[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 46.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
SCOTTISH DEER-FORESTS.
Deer-stalking has for many a long year been looked upon as the king
of sports; and in Scotland, a large area of land has from an early
period been occupied by the red-deer and the roebuck. At the present
time, as far as has been ascertained by a recent inquiry under Royal
Commission, the extent of all the deer-forests in Scotland amounts
to about two millions of acres. It is only, however, right to say
that the land devoted to these animals could not be more profitably
employed. It has been affirmed by practical men that it is scarcely
possible to feed even one hardy black-faced sheep on less than six
acres of such land, so scant is the herbage. Indeed, some intelligent
farmers maintain that it will take a hundred and sixty acres of
forest-land to graze a score of these sheep. No person who is even
tolerably familiar with the deer-districts of Scotland will gainsay
this. The contour, altitude, and climate of a deer-forest quite unfit
it for agricultural purposes—the range of ground occupied by these
stately animals is of the most miscellaneous description: hill and
dale, moor and morass, mountain and glen, with every here and there
rocky precipices, and small groups of trees naturally planted, and
chiefly of the hardy native birch. In the three chief deer-counties
of Scotland, the cultivable area is singularly small in proportion
to their total extent. Taking Argyll, Inverness, and Ross-shire as
examples, only three hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred
and ninety-eight acres are to be found under cultivation, out of an
area which covers six million eight hundred and twenty-three thousand
and two acres, leaving nearly six and a half millions of acres to be
inhabited by sheep, deer, and grouse, and as the site of lochs, rivers,
and mountains, and sterile places on which nothing grows and nothing
can live.
No authentic statistics are collected in Scotland of the deer which are
annually slain in the way of sport; but we are enabled from records
which appear from time to time in the public prints, to estimate the
number of stags which are killed in the different forests. In the
county of Inverness—which may be called the deer-county of Scotland
_par excellence_, in the same way as Perthshire is looked upon as being
the representative grouse-producing county of the kingdom—probably
about sixteen hundred stags are annually killed. The figure which
represents the number of deer in all Scotland, counting animals of all
ages, must be very considerable, seeing that, as stated in evidence
before the recent Royal Commission, it yields to the sportsman’s rifle
four thousand six hundred and fifty stags per annum, and a nearly
equal number of hinds. Scrope the deer-stalker, when writing his
celebrated work some fifty years since, estimated that in the Forest
of Athole, which at that date contained an area of over fifty-one
thousand acres, there would be, young and old, between five and six
thousand deer. Calculating on that data, there ought now to be found
on the two million acres of land at present given over to stags and
hinds and their calves, as many as two hundred and twenty-five thousand
animals of the deer kind. Each stag which succumbs to the prowess of
the stalker has been estimated to cost fifty pounds to the lessee
or proprietor of a deer-forest. At that rate, the four thousand six
hundred and fifty stags annually killed in Scotland represent a sum of
two hundred and thirty-two thousand five hundred pounds paid in the
form of rent and other items of expenditure which are yearly incurred.
As to the rent paid for particular deer-forests, it varies considerably
according to extent and amenities. Some forests contain a large area of
ground; and although the rental per acre looks trifling enough—ranging
as it probably does from ninepence to double, or in some instances to
treble, that sum—the amount soon accumulates and becomes important. For
an area of twelve thousand acres, a thousand pounds will frequently be
paid. Many Scottish forests are, however, rented at double that sum;
and not a few at an even larger rent. In the county of Inverness,
for example, there are a dozen which yield a total amount of fully
thirty-three thousand pounds, including five of three thousand pounds
and upwards, and one of nearly six thousand pounds, of yearly rent.
In the counties of Ross, Argyll, Aberdeen, and Perth there are also
many forests which command a high price. In the first-named county, we
could name twenty that fetch an aggregate annual rent of upwards of
thirty-three thousand pounds, or an average of nearly seventeen hundred
pounds; while it is no secret that an American gentleman pays a yearly
rental for deer-ground in Inverness and Ross of nearly eleven thousand
pounds.
