There Was No Tumbling Of
Bodies Into Carts, As In The Plague Of Florence And The Plague Of
London.
Every man, according to his station, was properly buried,
and that in the usual way, except that he went to his grave in a
more hurried pace than might have been adopted under ordinary
circumstances.
The funerals which poured through the streets were not the only
public evidence of deaths. In Cairo this custom prevails: At the
instant of a man's death (if his property is sufficient to justify
the expense) professional howlers are employed. I believe that
these persons are brought near to the dying man when his end
appears to be approaching, and the moment that life is gone they
lift up their voices and send forth a loud wail from the chamber of
death. Thus I knew when my near neighbours died; sometimes the
howls were near, sometimes more distant. Once I was awakened in
the night by the wail of death in the next house, and another time
by a like howl from the house opposite; and there were two or three
minutes, I recollect, during which the howl seemed to be actually
running along the street.
I happened to be rather teased at this time by a sore throat, and I
thought it would be well to get it cured if I could before I again
started on my travels. I therefore inquired for a Frank doctor,
and was informed that the only one then at Cairo was a young
Bolognese refugee, who was so poor that he had not been able to
take flight, as the other medical men had done. At such a time as
this it was out of the question to send for an European physician;
a person thus summoned would be sure to suppose that the patient
was ill of the plague, and would decline to come. I therefore rode
to the young doctor's residence. After experiencing some little
difficulty in finding where to look for him, I ascended a flight or
two of stairs and knocked at his door. No one came immediately,
but after some little delay the medico himself opened the door, and
admitted me. I of course made him understand that I had come to
consult him, but before entering upon my throat grievance I
accepted a chair, and exchanged a sentence or two of commonplace
conversation. Now the natural commonplace of the city at this
season was of a gloomy sort, "Come va la peste?" (how goes the
plague?) and this was precisely the question I put. A deep sigh,
and the words, "Sette cento per giorno, signor" (seven hundred a
day), pronounced in a tone of the deepest sadness and dejection,
were the answer I received. The day was not oppressively hot, yet
I saw that the doctor was perspiring profusely, and even the
outside surface of the thick shawl dressing-gown, in which he had
wrapped himself, appeared to be moist. He was a handsome,
pleasant-looking young fellow, but the deep melancholy of his tone
did not tempt me to prolong the conversation, and without further
delay I requested that my throat might be looked at.
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