[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 35.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
A RIVER HOLIDAY.
What the yacht-races at Cowes and a score of other places are to that
section of the upper ten-thousand who delight in everything that
pertains to the sea, and to whom the smell of salt water is as the
breath of life—what Henley regatta is to those who find their exercise
or pastime among the sunny reaches of the Upper Thames—such is the
annual sailing-barge match from Erith to the Nore and back, to the vast
river-side population below-bridge who have more or less to do, or
are in some way connected, with the dock, canal, or up-river shipping
traffic of the port of London. To these worthy people, as well as to
some thousands of others from all parts of the metropolis, many of
whom, in all probability, rarely adventure so far on the Thames at any
other time, it is the race _par excellence_ of the year; and it has
much about it to render this widespread popularity deserved.
It is a bright midsummer morning, and the clock is on the stroke of
nine when we find ourselves on Blackwall pier, with its vast shut-up
hotel staring blankly across the river, once on a time famed far
and wide for its capital fish-dinners; but now, alas, given over to
desolation and decay. Even as far away as Dalston Junction, at which
place we have to change trains, unmistakable signs of holiday-making
are apparent; and at each station as we come along we pick up a
numerous contingent, all of whom, to judge from appearances, like John
Gilpin’s wife, are evidently on pleasure bent.
We find the pier gay with summer costumes and smiling faces; friend
greets friend after the hearty, robust English fashion which has not
yet died out ‘east of Temple Bar;’ the river gleams with a thousand
silver ripples in the morning sun; the heat is tempered by an
exhilarating breeze; everybody prophesies that we shall have a glorious
day. The majority of those on the pier are waiting the arrival of the
excursion steamers from London Bridge. We, more fortunate than many,
are the recipients of an invitation to a private party which numbers,
all told, some five-and-thirty souls. Presently, from among a cloud of
others we single out the particular bit of bunting we have been told to
look for; and there, at her temporary moorings at the upper end of the
pier, we find the smart little _Cygnet_, our home that is to be for the
next dozen hours. Old acquaintances welcome us with a cordial grip as
we step on board, and new acquaintanceships are made, which in their
turn will, we hope, grow riper by-and-by. And now we have time to look
about us.
The _Cygnet_ is gay with bunting from stem to stern. Aft, a large
awning is stretched, which will serve as a protection from either sun
or rain, as the case may be. Camp-stools in abundance are provided, so
that we can shift our quarters as we may list; and some neighbouring
hotel has supplied us with several oblong mahogany tables, for which an
excellent use will be found later on. Hampers crammed with good things
solid and liquid are being brought on board one after another; and some
one below deck is taking Time by the forelock already, in the way of
putting a preliminary edge on the carving-knife. We are evidently going
to have what our American cousins call ‘a high old time’ of it.
In confidence we may whisper that our little _Cygnet_ is neither more
nor less than a Channel steam-tug—one of that numerous fleet which
scour the English Channel from the Lizard to the Languard, from the
Mouse Light to Dunkirk, on the lookout for homeward-bound ships which,
anxious to save a tide or two, and reach their moorings in dock as
quickly as may be, are willing to pay for the help that will enable
them to do so. A rough life, my masters, and not without its dangers
when the stormy winds do blow. Often in wild midwinter weather, or when
the equinoctials seem as if they were tearing heaven and earth asunder,
these little craft will remain out for days and nights together, afraid
to risk making for any harbour, and preferring to keep in the open
while waiting for the gale to blow itself out. Only a few winters ago,
as the _Napoleon_ steam-tug was towing a huge liner up the Channel in
the teeth of a tremendous storm of wind and sleet, her hawser parted,
and when, some two minutes later, the crew of the big ship had time
to look for the tug, she was nowhere to be seen. At the moment her
hawser broke she had been struck by a heavy sea, and had plunged down
head foremost, she and all her crew. As a rule, however, these sturdy
little craft, which are built as strongly as iron and timber can make
them, will safely ride out a gale such as might well cause many a big
merchantman to quake with fear.
But to-day all thoughts of storm and disaster are far from us as we
sway gently at our moorings in the morning sunshine and watch the
ever-changing panorama before us. The twin domes of Greenwich Hospital
show white and ghostlike through the faint haze which veils everything
in the distance. Presently round a point of land where the river curves
sharply away to the left comes gliding in stately fashion the big
saloon steamer _Alexandra_, followed by the _Albert Edward_ and several
smaller boats, all with numerous flags flying fore and aft, and all, or
nearly all, with bands of music, military or otherwise, on board. A few
minutes later, the Committee Boat, the old and well-known _Eagle_, puts
in an appearance. Suspended by knots of blue ribbon from the captain’s
bridge are the silver cups which will be competed for a little later
on. More passengers crowd aboard the big steamers; one of the bands
plays lustily, an irrepressible drummer being well to the fore; flags
flutter in the breeze; our moorings are cast off; the _Cygnet_ gives
one last screech of triumph, or, it may be, of farewell to those left
behind, and at length we are fairly off on our way to Erith. In front
of us, behind us, and on either side of us are steamers and tugs of all
kinds and sizes; but the river is wide; there is room enough for all,
and we steam along in pleasant company. Now is the time to make sure of
a little luncheon, so that we may not miss the start of the race later
on.