Deer-stalking has been denominated ‘the pastime of princes;’ and it is
a sport that calls for pluck, patience, and endurance on the part of
those who undertake it. From daybreak to sundown has been often spent
in circumventing the monarch of the mountain; and often, after a hard
day’s work, the noble hart has got the better of his pursuers, and
found his way to a place of safety. The deer is difficult of access,
being a most suspicious and wary animal, with a wonderfully acute power
of scent and sense of hearing. The antlered stag has to be watched from
afar with a powerful telescope, the anxious stalker and his gillies
requiring to be circumspect in all their movements. As an intelligent
forester told the writer: ‘You have to creep on your stomach like a
serpent; you have to crouch as you go like a collier at work; while
to make sure of your prey, you may have to make a tour of a couple of
miles, even though you are just about within range. You must force your
way through the morass, and must, if necessary, walk for a few hundred
yards up to your middle in water—that is all in the way of business,
sir, when you go deer-stalking. A slight rustle, the displacing of
a stone on the mountain-side as you laboriously creep or climb to
overlook your quarry, and your chance is gone; the deer being perhaps
miles away before you can realise the fact that you have disturbed him.’
These words contain an epitome of the work of deer-stalking. A stag
will note a man a long way off, and will, when he does so, most
probably at once take alarm and run for his life. The sense of smell
which has been bestowed on these animals is wonderful; wind carries the
scent to them unbroken, and whenever they have ‘got the wind,’ as it is
called, of man, or any other source of disturbance, they are sure to
move off to a place of safety. When once a herd of deer is disturbed,
they will take themselves away to a distance; and it is generally a
considerable time before they settle down again to rest or feed in
quietness. The red-deer is excessively shy, and, as we have been trying
to show, easily frightened. The melancholy note of a flying plover,
the crowing of a cock-grouse, or the bustling past of a mountain hare,
will sometimes cause him to gallop in a state of alarm for a mile or
two before he pauses to see what has happened; and consequently, it
is generally the policy of the devoted deer-stalker to discourage
the rearing of grouse or hares in his deer-forest. The desire for
possessing ‘fine heads’ causes some of the best specimens of the tribe
to be shot at an early stage of the season, a stag-royal being a prize
greatly coveted. It is a somewhat curious feature of the economy of
a forest that so few horns are found. The deer sheds its horns every
year; but what becomes of most of those that are shed is not very
accurately known, the number found not being in anything like proper
proportion to the number that must be shed. The horns, as a general
rule, are given to the foresters who find them, as a perquisite; and
therefore it may be taken for granted they are well looked after; or
their scarcity may be partly due to the fact of their being eaten by
the deer themselves after being shed! This, to a certain extent at
least, seems certainly to be the case.
It has been said of the Highland sports of deer-stalking and
grouse-shooting, that as they never can be made to ‘pay’ in a
commercial sense, so they never can be vulgarised. The deer-forests
in particular are sure to remain select; it is only men who have an
annual income of many thousands who can afford to indulge themselves
in the ‘pastime of princes.’ As regards the produce of these vast
areas of ground—the venison—it can hardly be said to have a marketable
value. To produce a haunch at table on the occasion of a dinner-party
is with some persons a matter of ambition; but table venison, except
in Highland shooting-lodges and hotels, is generally obtained from
park-bred fallow-deer, especially fed for the purpose, and which in its
season commands a very high price. Red-deer venison—that is, a haunch
from a Highland hart or hind—can only be assigned a secondary place
in the cuisine. Happily, some sportsmen have discovered that venison
does not require to be kept till it has begun to decay before it can
be brought to table, but can be used to the greatest advantage in the
space of two or three days after being killed, when its flavour is
excellent and the flesh presumably nutritious. The deer can also be cut
into chops, such cuts being delicious. Among sportsmen who thus utilise
their venison we may be allowed to name the father of them all—Horatio
Ross. There is, however, some probability that the Scottish red-deer
may yet cut a better figure at table than it has ever done, and pains
are being taken, we understand, to fortify the various breeds. The
deer is a rather local animal, and therefore there must be in the
various herds a certain amount of in-breeding; and to counteract the
deterioration which must result from such a circumstance, Sutherland
stags were some time ago placed in the forests of Ross and Cromarty
with gratifying results; the Queen, it was some time ago stated, had
forwarded some red-deer from Windsor to be crossed with the deer of the
Duke of Portland in the county of Caithness; and various gentlemen well
known in the deer-forest world of the Highlands have recently followed
these examples. It is to be hoped we may learn in time how these
experiments have succeeded.
