I hastened immediately to the George Inn, and found the report to be too true. The poor creature was lifted out of the waggon by the ostler, William Webb, and carried to a building which had been fitted up as a Hospital, near the Inn.
This forlorn and pitiable object was the widow of a sergeant in the 22nd regiment, who had died of cholera a few days before in the citadel at Plymouth. Her name was Ellen Higgins, [42] thirty-five years of age. She had a pass for herself and four children; and they were on their way to Cork. Soon after leaving Plymouth, she was seized with pain in the bowels and sickness. One of her fellow-travellers gave her some brandy, which was repeated on arriving at Ridgeway.
Mr. L. soon arrived, and every possible attention was paid to her. Owing to continued cramp, it was difficult to obtain from her any satisfactory information as to her wishes. The fatal symptoms rapidly increased, and her darkened features became wild; her eyes stared with an expression of frenzy; her pulse had ceased to beat; and her flesh had assumed that peculiar livid hue, so characteristic of the disease. As calmness, attended by a perfect clearness of intellect, often preceded the last moments in these afflicting cases, I felt it to be my duty to remain with this suffering and friendless stranger, as there might be a chance of affording her spiritual assistance. That moment did arrive, and she faintly expressed her desire to offer up a prayer to God. She cared about nothing, during that short interval, but the salvation of her soul. And to her Great Redeemer she appealed in accents so tremulous, so pitiously imploring for mercy, and yet so full of a blessed assurance of His willingness to save a repentant sinner, that I firmly believe “His atoning blood has cleansed her from all sin;” and that her soul now rests in peace! Her children came into the room, but she heeded them not—her care about every thing earthly had passed away—the poor little orphans were removed, to be taken care of—Ellen Higgins was no more!
On quitting the Hospital, and this heartrending scene, a note was delivered to me from a medical gentleman, stating he had “just been at Parsons’s house, at Underwood, to see more particularly old Mary Parsons. What a melancholy scene to witness! A place more likely to propagate the disease will scarcely be found, and on the ground floor too! The sight quite sickened me. Charles Taylor, brought home at two o’clock, is already in a state of collapse. I have sent to Mr. Langworthy to inform him of this, as I think he ought to be very actively treated.”
I was requested to lose no time in going to Charles Taylor, [45] as “he was dying,” and the case was represented as being most urgent. The sultry heat of the weather increased the great exhaustion and fatigue by which I was almost overpowered; and I despaired of being able to get to Underwood in time. A gig happened, at that moment, to be standing at the George Inn. To the owner, I was a stranger; but I briefly told him the sad tale, and he unhesitatingly lent it to me. In a few minutes I was at the cottage. Mr. Langworthy arrived at the same time. What were our feelings upon entering the room! At that instant the poor sufferer breathed his last! Such a combination of fearful calamity was quite overwhelming! Poor Susan Taylor, now a widow, fell down on the window seat, in a paroxysm of grief. At such a moment, talking to her would have been in vain. Sarah Taylor, her husband’s sister, was there as an assistant. We sat some little time without uttering a word. The solemn silence was interrupted only by the sobs of her who had just been bereft of the object upon whom she depended for comfort and support, or by a sigh from those around.
May the lessons which must have reached the heart at such a time, never be erased. The uncertainty of life—the necessity of watchfulness—the duty of Christian sympathy,—our own utter helplessness, when it is the will of God to afflict us—our sole dependence upon His Almighty aid;—all these, and many more such reflections, pressed upon the mind; and well will it be for those who receive them into their hearts, as seed sown by the Holy Spirit, to bring forth fruit unto righteousness. The poor widow endeavoured to rush to the bed where her husband lay; and would have thrown herself upon his cold and discoloured corpse. She said she valued not her life. We talked to her—we endeavoured to reason with her. She was absorbed in grief; and, in the bitterness of bereavement, said she had no friend—no earthly friend—no where to lay her head—no one would take her into their house. She again made an effort to throw herself upon the bed. This could not be permitted. Every argument was used to direct her thoughts to a merciful God, who “will not suffer us to be tried above that we are able to bear,” and who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” She was directed where to go, and where she might remain, at least for a time, until her relations could arrange some plan for her to earn a livelihood. We were next called to the miserable apartment below, where Mary Parsons, aged sixty-nine, had just died. We remained some time with that family; the other patients exhibiting no indication of improvement.
Called to visit Jane Paddon, suddenly worse—her end fast approaching—quite sensible—refused to take any medicine, and gave herself up. She was quite happy in her mind, and lifted up her heart with the greatest earnestness in prayer to God, not to prolong her life, but to take her to himself. After visiting Woods and other patients, Mr. Langworthy went home with me at eleven at night.
Susan Taylor had been to the adjoining town of Plympton, [48] to her sister, Mary Taylor, where she was persuaded by her friends to remain the night. Mr. L. left me at twelve. Both of us unwell. My own indisposition, during the day, I had attributed to the effect of fatigue; but sickness, cramp, &c. ensued so violently, that, at one in the morning, I was obliged to send for him to return. He was astonished at the serious character of the attack and the progress it had made. The usual remedies were at hand. He immediately gave me twenty grains of calomel; and, in an hour afterwards, an ounce of castor oil, with two drachms of tincture of rhubarb.
August 11. [50] By the mercy of God and the timely recourse to medicine, the disease was repelled. At noon I attended the funeral of Ellen Higgins. It was a sickening office. Owing to the heat of the weather, the lid of the coffin had started. Went to the poor afflicted people at Underwood. Parsons’s boy, aged eight, who had held Mr. Richard Langworthy’s horse at six a.m., was dying, at noon! Visited the hospital, and returned home through Underwood. Charles Taylor and Mary Parsons, buried. After a few hours’ rest, at half-past eight in the evening, I was summoned in haste to visit William Gully—much worse than yesterday—great consternation among the inmates of the house.
So great had been the mortality, in defiance of the treatment which he had hitherto pursued, that Mr. Langworthy at length determined in this case to try a remedy which had been adopted by many eminent practitioners; viz.,—the injecting some principal vein with saline fluid. He accordingly arranged his instruments on a little table near the window. The poor wife was crying near the fire-place. The occupation assigned to me, of preparing hot water, adjusting pans, basins, &c. to be in readiness for injecting the vein, was immediately commenced. Susan Gully, the patient’s sister, and his wife’s two sisters were standing by, watching Mr. L.’s proceedings with peculiar interest, but they preserved a strict silence. A low and lengthened moan arrested our attention; and then a frightfully convulsive shriek issued from above. I had nearly prepared the saline fluid [52] for injection; and was requested to be ready as quickly as possible. Mr. L. was afraid to trust any one else, lest a mistake should occur.