Erith is reached a little before eleven; and here we find the competing
barges arranged in order, waiting for the signal, while the pleasant
little town itself is _en fête_, and thousands of eyes are looking on
from the shore. We voyagers who have come to watch the race keep well
in the background, so as not to impede the start; the Committee Boat
takes up its position; a gun is fired; and before you know what has
happened, anchors are tripped, sails are loosened to the breeze, and
the barges, topsail and spritsail, spring forward on their course like
a flight of dark-hued seabirds newly set free.
The topsail barges—so the official programme informs us—are not to
exceed fifty-five tons register. The first prize is a silver cup of
the value of twenty pounds, and ten guineas for the crew; the second
prize is a silver cup of the value of fifteen pounds, and five guineas
for the crew; then follow other prizes of lesser value. The spritsail
barges are not to exceed fifty tons register. The prizes follow in
the same ratio as those for the topsails, but are not quite equal to
them in value. In addition to their money prizes, a champion flag is
presented to each of the winners, which will flaunt proudly in the
breeze on their voyages up and down the river for many a day to come.
There are fourteen competitors in the race this year, namely, eight
topsails and six sprits. The topsails, merely because they are topsails
and spread more canvas to the breeze than the others, gradually forge
ahead; but that is only what everybody knows will happen. Having seen
them fairly under way, we steam gently along, pass through the midst
of the little fleet, and then get well ahead of them, but not so far
as to be altogether quit of their company, except when some sharp
bend in the river hides them for a little while from view. Now is the
time to get up a friendly sweepstake on board, a task which two of
the company undertake, and carry out satisfactorily. Some enthusiasts
have discovered a pack of cards, and are already deeply immersed in
the intellectual game of Nap. By-and-by, the old historical fort of
Tilbury is reached and passed; and before long, Gravesend comes into
view with its famed hotels and its Gardens, at which we have been so
frequently reminded we may ‘spend a happy day.’ Here we come to a stand
for a little while, in order that we may watch the procession pass,
as do many of the other gaily-decked tugs, together with some of the
big steamers. It is a pretty sight to watch the brown and chocolate
coloured sails come stealing round the reaches of the river, and to see
how cleverly the little craft are handled as they tack here and there
to catch an extra capful of the capricious westerly breeze, or to steal
for a few moments the wind out of some rival’s sails. To-day, in honour
of the occasion, the crews are rigged out in new blue jerseys and
knitted scarlet caps; while the boats themselves are as spick-and-span
as paint and gilding can make them. Each barge carries at its fore its
official number on the programme; and as they glide one by one into
view, innumerable are the glasses levelled at them in the effort to
make out either their name or number. But position in the race at this
point is held to be of small account by those who are supposed to be
knowing in such matters: Tattenham Corner—otherwise the lightship at
the Nore—is still a long way ahead.
Again we steam along in the wake of the barges, again pass through the
midst of them, and again leave them astern. For a while we have left
behind us the excitement of the race. There is a pleasant sound of the
drawing of corks. It is the time for a cigar, a chat, and a bottle of
Bass. As we go gently down, we pass several heavily-laden barges making
their way up river, some of which are pointed out to us as winners in
matches of years gone by; but their racing-days are over for ever, and
they have evidently settled down to the sober, steady work of middle
age. They hail chiefly from the Medway district, we are told, and are
laden with cement, lime, bricks, stone, hay or straw, some of them
voyaging as far inland, by way of the Regent’s Canal, as Camden Town
and Paddington.
And so after a time Southend comes into view, with its terrace-crowned
cliff looking far out across the river, and its mile-and-a-quarter-long
pier, which seems as if it were stretching out a friendly hand to greet
its neighbour, Sheerness, over the way. Half an hour longer brings us
to the Nore.
The lightship at the Nore is the point round which each barge has
to make its way before starting on its return journey up river—the
distance in all, so we are informed, being about seventy miles: not a
bad day’s work for a class of craft which many people are in the habit
of decrying as the tortoises of the river. Occasionally it happens that
there is not enough wind to enable them to complete the regulation
course, in which case the Committee on board the _Eagle_ have power to
fix the point at which the return journey shall begin.
We have been taking matters easy for the last hour or so, and we find
several steamers and tugs lying on and off round the lightship when
we reach it. We follow their example, keeping up just enough steam
to prevent us from drifting with the tide, and here we are presently
joined by other steamers and pleasure-craft of various kinds. Among the
rest comes the indispensable Committee Boat, which is moored alongside
the light. Not long have we to wait before the cinnamon-coloured sails
of the little fleet steal into sight one by one. Glasses come into
requisition again, and all are agog to make out the number of the
leading topsail. ‘No. 3—_Frances_,’ calls out some one keener-sighted
than the rest. And so it proves to be. Gallantly she comes sweeping
down, every man at his post, every eye on the alert. Suddenly the helm
is put about; we see the crew hauling at the ropes like red-nightcapped
demons, and then we hear the swish of the water as the _Frances_,
answering to the call upon her, sweeps round the lightship in a short
but graceful curve, and catching the breeze next moment on the opposite
tack, is speeding away on her return journey, followed by a ringing
cheer from a thousand throats.
