And he who had worked the charm, what was he?  A poor, helpless old man, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or at least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by the appellation of No. 12—­the number of his bed, which was next to my own.  This bed had already been his refuge during three long and trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in fact, the whole hospital staff.  Never did a gentler creature walk on God’s earth; walk—­alas! for him the word was but an old memory.  Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to use his own expression, “this misfortune did not upset him;” he still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped parchments as diligently as ever.  But some months passed by, and then the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, he taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the hospital.  There he had the gratification to find his former quarters vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged to occupy it again.  His first grateful accents smote almost reproachfully on my ear:  “Misfortune must have its turn, but every day has a tomorrow!”

It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent creature.  The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and the poor fellow’s admiration of even the most trifling conveniences proved how severe must have been his privations.  He never wearied of praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, or vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme.  Nor did his thankful spirit confine itself to this.  To listen to him, you would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as human benevolence—­all things working for his good.  The doctor used to say that No. 12 had a “mania for happiness;” but it was a mania, that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into all that came within its range.