In conclusion, we have only to remark, that it is a fortunate
circumstance for the owners of Highland estates that they can be
rented for deer-forests. In no other way could the proprietors obtain
so good an income from their lands. Those engaged in the sport of
deer-stalking year by year expend a large amount of money; they
give remunerative employment to many hundred persons, and have done
much in many instances to improve the moral as well as the material
circumstances of the people by setting those employed by them a good
example. As to the question whether it would be more profitable to feed
sheep or deer, that must be left to settle itself by the inevitable
operation of economic law. It is a question of rental; persons having
moors and forests in their hands, naturally enough let them to those
who offer most money for them. It has been accurately ascertained by
the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the Crofting System, &c., that all
the deer-forests in Scotland—comprising about two million acres—are
capable of throwing on the market only about four hundred thousand
sheep per annum; and as there are in the United Kingdom nearly thirty
million sheep, it is at once seen how comparatively meagre is the
displacement of sheep by the Scottish deer-forests.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER LVI.—UPHILL.
She knew and he knew that they were something more to each other on
that white winter day than they had ever been before. What the degree
of the ‘something more’ might be, neither Madge nor Philip attempted
to calculate. They were conscious of it, and that was enough: yet
both wondered how there could be this sense of closer alliance, when,
looking back, they remembered how often they had thought that nothing
on earth could decrease or increase their affection. They were learning
the priceless lesson that _Love_ grows in suffering where mere passion
quickly withers and dies, and frequently turns to hate.
An honest, promptly spoken word had saved them from folly—cleared the
mist from his eyes, and scoured the misery out of both hearts. And it
was Madge who spoke this magical word, as it is the loving woman—God
bless her—who always does. But then, says the cynic, ‘the loving woman’
is so rare that she may be freely allowed all possible praise: vanity
and interest have generally much more to do in linking men and women
than affection. Read your newspaper, note the lives of those around
you, count the sores which the four walls of every house conceal, and
then you will know how rare she is.—Go, cynic; we will shut our eyes
and dream the beautiful dream of all romance, that women are fair,
self-sacrificing, and loyal in their love.
Madge was insensible of any special heroism in taking the common-sense
view of her duty to Philip and acting upon it. So now, the happy end
being achieved, she turned calmly to think of what they had to do for
others.
As they walked back towards the cottage, she spoke about Caleb Kersey,
and the perilous position in which he was placed by the accusation
of Coutts, supported as it was by the servant’s unintentionally
exaggerated account of the prisoner’s conduct at the door of the
Manor a few hours before the fire was discovered. She learned with
satisfaction that Philip had not forgotten his unlucky foreman.
‘I have been to the court,’ he said, ‘and Caleb is remanded for a week,
in order to collect further evidence as to his movements on that night,
and to see how my father progresses.’
‘How did he look? What did he say?’
‘He looked as if he did not care what befell him; he said nothing more
than that he was innocent, and I am sure of it. The poor fellow has
been cruelly upset by Pansy’s conduct, and he has got into this scrape
because he could not take warning in time that Coutts was too cautious
a man to become his rival.’
‘But will he be able to prove his innocence?’
‘I hope so; and the next examination will enable us to form a clearer
idea of his chances than we can at present. Coutts has had a slight
disappointment in a business transaction, and is merciless towards
Caleb. I suppose he is relieved to find some one to vent his spleen on.’
Philip smiled faintly, and she was glad to see even the least sign of
his returning to his natural good-humoured way of viewing life. He did
not explain to her that the business transaction in which Coutts had
failed was his attempt to secure a snug place in Mr Shield’s will by
ousting his brother.
‘Whatever we settle to do,’ Mr Shield had said with a shrewd twinkle in
his eyes, and referring to Coutts, ‘don’t let that gentleman into our
plans.’
Mr Beecham, with a grave bow, had acquiesced in this counsel, the
wisdom of which Philip could not dispute, although he was not at the
moment acquainted with the details of his brother’s design.
‘Don’t see the dodge?’ continued Shield brusquely. ‘It’s plain as
daylight. He wanted to get you into a hole, reckoning that the rich
uncle would give him your place. He expected that bill would do it; for
if he didn’t know from the first that it was a forgery, he believed it
was, and made sure of getting his own and more out of the rich relative
somehow. But when he heard of things going wrong, and being sharp
enough to see that other people had their eyes open as well as him,
he got too anxious to hedge to be able to carry out his scheme as he
intended. Didn’t quite miss his mark either, though’—this was uttered
like a growl of disappointment—‘for, thanks to you, he has got his own;
but he’ll get no more.’
