Sketches by Boz, Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-Day PeopleDickens, Charles
General
Sketches by Boz, Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-Day People
Dickens, Charles
London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century; London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at
the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the
magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and
his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though,
by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the
muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short
interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon
and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke—they
were introduced as ‘dressers’—and after one magistrate had complained
bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the
evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we
were conducted to the ‘casualty ward’ in which she was lying.
The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than
diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds,
which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a
child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in
another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was
wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third,
there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often
the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and
her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of
the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside
them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was
fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of
anguish and suffering.
The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was
a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black
hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head,
streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep
marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her
side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and
heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a
few words in reply to the magistrate’s inquiry whether she was in great
pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked
vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The
magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so,
and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and
troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not
know him.
‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was
desired, and the man’s features were disclosed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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