170 ULCOLLECTIONS OF POVERTY. 



chamber in a dark and dirty entry. With characteristic volubility of 

 tongue she detained me with a long and unmeaning jargon con- 

 cerning the object of my search, from which I could learn nothing 

 except that she was extremely poor, and, to the mortification of the 

 old woman, very uncommunicative. She seemed highly pleased that 

 I had so patiently listened to her, and, conducting me to the door, 

 bade me good night, I knocked gently, and the same girl whom I 

 had seen in the morning admitted me. She pointed to a heap of 

 straw in a corner of the room, on which was extended a pale ema- 

 ciated form asleep. I motioned to the daughter (for it was her mother 

 who slept) not to wake her, and seating myself on a low stool looked 

 around. A few dying embers, contained in a broken grate, cast 

 a glimmering light over the cold and comfortless hovel ; and well 

 do I recollect the chilly feeling which crept over me as I felt the. 

 damp stone floor and the keen blasts of wind which rushed through 

 the broken panes. The furniture 'tis a mockery to name it an old 

 chest, a broken chair, the straw, and a ragged coverlet were all that 

 the apartment could boast. My patient, so far as the gloom permitted 

 me to judge, had not reached the meridian of life, and her features, 

 though worn by poverty and disease, were yet beautiful. She slept ; 

 but the convulsive movements which agitated her frame, and ever 

 and anon a deep-drawn sigh, told too plainly that it was not the sleep 

 in which the mind finds repose, and from which nature awakes 

 invigorated and refreshed. Beside her were two children, one yet 

 helpless and unweaned. 



I was contemplating in silence the scene around me when sud- 

 denly the cry of the infant awakened the mother. She started, and 

 seemed confused, but soon recovered herself, and when I rose to ad- 

 dress her a smile irradiated her grief- worn countenance, and in whis- 

 pering accents she thanked me for my ready attention. I asked her 

 a few questions relative to her disease, and soon learnt the fatal truth. 

 She was a victim of that insatiable destroyer, consumption. Already 

 were his ravages too evident, and the hoarse, hollow cough, which 

 ever accompanies his destructive progress, sounded mournfully in my 

 ears ; and well it might, for I knew too well the intractable nature 

 of the disease ; I knew, notwithstanding the representations of igno- 

 rant and unprincipled men, that except under very favourable cir- 

 cumstances, and those of rare occurrence, it is incurable. And, 

 truly, it is a melancholy task to watch its progress from day to day, 

 unable to avert the fatal termination, the powers of our art availing 

 nothing, save to smooth the path to the grave. 



But to return to my patient. Having satisfied myself of the na- 

 ture of her complaint, and given her some general directions, [ was 

 led to enquire as to the cause of the extreme wretchedness of her 

 condition. She seemed to avoid the question ; and at that moment 

 her exhausted frame sank back on the straw. Unwilling to urge her 

 further, I took my leave. I retraced my steps homewards, musing 

 on the malady of this unfortutate woman, and lamenting how little 

 assistance I could render her. 



I continued my visits, and each time found more to admire in my 

 patient. Her daughter, whom I have mentioned before, and who was 