Philip remembered with what cynical frankness Coutts had explained the
ethics of business which guided him; but, until now, he had always
imagined there was more talk than practice in it. He certainly never
suspected him of being capable of putting such theories into practice
with a friend and relative. Pat upon this reflection, one of Coutts’s
favourite apothegms recurred to him—‘There are no friendships in
business.’ He owned with chagrin that the theories of Wrentham and
Coutts were identical, although the former was not so careful in
utilising them as to succeed.
The brothers rarely met at this time, and then only exchanged a passing
‘How do you do?’ After Mr Hadleigh’s removal to Willowmere, Coutts
arranged with Dr Joy to send for him if there should be any marked
change for the worse in the patient’s condition.
‘He wants quiet, you say,’ was the observation of this smart young man
of business; ‘and there is no use in my trotting out here when I can do
nothing. You’ll let me know if anything is required.’
He was punctual as ever in his attendance at the office; lunched
and dined at his club, where he spent the evening playing billiards
or cards, with an occasional diversion to one of those shady places
to which ‘baccarat’ was the fatal lure. But Coutts did not lose;
even here his usual caution protected him. He did not want to see
Philip at present; for although his money was safe, he felt mortified
by his inability to penetrate the mystery of the bill, and by the
consciousness that he had failed most egregiously in the attempt to
ingratiate himself with Mr Shield.
Philip paid a brief visit daily to the farm, but it was very brief; and
in that first week of anxiety, Madge and he spoke little of themselves
or of their future. There was no need: everything was understood
between them now, and they were too deeply engaged in earnest duties
to allow themselves any relaxation until the immediate crisis in their
affairs had been passed.
At the works, Philip laboured with all his might to pull things
straight, and he had frequent occasion to wish that he might have had
the assistance of Caleb Kersey. Mr Beecham, however, was at his elbow,
encouraging him with words of hope and sage advice. The accounts of
various firms as represented in their invoices were largely reduced
in consequence of Wrentham’s confessions. In most cases it turned out
that two sets of invoices had been prepared: one set gave the real
amounts which were to be paid to the dealers; the other set gave the
sums which Philip had to pay. The explanation given was that Wrentham
had represented himself as the buyer, and was therefore at liberty to
charge whatever price he could get when he sold.
Even in the first transaction which Philip had entered into, namely,
the purchase of the land, a bold attempt had been made to mulct him in
a sum equal to double its value. He had, however, absolutely refused to
listen to the terms proposed; and Wrentham had been obliged to content
himself with what most people would have considered a very satisfactory
commission of twenty per cent.
The details of these frauds—or should they be called merely ‘sharp
practice?’—were forced from Wrentham as much by the terror of Bob
Tuppit’s threat to give evidence in the matter of the forged bill as
by gratitude for the generosity of Philip and his uncle. One by one
the accounts were amended as far as they could be; and the amendment
represented a considerable amount.
Wrentham gave his information with the air of a man who has simply
failed in what promised to be a good speculation. Two things distressed
him—he had been found out, and he had lost the whole of the money he
had schemed so elaborately to obtain, by mistakes on the turf and the
Stock Exchange. One important item, however, was safe. Despite his
gambling infatuation, he had invested the proceeds of the forged bill
in sound securities, so that the whole amount was recoverable. Yet the
man was so insensible to the criminality of his proceedings, that he
was secretly regretting the loss of the pleasure and excitement he
might have purchased with this money, if he had not been fool enough to
desire to have a nest-egg.
* * * * *
In this week of hard work and anxiety to Philip and Madge, Caleb Kersey
was again called on to answer the charge of malicious incendiarism.
The doctors were able to give a satisfactory report of Mr Hadleigh’s
progress; and that was so much in the prisoner’s favour. All the rest
told heavily against him, especially his apparent indifference as to
the result of the trial, which some honest country-folk regarded as
signs of the hardened sinner, who had caused so much disturbance in
the country by his demands for higher wages and better housing for the
agricultural labourers.
He admitted the general accuracy of the statement made by Coutts
regarding their interview; whilst he refused to give any information
as to the grounds of their quarrel. He affirmed, however, that after
the door of the Manor had been closed against him, he had speech with
Coutts’s father, who, on hearing his complaint, had directed him to be
at the house early in the morning, and promised that justice should be
done him. He further admitted that it was true that he had only reached
his lodgings in the village a few minutes before the first alarm of
fire was raised.
On his own showing, there seemed to be no alternative for the
magistrate but to commit him for trial.