The next to round the Nore light is the _Whimbrel_, and after her comes
the _Bras-de-Fer_; while the leader of the spritsails, or ‘stumpies’ as
they are familiarly called, is the _Bessie_. We do not wait till the
whole of the laggards have rounded the light, but steam gently away
till we come to a certain quiet, sunny reach, where we lie by while
sundry hampers are opened and a large measure of justice is meted out
to their welcome contents. After this pleasant interlude, onward again
at full speed till we once more catch up the barges. Now does the
excitement grow apace among such of us as have drawn fortunate numbers
in the sweepstake, to ascertain which are the leading craft, for as
their positions are by this time, such in all probability will they be
at the finish.
Still we go pulsing along at a great pace, showing our heels to many
a steamer as big again as ourselves, till at length we find ourselves
once more at Erith. Here we secure a position close to the Committee
Boat, and not far from the winning-post—a small buoy with a flag atop
of it anchored out some distance in the river. Gradually more steamers
and tugs take up positions no great distance away. On every side of us
are music, dancing, feasting, and high-jinks generally; but not one
angry word, not one coarse expression is anywhere to be heard. Nowhere
could there be a better-tempered holiday crowd.
At length a buzz, a murmur, a general movement, and each one says to
his neighbour, ‘Here comes the first topsail,’ while everybody seems to
ask at once, ‘What’s her number?’ A gun is fired, a band plays _See the
conquering Hero comes_, a great shout is set up, and we all know that
the _Whimbrel_ has won the first prize.
‘Never prophesy till you know,’ seems to be a maxim of wide
application. Who would have thought that the saucy _Frances_, which
headed all the others round the Nore, would only come in fifth at
the finish? But so it was; while the _R. A. Gibbons_, which was
fourth round the light, came in for the second prize. So among the
spritsails—the first round the light came in second, and the second
first.
We do not wait to see the prizes given away, for the evening is growing
chilly, and many of us have a long way to go. We chase the dying sunset
as we steam swiftly up stream, but fail to overtake it. Little by
little its splendours soften, fade, and vanish. Some time between nine
and ten, and while there is still a dusky shimmer on the river, we find
ourselves once more at Blackwall pier; and there we part, hoping to
meet next year when time shall have again brought round the pleasant
River Holiday.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XLIV.—AN APPLE OF DISCORD.
It did not occur to either of these young people that there was
anything at all remarkable or irregular in the circumstance of a lady
visiting the chambers of her betrothed alone. But as this was her first
visit, Madge felt a little awkward, and would have been much more at
ease if Wrentham had not been present.
That gentleman, however, as soon as he perceived who the visitor was,
took up his glossy hat, made his salutations to Miss Heathcote, and
informed Philip that he was obliged to hurry along to the office before
it closed, but would probably return later.
When he had departed, Madge glanced with curiosity round the apartment,
and her first comment was:
‘You ought to have curtains over that doorway, Philip’ (she alluded to
the uncovered entrance to a small recess which was a storeroom); ‘and I
must come in soon and dust the place thoroughly. I wonder you have not
been choked. See here; it is positively disgraceful.’
She ran her finger over the ledge of a bookcase, making a line in the
dust. And with half-timid but wholly curious interest, she continued to
scrutinise the place, making mental notes of what she would have to do
to insure his comfort.
He was astounded. She had been with Mr Shield. She must have been made
acquainted with the terrible nature of his position; and yet she could
placidly criticise the furniture of his room and interest herself in a
question of dusting! He had often admired her cool firmness in moments
of accident, illness, or difficulty; but he could find nothing to
admire in this absolute indifference to the crisis in his affairs. In
his bitterness he was unjust, and his reflections were to this effect:
‘How blessed are those who can be callously calm in the presence of
suffering—of the suffering even of those they are supposed to love!
How many pangs they must be spared; how easy it must be for them to
pass comfortably through the world, where every step we take leads us
by some scene of misery. Ay, they are the happy ones who can pass with
eyes closed, and therefore, nerves unshaken.’
But even whilst these uneasy thoughts were flashing through his brain,
he felt ashamed of himself for allowing them to be suggested by Madge,
whose calmness he knew was not due to want of feeling, but to a
delicate shrinking from the display of it.
She appeared to become suddenly aware of his singular silence, and
looked quickly towards him. His face was in shadow, and she could not
see the ravages which anxiety and sleepless nights had made upon it;
and he did not observe that under her apparent composure there was
suppressed much agitation. The tender eyes looked at him wistfully, as
if afraid that she had done something to offend him, and that he was
about to chide her.
‘Why do you not speak, Philip?’
