wretch whoso ravings had been oppressing us ; and in reply the tall man began to speak. He stood at the foot of the bed, slowly rocking himself to and fro, and rubbing his dirty great hands. Ho spoke in bubbling, blubbery tones ; and he said : “ No, not d.t. —drink. Brink, sir, drink. He'll die, must die. Worn out—quite worn out. I thought he’d a gone before this. But I’m careful —very. I never shall forget—never. Had a man here once—throat : for throe weeks expecting him to go. Three weeks —every day expecting. AVell, one night, I thought sure enough he’d gone. I sat at the bed-foot, watching. After a long while, I passed my hand in upon his chest. He was a bag o’ bones—nothing more—no, nothing more. I couldn’t feel the heart, and I’d always thought I could depend upon that. No beat—nothing: cold to the touch. ‘ He’s gone at last,’ said I to myself. I sot there a minute or two. Then I quietly pulled off the quilt. Pulling off the bedclothes is a sign with us ; what we think, you know, sir. AVell, as I did so, a man in the next bed—very had ho was, too—said, quite hollow like, to the man next to him, ‘He’s gone.’ Like a sigh more than speaking, I don’t know what corned over me, but there I sot, and I didn’t pull off the sheet. ‘ I wonder if he is gone,’ thinks I, pondering. AVhy ! No, I cannot tell yon, sir. I thought of sending people away, before they was gone—boxing ’em up alive—and how horrible ’twas. And I passed my hand under the sheet, and felt again. No boat. ‘ He is gone, surely,’ I said; and I took hold of tho blanket. But I stopped again. It was just getting dark—tea-time: but that night I had no tea none. ‘Has he gone,’ I thought. Then I stooped down—l never could tell what prompted me—and with my two hands I worked the body—oh ! so thin he was—worked it all over. AVorked ! worked !—I never did know wliy. Half an hour passed away, and it was dark. Then, all at once, I had such a fright as I never had in my life, surely. For ho gave a gasping sigh, like, turned him over on his side ; and I could just see ins wide-open eyes, as he asked me—in such a tone—‘ AVhat’s tho matter with me T AVell, well—to bo sure, and ho hadn’t gone. Since then, as I said, I have always been very careful—very—to be certain as a man has really gone, before I pulls off the bedthiugs. Get bettor 1 Oh, aye, he got better—quite stout and hearty. Very careful. I have been, since that, I do tell you. Yes, he got bettor. That’s five years ago. And when he got better, and was going out, says ho, ‘ Mr. Smith I’m without money. You couldn't lend me a fiver, could you V AVell, to he sure —I’d got quite to like him, you know, seeing what had passed—snob a change from them skin and bones—and I said, well, yes, I might. And I did. Bless you, no, never seen him since ho left this house. It’s two year and more, now, since a man who was hero, said, ‘ Mr. Smith, do you remember Bill Brown, as was hero V Remember—so careful as I was. ‘ 'Cause,’ says the man, ‘ I mot 'im not long ago, and I was to say as ho was coming to see ■ you.' ‘ And glad I shall bo to seo him,' says I. Bnt ho didn’t come, bless you. And I havo been very careful—very— over since then. No, I don’t think I’ll ever make a mistake now as to whether a man’s really gone or not. No, no, living still ? AVell, sir, I don’t rightly know—hut I never seen him since he got well and wont out. Never.

Good night, sir. Aye—very careful—very—l have been, to bo sure.” I believe that that attendant was a good man, after his fashion. I learned that ho was considered a careful and efficient servant. But I am not likely to forget the sense of clammy horror which the look of him, his tones, and his tale, created. He did not “ sing at grave-making; ” but he was not a whit less blunted to all perception of the fitness of things, than was the clown whose blytheness made Hamlet wonder. Listening to the tale which I have lamely retold, I felt that no woman could ever have been guilty of so harrowing a malaproprism as that of trying to entertain a semifevered man by such a crooning on such a subject. I hoped that I should never be stretched upon a hospital-bed ; but I was sure, and I am sure, that should such be my lot, I could fervently kiss the shadow of the Gamp as she tottered by me, and could think her gin-laden breath an odor of Araby the blest, rather than be tended by snob a sample of dreary greasiness as was this respectable lieattendant of my acquaintance. To many here in New Zealand Florence Nightiugale-and her pure heroism are unknown, or are no more than lines in history’s page ; but some of us recollect the horrible stories of a'mnisin" suffering in so-called hospitals at Varna, at Scutari, and elsewhere, during the days that followed the cholera's sraitings and Alma’s bullets and bayonets amidst our little British army that had gone forth more than twenty years ago to stay the Russian's absorption of the “ sick man’s” territory ; and we can recollect also the doubt, the wonder, and the crowning blessings of the British race as Florence Nightingale’s setting forth, and her work, were watched. Great, since then, have been the advances made in the means for alleviating the pangs of sickness and of wounds: great the advances in the will to use those means. Terrible, it seems, must soon be the strain upon means and will ; for the differences between the guilty game now being played and that which was being played three-and-twenty years ago, are not likely to result in comparatively lessened human tortures. While the world lasts, surely Florence Nightingale and her work will not be forgotten—never be read of without dimmed eyes, but the clearest of blessings. Yet most of us need, each for himself, a direct lesson as to the holy mercifulness of what she did ; and I received my lesson as I stood years ago, by my acquaintance’s bed, in a noble hospital in a flourishing Australian city.