At this point, Mr Jackson, of Hawkins and Jackson, solicitors, who was
acting for the prisoner by the instruction of some friends, called
forward that astute detective, Sergeant Dier. He had been engaged
for several days investigating into the origin of the fire; and he
was now prepared with evidence which would not only establish the
prisoner’s innocence, but would show that he had behaved heroically on
the occasion, and was in fact the man who at the peril of his own, had
saved the life of Mr Lloyd Hadleigh, the proprietor of Ringsford.
The face of Sergeant Dier was a picture of good-humoured satisfaction;
whilst preserving a proper degree of professional firmness and
equanimity, as the case was developed in court. Mr Jackson’s sharp
visage was aglow with self-complacency, as if he would say, ‘I alone
have done it.’
First there was the testimony of Mr Hadleigh, written down at his
bedside by a duly qualified gentleman—to the effect that he had made an
appointment to meet the prisoner as the latter had affirmed, and for
the purpose mentioned by him. Next Philip gave the man an excellent
character for intelligence, sobriety, and honesty. He was followed by
half-a-dozen witnesses who had seen Caleb’s brave rescue of Mr Hadleigh
when no one else would dare to attempt it.
Last came a housemaid, who confessed what she had been too much
frightened to confess before. She had been sitting up late writing
a letter (to her sweetheart of course—these things occupy a great
deal of time), and hearing voices downstairs, she had gone into the
passage, curious to discover the cause of the disturbance. As she was
retreating hastily, she upset a paraffine lamp; but in her eagerness to
get back to her room, she did not observe any signs of fire, or think
of any danger until she heard the alarm.
The result of this evidence was a severe reprimand to the girl, and the
instant discharge of Caleb Kersey without a stain on his character, and
with a high compliment from the bench on the gallantry he had displayed
in the rescue of Mr Hadleigh.
Caleb thanked His Worship, and retired, but not before Mr Jackson
had whispered that it was a question whether he had not grounds for
an action against Coutts Hadleigh. Poor Caleb neither understood nor
heeded this suggestion in his present state of mind. He wanted to get
away from the place. He was stopped, however, by Philip, who grasped
his hand warmly, and asked him to come back to the works.
‘Thank you kindly, sir; but it may not be. I am bound to cross the
water, and seek some place where I can forget the old land and—the old
friends.’
‘Hoots, man, what clavers,’ exclaimed the gardener, stepping forward.
‘You should not be headstrong. There’s as good living in the auld
country as in the new, if you would seek it in the right way.’
A kindly hand pressed Caleb’s arm, and a soft voice said in a tone of
intense relief:
‘I am glad you are safe.’
Caleb pressed Pansy’s hand in his own, and held it firmly for a few
seconds.
‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said quietly, although huskily. ‘I wish you
well.’
And with that he forced his way through the group of friends and
disappeared.
HOME-NURSING.
BY A LADY.
FOURTH ARTICLE.
Having fully considered the choice and management of a sick-room, we
now turn to those personal cares essential alike to the patient’s
comfort and well-being.
We have already spoken of the need of absolute cleanliness in the
sick-room; and as regards the patient himself, it is hardly possible
to overestimate the importance of scrupulous attention to every detail
affecting the purity of his immediate surroundings. Not only should
bed and body linen be kept fresh and clean, but everything that has
become soiled in using must at once be removed from the room. It is
a very common practice in home-nursing to make a collection of dirty
things, to be carried downstairs when any one is going; in this way, I
have known a room to be fouled for hours, the patient being considered
whimsical for complaining of odours not perceptible to his nurse. Now,
any such complaint should receive immediate attention, and a nurse
should never rest satisfied till she has discovered and remedied the
evil. It not seldom happens that the patient’s sensitive condition
makes him extra quick to discern such warning of danger; and the nurse
who really desires to do her duty, instead of taking offence, will
gladly avail herself of the help thus given; for it must be borne in
mind that as surely as smoke indicates fire, so surely does a bad
smell indicate a foulness of air, which will never be remedied till the
cause has been removed. Remembering this, it will be seen how foolish
is the practice of drowning unpleasant odours by the indiscriminate use
of disinfectants; these have their special value—their proper sphere
we shall consider in dealing with infectious diseases; but in ordinary
illness, they are apt to be used simply as a covering-up of evils which
demand entire and immediate removal.
As regards personal cleanliness, many people still retain the
old-fashioned fear of washing, which used to condemn the patient to a
state of dirt, equally uncomfortable and injurious. Of course, care and
discrimination are needful, and if there is any doubt on the matter,
it is better to ask the doctor’s opinion; but as a rule, daily washing
of face, neck, and arms is possible in all cases fit for home-nursing;
in addition, the legs and feet should be washed about every other day;
and whenever practicable, a weekly bath should be given. For the daily
wash, tepid water and a piece of flannel suit most patients best; but
where cold sponging is a refreshment, it may be used, provided due care
is taken to avoid a chill.