‘I was wondering if it can be possible that you have not heard how
things stand with me. I was at Willowmere this forenoon, seeking you,
and was told that you had gone to see Mr Shield, intending also to
call on me. Has he said nothing to you about the letter I sent to him
last night? I was obliged to write, because he persists in refusing to
listen to any explanations from me in person. Has he said nothing about
it?’
Madge hesitated. She was in a most unpleasant position. She had hoped
to be able to come gleefully to him with the good news that the
reconciliation between his father and uncle had been effected, and
she was disappointed. Her proofs of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence of all
complicity in Austin Shield’s misfortunes had not been accepted in the
way she had expected. As regarded Philip, she had been assured that he
was safe so long as she kept her promise to Mr Beecham. So she could
neither give him the good news she had been so confident of bringing
to him, nor sympathise fully with his anticipations of absolute ruin.
That was what rendered her manner peculiar, and in his present vision,
ungracious.
‘I have been told that you are harassed by the way things have been
going, and that there have been mistakes somewhere. But I heard nothing
about your letter.’
‘And yet you have been with him and Mr Beecham all day!’
She did change colour at the mention of Beecham’s name, the blood
flushing her cheeks, and then as suddenly fading from them. His
over-wrought nerves rendered him sensitive to the slightest change of
voice, look, or manner.
‘Yes,’ she replied at length steadily; ‘I have been with them a long
time to-day, and they spoke a great deal about you, for they are both
your friends.’
‘No doubt, no doubt. Beecham has no reason to be otherwise; and Mr
Shield has acted as my friend until now, when he leaves me in this
horrible suspense.’
‘But it must be because he is considering what is best to be done for
you.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘He did not say it exactly in those words; but I understood it from
what he did say and from his whole manner in speaking of you.’
‘I suppose I ought to find satisfaction in that.... But how was it you
came to visit Mr Shield? You have not met him before.’ (This abruptly.)
Her eyelids drooped, and her head was bowed a little.
‘He wrote to me. I have met him before.’
‘And you never told me! Where did you become acquainted with him?’
‘At Willowmere.’
‘Why, when was he there? Aunt Hessy does not know of it, or she would
have told me. You did not, although you should have known how pleasant
it would have been to me to find that he had seen you and liked you.’
That she had not previously told him of her acquaintance with Mr
Shield, was a disagreeable sign of want of confidence; but his surprise
was greater than his displeasure. He had never been able to obtain more
than ten or fifteen minutes’ audience of him; and yet here was Madge,
without giving the slightest hint that she had ever seen him, accepted
by him as a friend, and allowed to spend hours with him. If this
was not deception on her part, it bore such a strong resemblance to
conduct of that kind as to make him feel cold. A new pain entered his
distracted mind. If she were capable of deceiving him in one way, how
was he to trust her in other ways? She knew how he hated all mysteries
and underhand work. She knew how he insisted on the simple rule, that
as it was so much more easy and comfortable to be plain and above-board
in everything, than to adopt subterfuge, only fools chose the crooked
course. Yet here he found that, for some unknown reason, she had been
concealing most interesting facts from him.
To Madge the conversation was becoming more and more awkward and even
distressing. She could feel the suspicions which were hovering around
him, and she made an effort to dispel them by assuming a hopeful and,
as far as possible, a cheerful tone.
‘Well, Philip, he asked me to hold my tongue because he wanted to give
you a surprise; and I do not see any harm in it. Will you not let me
have a little freedom of action, when I think I am doing what is to
your advantage?’
‘There never can be any advantage gained for me by your hiding things
from me.’
‘But you must not look upon it so seriously, Philip,’ she said with a
mingling of earnestness and playfulness. ‘Come now; let us talk about
what is of most importance to us both. Tell me how it is your affairs
have come to such a crisis so soon, and how you mean to proceed.’
‘I shall do so; but first I must ask you how long Beecham has known Mr
Shield?’
‘A long time,’ she replied, averting her eyes.
‘And has the secret he confided to you anything to do with me or my
business?’
She would have liked to answer at once, and she was obliged to
hesitate. She saw that he was vexed, and her natural impulse was to
remove every source of vexation between them by telling him all she
knew. The impulse was restrained on his account.
‘It has to do with you; but I wish you would not press me on the
subject—at least not for a little while.’
‘So be it. I have always respected your wishes,’ he rejoined coldly,
and there was even a distant note of bitterness in the tone. ‘I can
now easily give you the information you require about myself. Should
my uncle decline to assist me, I shall to-morrow resign everything I
possess to my creditors, and seek some employment by which I may be
able in course of time to make up to them whatever deficit there may be
in my accounts.’
‘But Mr Shield will assist you—he will not allow you to give up
everything!’
‘As you will not permit me to know the grounds of your confidence in
the continuance of his generosity, and as I have bitter reason to know
that he would be justified in refusing to give further help to a fool
who has in such a short time made away with the capital he placed at my
disposal, I cannot share your expectations or hope.’
‘I am sure he will carry you safely over this difficulty.’
