But from the far-reaches of the East End came a cobbler and his son, his sole friends.They cleansed his room, brought fresh linen from home, and took from off his limbs the sheets, grayish-black with dirt.
And they brought to him one of the Queen's Bounty nurses from Aldgate.
She washed his face, shook up his couch, and talked with him.It was interesting to talk with him- until he learned her name.Oh, yes, Blank was her name, she replied innocently, and Sir George Blank was her brother.Sir George Blank, eh? thundered old Dan Cullen on his death-bed; Sir George Blank, solicitor to the docks at Cardiff, who, more than any other man, had broken up the Docker's Union of Cardiff, and was knighted? And she was his sister? Thereupon Dan Cullen sat up on his crazy couch and pronounced anathema upon her and all her breed; and she fled, to return no more, strongly impressed with the ungratefulness of the poor.
Dan Cullen's feet became swollen with dropsy.He sat up all day on the side of the bed (to keep the water out of his body), no mat on the floor, a thin blanket on his legs, and an old coat around his shoulders.A missionary brought him a pair of paper slippers, worth fourpence (I saw them), and proceeded to offer up fifty prayers or so for the good of Dan Cullen's soul.But Dan Cullen was the sort of a man that wanted his soul left alone.He did not care to have Tom, ****, or Harry, on the strength of fourpenny slippers, tampering with it.He asked the missionary kindly to open the window, so that he might toss the slippers out.And the missionary went away, to return no more, likewise impressed with the ungratefulness of the poor.
The cobbler, a brave old hero himself, though unannaled and unsung, went privily to the head office of the big fruit brokers for whom Dan Cullen had worked as a casual laborer for thirty years.Their system was such that the work was almost entirely done by casual hands.The cobbler told them the man's desperate plight, old, broken, dying, without help or money, reminded them that he had worked for them thirty years, and asked them to do something for him.
'Oh,' said the manager, remembering Dan Cullen without having to refer to the books, 'you see, we make it a rule never to help casuals, and we can do nothing.'
Nor did they do anything, not even sign a letter asking for Dan Cullen's admission to a hospital.And it is not so easy to get into a hospital in London Town.At Hampstead, if he passed the doctors, at least four months would elapse before he could get in, there were so many on the books ahead of him.The cobbler finally got him into the Whitechapel Infirmary, where he visited him frequently.Here he found that Dan Cullen had succumbed to the prevalent feeling, that, being hopeless, they were hurrying him out of the way.A fair and logical conclusion, one must agree, for an old and broken man to arrive at, who has been resolutely 'disciplined' and 'drilled' for ten years.When they sweated him for Bright's disease to remove the fat from the kidneys, Dan Cullen contended that the sweating was hastening his death; while Bright's disease, being a wasting away of the kidneys, there was therefore no fat to remove and the doctor's excuse was a palpable lie.Whereupon the doctor became wroth, and did not come near him for nine days.
Then his bed was tilted up so that his feet and legs were elevated.At once dropsy appeared in the body, and Dan Cullen contended that the thing was done in order to run the water down into his body from his legs and kill him more quickly.He demanded his discharge, though they told him he would die on the stairs, and dragged himself more dead than alive to the cobbler's shop.At the moment of writing this, he is dying at the Temperance Hospital, into which place his stanch friend, the cobbler, moved heaven and earth to have him admitted.
Poor Dan Cullen! A Jude the Obscure, who reached out after knowledge; who toiled with his body in the day and studied in the watches of the night; who dreamed his dream and struck valiantly for the Cause; a patriot, a lover of human *******, and a fighter unafraid; and in the end, not gigantic enough to beat down the conditions which baffled and stifled him, a cynic and a pessimist, gasping his final agony on a pauper's couch in a charity ward.'For a man to have died who might have been wise and was not, this I call a tragedy.'