In cases where there is great feebleness, much care must be exercised
in washing the patient and changing his body-linen. Before beginning,
the nurse should see that the room is properly warmed, and that _all_
she is likely to need is ready to hand; she must be careful that no
draught shall reach her patient, and that he does not get a chill
through unnecessary dawdling; at the same time, she must not hurry him,
so as to increase the fatigue.
Any amount of washing is tiring to the very weak, and therefore toilet
operations had better begin soon after breakfast. If possible, the
body-linen should be changed at the same time. It is a good plan
to keep two sets of under-linen going, so that the same may not be
worn day and night. If the patient perspires much, the linen must be
dried and warmed each time of changing; it is not enough that it has
been once aired; every time it becomes damp the same process must be
repeated. The same thing applies to towels, which are so often put away
damp and used again without airing; no wonder that illness, resulting
from cold, shivering or a fit of coughing, not seldom follows the
washing process, whilst the simple precaution of using a towel well
aired and warmed would do away with the discomfort.
Sometimes lying in bed produces great irritability of the whole skin,
and the patient shrinks from any attempts at washing. In such cases, a
soft sponge should be used, in one direction only, and that downwards;
and a nice way of drying a sensitive part is to lay the towel smoothly
over the place and pass the hand over the towel three or four times,
very much as though drying a wet page with blotting-paper.
During the process of bit-by-bit washing, the bedclothes must be
protected by a piece of mackintosh or thick towel; but should they
become wetted, they must be changed at once, for even if not damp
enough to do serious injury, there is sure to be some amount of
discomfort; and everything, however small, that causes annoyance must
be looked upon as a drawback to recovery, and treated accordingly.
In addition to the regular washing, any portion of the patient’s body
that becomes accidentally soiled must be at once cleansed; and whenever
the confinement to bed becomes lengthy, the back and shoulders should
be washed every day with warm water and soap, thoroughly dried, and
lightly dusted over with finely powdered starch. The patient must also
be prevented from remaining too long in one position; and if too weak
to move himself, it will be part of the nurse’s care to turn him from
side to side every three or four hours. Where this is impracticable,
pressure must be relieved by the use of cushions, those with a hole
in the middle being most useful for the purpose. If these precautions
are not taken, the most prominent bones, exercising undue pressure on
soft parts, will cause them to give way, the skin will become tender
and inflamed, and if not stopped in time, a painful wound, difficult
to relieve or cure, will be the result. I have known cases where these
wounds have caused infinitely more distress and pain than the patient’s
actual disease; and yet, with few exceptions, it is only a question
of care and attention. So true is this, that a trained nurse looks
upon such wounds as a disgrace, and is constantly on her guard against
them; but the inexperienced nurse neglects this necessary watchfulness,
simply through ignorance of the danger to be avoided. But forewarned
should be forearmed; and by taking care to avoid dirt, pressure, and
creases in the bedding, even the most inexperienced stand a good chance
of success in this most troublesome part of nursing. At the same time,
if, in spite of care, any portion of the skin reddens or becomes
sensitive, the doctor should at once be informed of the fact, for this
is one of the best examples of the old saying, ‘Prevention is better
than cure,’ and it is too late to cry out when the mischief is done.
If the patient is too weak to sit up and use a toothbrush, a piece of
lint should be tied to the end of a small stick such as a penholder,
and wetted with water to which a little Condy’s fluid has been added;
with this, the nurse can easily clean the teeth and gums. Brushing the
hair requires a certain amount of tact and gentleness; with female
patients the hair is apt to get into a troublesome tangle, unless
plaited up loosely and tied at the ends. Sometimes moistening the
brush with toilet vinegar will be liked, and in not a few cases gentle
brushing has a soothing effect. I remember one instance where, under
this influence, and this alone, restlessness would subside into quiet,
leading to refreshing sleep. The same effect may sometimes be produced
by sponging the face and hands with tepid water, with or without the
addition of a little vinegar or Eau de Cologne; and again, in other
cases, letting the hands lie in a basin and gently pouring cold water
on them will be found grateful. It is well worth a nurse’s while to
study her particular patient’s taste, and to find out some such simple
method of relieving the weariness and monotony of illness.
