To say nothing of the old nurse, who was a host in gossip herself, her two daughters, both young and pretty girls, were sometimes smuggled into the Infirmary by the connivance of the grim and trustworthy porter, and remained there days at a time, carefully hid away in the pantry whenever "the master" or the surgeons went their regular rounds, which was always at stated hours.

When the wind raged without, and the rain, hail, or snow sought entrance through the casement, while sitting near a comfortable fire, listening to female prattle and gossip, narratives of incidents of real life, discussions on disputed points in politics, philosophy, or religion between my friend with the crutches and the tall corporal of dragoons, who were both as fond of controversy as Mr.Shandy himself; or drinking in with my ears the Irish tar's glowing descriptions.
"Of moving accidents by flood and field; And of the cannibals that each other eat; The anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders!" I was led to confess there were worse places in the world than the Liverpool Infirmary.
After a week's delay I came into possession of a pair of crutches, and could move around the room at pleasure, take exercise in the hall, and even visit an acquaintance in either of the other apartments.

The garden attached to the establishment was thrown open to the patients at stated hours on particular days.

The season was not inviting; nevertheless, one sunny day, accompanied by my lame friend of pugnacious reputation, I visited the garden, and rejoiced at finding myself once more in he open air.

The ramble on crutches through the lonely walks was truly refreshing.