‘In any case, I am his debtor, and the necessity to repay him’——
‘But he does not expect you to repay him,’ she interrupted, watching
him with rapidly increasing anxiety, and now observing how haggard he
looked.
‘I _will_ repay him,’ was the answer, emphasised by passion that was
suppressed with difficulty. ‘I know it will take a long time—maybe all
my life. Knowing that, I am compelled to regard as inevitable and just
the view which Mr Crawshay will take of our position. He will insist on
the same arrangement which he insisted on when I intended to go abroad.’
Wonder was in her eyes, strange pain in her breast. She could scarcely
remember the time when, except in the presence of strangers, Philip had
spoken of Uncle Dick as Mr Crawshay. This simple change affected her
more than his words or his manner, for he maintained a degree of the
bitter calmness of despair. There must be some evil at hand greater
than she could imagine, since it forced him to refer to his friend at
Willowmere in that way.
‘What arrangement are you speaking about, Philip?’
‘I agreed to it then with a light heart; I agree to it now with a
hopeless one. Then it was a jest—now, it is earnest. But it was wise,
and it is wiser now. He required me to consider our engagement at an
end, and to leave you free to choose’——
‘Oh, Philip, Philip!’
The cry came in such piteous accents, that despite his frenzy
he stopped. For a moment he was conscious of the cruelty he was
perpetrating in making such an announcement so abruptly. The golden
visions of the future they had so often conjured up together flashed
through his mind, and he was dazed with pain like her own.
For Madge, she had covered her face with trembling hands, as if in
that way she could shut out the thoughts his words suggested. ‘Free to
choose some one else,’ was what he had been going to say, she knew.
Free! Could love be ever freed when once given? He might die before
her; then she would live on his memory. He might go away from her
and never return; what difference could that make? Men change; women
change; but the being once realised in the idealism of love never
changes to the lover. Else how could love survive, when the mortal form
becomes plain and ugly, old and petulant?
Her thoughts did not run precisely in this form, but they were to the
same purport. She could never care for any man but Philip; and to
suggest the possibility of it would have been hard to bear if made by
any one, but hardest of all when made by Philip. Then a little spring
of mingled indignation and pride started, and the hands dropped from
her face.
‘And can you think that any one at Willowmere would turn from you at a
time of trouble?’
‘No, no; I do not mean that,’ he answered, and his voice had become
feeble, whilst his body swayed slightly, as if he were struggling with
diverse emotions. ‘But if it was fair that you should not be bound down
to a man who was only going away for a year, it cannot be fair to bind
you to one who may have to contend with poverty all his life.’
‘Mr Shield—your father will see that it is not so.’
These names roused him, and his thoughts became collected again. He
spoke almost calmly.
‘My father has distributed his fortune amongst his other children.
Mr Shield has given me a fortune which I, by my careless folly, have
squandered or allowed myself to be cheated out of, as a fool in a
betting-ring might have done. I must pay the penalty of my folly alone.
Therefore I say, you are free.’
She took the lamp and held it up so that the full light fell on his
face. There was a wildness in his eyes, but his lips were compressed,
as if he had come to an unalterable resolution.
‘Do you _wish_ me to think myself free?’—the voice steady, although
the lips trembled.
‘I wish it!’
A pause; and presently through the silence came the low sad words:
‘Then we must say Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye’ was the husky response, and that was all.
(_To be continued._)
HOME-NURSING.
BY A LADY.
SECOND ARTICLE.
Before commencing our subject proper, the sick-room, it may be well to
consider two points very frequently neglected in home-nursing. First,
as to a nurse’s dress. Unless the case be infectious, nothing is better
than some soft woollen material that will not rustle or creak, after
the fashion of silk or print, but that will bear washing should the
necessity arise. If the patient’s taste is known and can be consulted,
all the better; but if a favourite dress is too valuable to be devoted
to sick-room wear and tear, a ribbon bow of some soft bright colour,
and spotless collar and cuffs, will help to give that air of quiet
cheerfulness which is soothing to senses so often rendered painfully
acute by illness. Should there be more than one patient to attend to,
or should the one be quite helpless, there will be a considerable
amount of injury to clothing by rubbing against the beds, &c., which
probably accounts for the style of dress affected by the professional
nurse, which consists usually of a costume of either black flannel
or stiff print. The former is so unsuitable, that it may be regarded
as amongst the last relics of barbarism; and the latter, though
economical and clean-looking, has the great drawback of creaking to an
unlimited extent, and, moreover, would give the home-nurse an unnatural
appearance—a thing to be studiously avoided.
