He was interviewed in the hospital by a lady, who wrote the following account of her visit to Mayne Reid:
“New York, August 9, 1870.
“My sympathies were enlisted, too, for the brave fellow who has been languishing in Saint Luke’s Hospital. The sole tidings of him was the 4th of July remonstrance, which revealed how his spirit chafed at the seclusion and helplessness incomparably worse than physical pain.
“To find my way, then, to the hospital seemed a part of my pleasure in New York. The gate shut me in with a heavy clang, and I walked up the path to the main building with, I confess, no little trepidation at my boldness. In answer to the request ‘to see Captain Mayne Reid,’ I was conducted through a broad hall into a long ward furnished with an infinite number of low, narrow cots, that looked too small for any practical purpose. A turn through a short hall and what appeared to be an apothecary’s closet brought us to the private room of the author. He was lying upon a bedstead (similar to the ones in the ward) which was placed in the centre of the apartment. As he turned his head and raised himself upon his elbow to address me, he presented the view of a middle-aged, sturdy-looking English squire. The head is compact and covered by a profusion of dark brown hair, which, in contrast with the pallid complexion, stood out as if it had no part and parcel with the corpse-like whiteness of the scalp. The brow was smooth and fair, rounded out to gigantic proportions by ideality, causality and reverence. The nose, nervous and scornful, would have been remarkable but for the large and beautiful eyes, that are restless habitually, but when fixed upon an object have a lancellating effect, and withal an expression of great good heart, that is seconded by one of the most winning smiles I ever beheld. Hands of uncommon grace and beauty somehow complete the charm of his lips and eyes.
“To speak first of matters of most interest to the public, Captain Reid has been suffering from the effects of a gun-shot wound received in the Mexican war, culminating in an abscess which threatened to exhaust his vitality. Recovered from that by the care of one of the most experienced surgeons in America, he was attacked by dysentery, which at the time I saw him had reduced him to a critical condition again.
“‘I may say truly,’ he observed, ‘that I was dead, and am alive. The doctors had given me up, and I felt myself there was no chance. I had the hiccough for hours, and the brandy and water administered gave me no relief. With life slowly ebbing away, and the past and future passing in rapid review before my mind, an old recollection flashed before me in the strangest way, that draughts of pure brandy would sometimes arrest hiccoughs. I reached forth my hand for the bottle of brandy that stood on my stand and took a swallow. Instantly it went like fire through my veins, and with another draught my life was saved. I tell it to you for it may be of service to you some time.’
“As we talked, the air coming fresh through the open window, laden with the murmur of leaves and twitter of swallows, a light, even step was heard approaching, and a lady came forward, pausing on the threshold. Oh, but she was fair! with her golden hair caught up under an azure fanchon of satin, and falling in soft ripples over her forehead. There was an expression of firmness in her calm blue eyes which gave character to the face of infantile shape and loveliness. From her face my eye wandered to her figure, struck with admiration at her graceful pose—an accomplishment few women possess. They dance and sometimes walk well, but they rarely know how to stand still. Her gown, I observed, was white, with an overdress or wrap of blue, admirably suited to her peculiar style of beauty.
“‘My wife,’ said the invalid, and as he explained that I called because I had read his books she smiled and extended her hand. The smile was like sunshine, and the clasp of her soft, cool hand a positive luxury. The clear and musical voice was in keeping with her beautiful self, and I loitered for a moment to gather a full impression of the scene.”
A few days after this interview a serious relapse took place, and on August 10th, telegrams were sent to his friends: “Captain Mayne Reid is dying.” Everything was prepared for his interment, and even an obituary notice was written.
His wife was allowed to stay at the hospital during the night, being told by the doctors that any minute might be her husband’s last. He had been lying in an unconscious state for the past three days, all the signs of approaching dissolution being present. About 8 o’clock on the morning of the 11th he rallied considerably. The doctors and two of the lady nurses were around his bed, when he suddenly raised himself up, exclaiming in a strong voice: “Turn those she-Beelzebubs,” pointing to the two ladies, “out of the room at once, preaching at a fellow, and telling him he’s going to die. I’m not going to die. Bring me a beef-steak!”