To lift a helpless patient is by no means an easy task to inexperience,
and should never be attempted without help. When the patient is utterly
helpless, two long poles or broom-handles will be needed; these must
be tightly rolled round in the under sheet and blanket, and the patient
can then be moved, as in a stretcher, by four bearers.
To move a patient from side to side, the draw-sheet alone is needed.
Rolling one end close to the body, the nurse goes round to the other
side of the bed, and by taking hold of the rolled-up part, will be able
to turn the patient gently over with perfect ease. Where the draw-sheet
is not being used, it is a good plan to let a heavy patient lie on a
strong roller-towel, which can be used as above; and if two people
grasp it firmly on each side, they will be able to move the patient
up and down in bed without fatigue or injury. This plan is especially
useful in dropsy, when the patient becomes a dead, heavy weight, and is
often restless to a painful extent.
In many cases, a patient, otherwise helpless, will be able to move at
least his position by the use of a strong towel or cord tied to the
foot of the bed. Hospital-beds are almost invariably provided with a
cord and handle for the patient to grasp; but a better thing still
is a netted hammock, a simple contrivance consisting of a piece of
netting—of twine or coarsest knitting-cotton—four yards long by one
and a half wide, the loops at each end being drawn up with tape; these
tapes are tied to the foot of the bed; and the netting not only serves
as a cord, but, thrown over the patient’s head and drawn out across
his shoulders and back, forms a most easy, comfortable support. I
have seen patients sitting up thus, who had mournfully declared it an
impossibility, and whose delight at the change of position was a thing
to be remembered.
In grasping any part of a patient’s body, be very careful not to
take hold with the finger-ends; the whole hand should be used, and
the fingers slightly spread out; anything like a hesitating touch
is exasperating, and indeed hesitation in any way must be carefully
avoided in dealing with the sick. It is well to remember that a
certain amount of work has to be done, and a certain amount of noise
must follow; make up your mind how much, and go to work thoroughly,
quickly, and quietly; quiet, though, must be natural, not laboured; the
tiptoe, whispering style is torture to sensitive nerves; a firm, even
tread and a distinct way of speaking should be cultivated; the latter,
especially, will make all the difference to a patient’s comfort. To be
constantly on the strain to hear is by no means soothing; and whispered
conversation as to the patient’s condition must never be indulged in.
Some people, realising this, will go out of the sick-room, to carry on
low-toned consultations just outside the door and within hearing of
the patient, who involuntarily strains every nerve in the endeavour to
catch what is being said. Such treatment is even worse than unnecessary
noise, and all discussion relating to the patient must be carried on
where there is no possibility of his hearing it. It is a safe rule
to avoid detailing the patient’s symptoms to relatives or friends;
sensitive, delicate minds are often made to suffer unnecessarily, from
the consciousness that sick-room details are being made the subject of
curious inquiry and remark.
It not seldom happens that in delirium, or extreme weakness, the
patient will let out some cherished secret, and this should be as
jealously sacred to the nurse as though the confidence had been
voluntary, the only allowable violation being when the revelation
made throws any light upon the patient’s illness; in such a case, the
doctor must be told; and this brings us to a most important point—the
relations between doctor and nurse, a point which is seldom understood
by the inexperienced.
The nurse’s responsibility is great; she has many duties to perform,
some of them apparently slight, yet really of vital importance; but
at the same time, she is only acting under orders, and when those
orders have been faithfully carried out, her responsibility ends; it
therefore follows, that whatever her private opinion, she must never
alter the treatment without the doctor’s express permission, and
whatever she may think, she should never, by word or deed, seek to
lessen the patient’s confidence in the patient’s doctor. It sometimes
happens that injudicious friends suggest remedies of their own, and
insist upon their being used; any such interference should be at once
reported to the doctor, for how else can he form a right opinion as
to the patient’s condition? Yet so often is this overlooked, that, I
believe, in many home-nursed cases the doctor’s treatment is never
allowed fair-play; and I have even known a prescription, that had been
torn up by the doctor as unsuitable, carefully pieced together after
his departure, and used. Perhaps in no other point is there such a
marked difference between the trained and untrained nurse. The former
has been taught that her power lies in obedience; the latter, ignorant
of her very ignorance, ventures to meddle in matters which, had she but
a little more knowledge, she would understand to be beyond her.