As regards economy, a good substitute for a costume bristling with
starch will be found in a large apron with a full bib, and loose
sleeves to draw up and tie over the elbows. Even these should be made
of a pretty and soft material; for, in our experience, colour and
cheerful surroundings seldom fail to exert a beneficial influence. As
an instance of the decided effect of colour, take the case of a baby,
who at six months had taken no notice whatever of his surroundings;
his parents were beginning to fear the possibility of blindness, when
a friend coming in one day wearing a bright necktie, the sober little
face relaxed, and a smile brought expression to the hitherto vacant
features. The fact was little Hugh had never seen anything but black on
his nurses, and the sight of a bit of bright colour woke up new ideas
of pleasure. I have said that illness often brings back much of the
sensitiveness of childhood, and for this reason, in dealing with the
sick, even small details are worthy of careful consideration. As to
what a nurse should wear on her feet, there are few people who would
not be horrified at the idea of creaky shoes; but I am by no means sure
that the popular notion of list slippers for sick-room use is not a
worse evil. Any one who has experienced the sensation of being wakened
by a sudden presence at his bedside, can see how injurious must be the
same experience to the invalid, who is in a state far more susceptible
to shock, and who, once frightened, will not easily lose the dread of
a repetition. So, on these grounds, wear only ordinary house-slippers
without heels; and in walking across a patient’s room, be careful to
tread quietly, but at the same time in a firm, even way, and never on
tiptoe, nor in that elaborately slow, hesitating manner which keeps an
invalid on tenter-hooks of anxious watching.
Our second point—the care of a nurse’s own health—is one on which it
is impossible to strike too serious a note of warning, for important
as it is, there are very few who give it practical consideration. Yet,
over-zeal is sure to defeat itself, and nature, the sternest balancer
of accounts, only allows a certain amount of work to be done, and
rigidly exacts the penalty from those who forget or ignore her wise
limitations.
All institutions sending out nurses have fixed rules as to a certain
number of hours for sleep and exercise, without which, experience
teaches, no one can safely carry on the laborious duties of a
sick-room; yet the inexperienced imagine they can do what the trained
nurse wisely refuses to undertake, and make attempts at such work as
nursing both by night and day. Such attempts generally retard the
patient’s recovery, and always cause more or less injury to the nurse
whose zeal has been without knowledge. In all cases where the patient
is ill enough to need night-watching, two nurses are absolutely
needful; but one may with advantage take the lead, and never leave the
patient without arranging that he shall be properly cared for in her
absence. The strongest, physically, had better be chief; and it will be
well if she can undertake the whole of the night-work.
It is this question of night-work that is the _bête noire_ of
inexperience; but properly managed, and given an average amount of
health, there is no reason why there should be any great fatigue,
even with prolonged night-watching. The one essential thing is, to
understand and remember that there _must_ be a good allowance of sleep,
and at least two hours devoted to brisk, open-air exercise. It is one
of the rarest things to find the latter point remembered in amateur
nursing, and I have known cases where the whole female portion of a
family has remained indoors for weeks, simply for want of understanding
the vital importance of fresh air and exercise to counterbalance the
unaccustomed strain of nursing. No wonder that in such cases, depressed
spirits and shaken nerves become associated with night-nursing, when,
as a matter of fact, it is only ill-regulated zeal that is to blame.
Still, at first, night-nursing does seem formidable, especially when,
as often happens, it is made to follow upon an anxious day. The only
wise method of beginning is to lie down in the afternoon, after a warm
bath if possible, and try to read yourself to sleep. If you fail, the
rest itself will be some preparation; and if you succeed, you will be
surprised to find how easy your work will be. Take a good meal, and
wash your hands before going into the sick-room; but do not commence
work before eleven o’clock at the earliest. Beginning night-work too
early is a mistake, especially where there is a natural tendency to
fall asleep under the influence of warmth and quiet; but by making it
as late as eleven or half-past, you will have a much better chance of
keeping awake without a struggle. Ordinarily, too, a nurse not going on
duty early will be able to take the lead in washing the patient in the
morning and in making his room tidy. When this is done, she should give
directions for the day, and, if possible, not enter the sick-room again
till it is her turn to mount guard. The only drawback to this plan is
that there may be difficulty in arranging to meet the doctor; but a
little management will generally smooth the way, especially if helpers
are reliable.
On leaving the sick-room, the night-nurse should at once go for a brisk
walk, if possible with a pleasant companion, and the walk ought to
occupy a couple of hours; but if exercise has not been a habit of life,
it will be well to begin with less and gradually increase. It must be
remembered that a dawdling lounge is useless, and that the walk must be
brisk to be of any real service. On returning, the nurse should at once
go to bed and have her sleep out. But if she feel particularly wide
awake, a warm bath will supplement the effects of exercise. On waking,
she should take a cold or tepid bath according to habit. A nurse should
be careful to change her under-linen as often as convenient.
One other thing must be borne in mind in regard to night-work, and that
is, the necessity for taking food during the hours of watching. A nurse
who takes proper time for sleep, misses at least one meal in the day,
whilst needing more than the ordinary allowance of food; so that it
is her duty to take nourishment during the night. A meal between two
and three will help her through the hardest part of the twenty-four
hours; and as soon as she feels hungry or weary, a glass of milk with
an egg in it, a cup of cocoa, or some light soup, will give the needed
support, and will also make a great difference to the ease of keeping
awake and on the alert.
If these rules are carefully followed out, we venture to say there
will be very little cause to dread even the most trying part of
nursing—night-work.
