LETTER XLI.
CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINE SKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY."
Washington, D.C., April 25th, 1862.
There is a certain something about a sick-room, my boy, that makes me think seriously of my latter end, and recognize physicians as true heroes of the bottle-field. The subdued swearing of the sufferer on his bed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse, as she comes into the room to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not too mild for the patient, the sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as she recognizes the tread of Jacob Barker, the sergeant's bull-terrier, outside; all these are things to make the spectator remember that we are but dust, and that to return to dust is our dustiny.
Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania Mud-larks was made sick in a strange manner. A draft of picked men from certain regiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river. You may be aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicate constitutions; and, as the Mud-lark happened to burst into a profuse perspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft, he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to bed directly. I went to see him, my boy; and whilst he was relating to me some affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar, a member of the Medical Staff of the United States of America came in to see the patient.
This venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet, and two pick-axes on the table, and then says he:
"How do you find yourself, boy?"
The Mud-lark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air, and says he:
"I think I've got the guitar in my head, Mr. Saw-bones, and am about to join the angel choir."