Not a little of the nurse’s value depends on her ability to give the
doctor a proper report of how matters have been going during his
absence. A patient will often pull himself together and even feign
convalescence for the doctor’s visit, which is necessarily brief;
whilst the nurse, spending hours with him, sees every varying mood and
symptom; at the same time, she must remember that the doctor does not
want her opinion, but asks only _facts_, which will enable him to draw
his own conclusions. From this it will be seen that the nurse needs to
understand what to notice and how to report her observations.
As to what to notice—each illness has its specific symptoms, about
which the doctor will make special inquiries, and he will also expect
to hear what effect has followed the use of remedies; but in addition
to these, there are general symptoms to be taken account of in all
illness. Amongst those most frequently overlooked by the inexperienced
nurse, are: _The appetite_, whether good, failing, fanciful, or
voracious. _The skin_, whether moist or dry, hot or cold; and whether
sensitive to touch. _Sleep_, its character and duration; whether
quiet, disturbed, broken, or uninterrupted, and whether the same by
day and night. _Posture_, whether the patient lies very flat, or likes
to be raised, or prefers to keep on one side; in going to sleep, the
easiest attitude will be chosen, and any marked change in this respect
should be noticed. _Temper and spirits_, whether equable or variable,
moody, cheerful, excitable, calm, depressed, or inclined to tears.
_Countenance_, whether liable to changes of complexion or expression.
When visitors are allowed, the effect upon the patient should be noted;
and at any cost, in serious cases, those whose influence is depressing
or exciting must not be admitted.
A nurse should also, without being fussy, keep an eye to any fresh
symptoms that may appear, and duly report them; but nothing is more
worrying than to be constantly teased with such questions as: ‘Are
you in pain?’ ‘Do you feel better now?’ ‘Will you let me look at your
tongue?’ Those who have endured the martyrdom, know what it means, and
know, too, how little information can be gleaned by such methods. Let a
nurse be sympathising by all means, but let her sympathy show itself in
caring for her patient’s wants, and in efforts to save him from worry
as well as from pain.
I remember a trained nurse who was deeply hurt at being told that a
bell would be placed within her patient’s reach, in case he wanted
anything at night. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ was her reply; ‘my patient will
not need to ring.’ Nor did he, thanks to his nurse’s constant care to
anticipate his wants. A nurse thus watchful, will be quick to notice
any change in her patient; but it is quite one thing to notice, and
another to give a faithful report of what has been observed; and I
would urge every inexperienced nurse to be very particular in jotting
down at once all that strikes her attention. The simplest way of doing
this is to keep a sort of diary of all that happens. Take a piece of
writing-paper, keep one side for day and one for night, write the date
at the top, crease it down the middle, and note on one half, all the
patient takes and does, and on the other, anything you think demands
notice. The following is a specimen of the sort of chart I mean.
October 4.
A.M. | A.M.
8. Cup of tea and toast. |
10. Four ounces milk. | 10. Milk taken with difficulty
| and dislike.
11. Medicine. |
11.15. Poultice to chest and |
back. |
|
11.30. Slept twenty minutes. | 11.30. Turned on right side
| before going to
| sleep.
12. Four ounces beef-tea. |
12.30. Mrs A. called, stayed |
quarter of an hour. |
| 12.45-1.30. Excited and
| depressed by Mrs
| A.’s call.
Are visitors to be allowed?
The reverse side might read thus:
October 4.
P.M. | P.M.
8. Four ounces milk. |
9. Jacket poultice. |
9.30. Dozed half-hour. | 9.30. Skin hot and dry,
| face flushed; woke
| excited and restless.
10. Opiate as directed. |
10.45. Slept two hours. |
| 11.30. Began to perspire,
| expression tranquil;
| woke refreshed.
12.45. Four ounces milk. |
To keep such a chart properly requires some practice, but it is the
only way of insuring accuracy, and it will also save a good deal of
questioning on the doctor’s part, a glance being enough to show him how
matters stand.
At the bottom of the first page, it will be noticed there is a
question, which, unless so marked, would very likely be forgotten; and
whenever the nurse is in any difficulty or uncertainty, she must never
hesitate to ask for guidance. The doctor will not expect perfection
from inexperience, and even if he does not volunteer information, will
certainly not object to answering reasonable questions. Of course,
there is a great deal of difference in this as in all things, and there
are doctors who take for granted that everybody knows certain things,
of which even the intelligent, who have not had their attention called
to nursing, may be quite ignorant. But even when this is the case, the
nurse’s object being her patient’s good and not the support of her own
dignity, if she is not sure of her ground, it is her duty to ask for
instruction.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.