And now as to the sick-room itself. If a choice is possible, let the
room selected be of good size, cheerful, and quiet. It needs to be
fairly large, because air is consumed by nurse as well as patient;
for this reason, a dressing-room adjoining is of great service.
Except in acute and dangerous illness, it is better if the nurse can
sleep away from the patient, always provided there is ready means of
communication. Helpless patients, as a rule, have a natural dread of
being left alone; but few will object to a nurse’s going to bed in an
adjoining room, as long as they have the means of calling her at a
moment’s notice. If she be a light sleeper, a piece of tape tied to her
wrist, the free end being left within easy reach of the patient, will
be enough; or instead of tying the tape to her wrist, she may fasten a
small bell, letting it rest over the head of her bed. Where the patient
is very weak, an excellent contrivance is a piece of india-rubber
tubing with a whistle at one end, and a compressible air-ball at the
other. The latter should be placed on the patient’s pillow, and by the
slightest possible effort, he will be able to make the whistle sound.
Of course, a nurse who adopts such methods must have dressing-gown and
slippers at hand, that she may obey the summons instantly, for nothing
is more likely to irritate a patient than being kept waiting at night.
The sick-room should, if possible, face south or south-west, so as
to get the benefit of the sun. Should the light be too strong, it
is easily regulated by drawing down the blinds, or by hanging up a
piece of some dark material; and in convalescence, the cheerful light
of the sun plays an important part. In a sunny room, however, it is
necessary to exclude the early morning light. The rising sun begins—in
summer—to shine just at a time when, if the patient sleeps at all,
he will be most likely to doze off; and it need hardly be said that
to allow him to be awakened then is to deprive him of one of his best
chances of improving.
But whilst cheerfulness is an essential of a sick-room, it is hardly
less important that it should be free from liability to sudden
noises. It should, therefore, never face a thoroughfare; nor, in a
large family, be so situated as to necessitate much in the way of
footsteps overhead. In cases where there is a nursery, it is well
to take that for the invalid, at whatever risk of injury to other
rooms; for nothing can be more distressing to a patient’s nerves than
the constant pitter-patter of small feet, added to the tumbles and
screams inseparable from nursery-life. At the same time, a room at the
top of the house has the serious disadvantage of causing much extra
up-and-down-stair work, so that in small, grown-up families, it is
well to choose a room as low down as possible. In houses where there
are bedrooms behind the sitting-rooms, it is convenient to take one of
such, especially where there is the comfort of a slab outside, of the
use of which we shall have more to say later on.
A sick-room should not have French-windows, those opening at the top
and bottom being much better for ventilation; and if possible, there
should be either venetian or sun blinds, for the easier regulation of
light. Before beginning to nurse a case, it should be ascertained that
bolts and sashes of windows, cords and pulleys of blinds, hinges of
doors, and ventilators, are all working easily and quietly. It would
seem hardly necessary to add that a fireplace with a good grate, and a
chimney that does not smoke, are also essential.
Before removing a patient to the room that has been selected, it should
be well cleaned, the doors and windows left open, and a fire lighted.
By the time the latter has burned up brightly, the air of the room will
be perfectly fresh, and one of the nurse’s first considerations will
be how to keep it so. Her aim should be so to arrange ventilation that
at no time should an incomer perceive any closeness or smell; in other
words, the air of the sick-room ought to be as pure and fresh as the
outside air; but in our climate this is not always easy, and will never
be accomplished without constant thought and attention.
To understand how important is the question of ventilation, it is
well to consider what it is that causes air to become impure, and
consequently unwholesome. The air we breathe consists, roughly
speaking, of two gases, oxygen and nitrogen. The former is absolutely
necessary for the maintenance of animal life; it is drawn into the
lungs, to be mixed with the blood, and used in various operations of
the body; consequently, the pure gas of oxygen becomes used up, and
the air we breathe out has changed its character, and is charged with
the poisonous gas, carbonic acid. If the same air continues to be
breathed over and over, carbonic acid increases its proportions with
each inspiration, and fatal results follow. From this it will be seen
that even in health there is positive necessity for providing a supply
of fresh air, as well as for the removal of that which has become
vitiated. But in sickness, the need is even greater, as the air given
off from the lungs of the invalid will contain a larger proportion of
poisonous matter. Impure air has always a tendency to ascend, and the
secret of successful ventilation consists in getting rid of the warm,
vitiated air floating at the top of a room. Once get this out, and
nature, abhorring a vacuum, will pour in a fresh supply of pure air.
You may sometimes be able to do this by opening the window wide for
a few minutes, your patient being meanwhile covered up with an extra
blanket, and a light handkerchief over his face. But in cold weather,
this would lower the temperature of the room too much, and in any
case it is hardly a method for the unprofessional nurse, unless with
the doctor’s special permission. And even if this is allowed, it will
not be enough, as the air consumed by you and your patient requires
constant as well as thorough changing.
A fire is an excellent ventilator, as by it warm air is constantly
being drawn up the chimney, whilst its place is taken by fresh; but a
fire alone will not be sufficient, though it will enable you, often,
to keep the window open an inch or two. This will in ordinary cases be
quite sufficient; but it often happens that a patient unused to fresh
air complains of the draught of an open window, and asks to have the
door open instead. Never, if possible, yield to this. It is one of
the commonest mistakes in home-nursing. As I said before, impure air
ascends; and so, if your room be above the ground-floor, the heated,
vitiated air from all the rooms below will come pouring through the
open door of the sick-room. Yet, I have known cases of long-standing
illness where there has been no attempt at ventilation other than
through the door, and where the window has not been opened for months.
In such cases, it not seldom happens that nurses complain of feeling
heavy on waking—they and the patient have been using up the same air
all night—and yet obstinately refuse to put the window down or use a
ventilator, or even to see that the staircase window near the sick-room
is kept open. The last-named expedient is the only one by which
door-ventilation can be of any use; but it is far better to adopt one
of the following plans, nearly always available and safe, even for the
most delicate. The first is a very simple contrivance, which deserves a
place in every bedroom where the window is not kept open at night. Get
a piece of wood the exact width of the window and have it nailed to the
lower sash; you will then have a space between the two sashes, through
which cold fresh air will enter; the current will drive it up towards
the top of the room, whence it will gradually sink through the lighter,
warmer air; and this, with fire-ventilation, will keep an ordinary room
fresh and sweet, at least in winter-time.
Another method is to have the window open at the bottom, and to place,
a couple of inches away from the opening, a screen somewhat higher than
the bottom of the lower sash. A third way is to open the window from
the top, and across the opening nail a piece of muslin or perforated
zinc. Both these methods give an additional current of air; but the
screen in the one case and the perforation in the other prevent such
a rush as to cause the patient to complain of cold. If he objects to
one plan, try another; but never be satisfied with anything short of
complete ventilation, at the same time being very careful to avoid all
draughts.
To keep a sick-room at the proper temperature is another serious
matter. From sixty to sixty-five is the ordinary temperature; but
various diseases require modifications, and it is always well to ask
the doctor what he wishes in this respect. The nurse should never trust
to her own sensation, but get a thermometer, and hang it up near the
patient’s bed. The temperature of a room will often vary by several
degrees in different parts, and the nurse’s concern is that her patient
shall be breathing the right degree of warmth, so the thermometer
should be hung as near the bed as possible. Special care is needed at
night, as the outside air will be considerably colder than by day, and
the nurse will have to keep the fire proportionately larger. This and
keeping the fire clear demand no little attention, especially when the
patient does not sleep well and wakes at the slightest sound. When
this is the case, it is well to start the night with a supply of coal
done up in separate bits of paper. These may be dropped on one by one
with hardly a sound. If the fire requires to be poked, use a piece of
stick with a quick decided movement, which is better than worrying
the patient by stealthy efforts to move first one piece of coal and
then another. Here, a properly fixed gas radiating stove would be
serviceable.
If sleep is a necessity for the patient, and he sleeps on till the fire
gets very low, one of the forms of patent fire-lighters will cause
less noise than the ordinary wood. Ashes should never be allowed to
accumulate, and a wooden shovel for removing them is quite a comfort in
a sick-room.
In very warm weather, of course the fire must be dispensed with; and
there are days even in this country when to keep the temperature cool
is no slight difficulty. The window should be open both at top and
bottom, to give as much current as possible, and the register of the
chimney must not be closed. Agitating the air with a large fan and
sprinkling the window-sill with water are cooling; but best of all is a
large block of ice placed in the middle of the room on a strainer, with
a vessel below to receive the drippings.
VERMUDYN’S FATE.
A TALE OF HALLOWEEN.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
‘Of the troop of figures who came flocking into that strange and
mysterious house, I observed that some of those behind held more
lights, though the room was bright enough already, while the foremost
carried dishes. But I had no eyes for the meat and drink they brought,
or for anything but a girl in their midst; and it was just the same
with Vermudyn, I saw in an instant; only, whilst I was full of horror
and a dread I couldn’t shake off or overcome, Vermudyn felt no fear, no
surprise; only an intense delight flushed his face with joy, and his
eyes glittered, as he came forward eagerly to meet the girl, who, it
seemed to me, was pale as death, with eyes that glowed like flame.
‘I think I never saw so colourless a creature to live and move—if
indeed she did live. And her hair—redder, and yet more golden than the
chain Vermudyn held—was coiled round her beautiful head in the same
snaky folds. She never looked at me for an instant, but went straight
to Vermudyn, and putting both her hands in his, said some words in a
strange language that sounded like spoken music. It was the sweetest
voice I ever heard, and the softest. He answered in the same tongue,
laughing and clasping the hands she put in his. From that minute, he
fell under her spell, and had no eyes or ears for anything save that
strange white woman.
‘She poured out wine for him, and he drank it with feverish haste,
still looking at her and holding her hand. I noticed, though, that he
shuddered when she first touched him, as if her hands were icy-cold;
but he felt that no longer; he was just mad-like and stupid, as a bird
is with a snake. He could only watch her with wild eyes that never left
her face.