CLOUDY WEATHER.
“Diseases, desperate grown,
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.”
“Angry looks can do no good,
And blows are dealt in blindness;
Words are better understood
If spoken but in kindness.”
Thus far, the tide of prosperity had been flowing without a check;
we had visited many scenes, encountered dangers and surmounted
difficulties, when a sudden and unexpected ebb set in.
I had quite made up my mind to remain in the country on the principle
that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; besides which I was a
little incredulous as to the oft-repeated and over-estimated advantages
of India, and by no means eager to partake of its imaginary delights.
Calcutta was odious, and Rangoon, in comparison, a paradise; while,
besides enjoying excellent health, I was saving a goodly number of
rupees, and making many friends. Hitherto the gates of Burmah had been
closed to ladies, for whom “No Thoroughfare” had been the stern decree;
but all this must ere long be cancelled, and then what an influx there
would be of grass widows and perhaps too unmarried belles, tempted to
try their fortunes in fresh woods and pastures new!
For some time to come, the comforts and pleasures might be inferior to
those of Indian stations, but then there would be the reunion of loving
hearts, that could find bliss in a cottage, even where the roses and
honeysuckle were not.
The other day I came across a little book, “The Queen of Flowers,”
which the author dedicated to his wife, and my thoughts were carried
back to the date at which it was written, the days ere chivalry had
fled and men had contracted the bad habit of talking disparagingly
of the gentler sex. Now, in the height of their selfishness, they
shut themselves up in their clubs, where they pore over the papers,
criticize passers-by, and enjoy the fat of the land!
With us at that period, civilization was only at its budding stage, but
nowhere perhaps did the plant make more brilliant progress than here,
under the fostering hand of its Chief Commissioner, who paved the way
for the prosperity which was to follow.
Some there were who vilified the land in no measured terms, but only
such as missed certain comforts to which they had been accustomed. The
leaven is working among the rising generation, who, unless pampered
with all manner of luxuries that we were unacquainted with in my young
days, profess to find life scarcely worth the living.
Not choice, but dire necessity compelled me to quit a country so
pregnant with future advantages. I was standing one morning by the
bedside of a patient, when a shiver passing through me warned me that
the fever of the place had at length taken hold of my system.
I was in for a very stiff attack of the quotidian or daily variety,
so intense indeed that it defied such supposed antidotes as arsenic or
quinine.
The “bacilli” must have originated from a strong and determined race
of microbes, for the “cold, hot, and sweating” stages were unusually
protracted, and unaffected by quinine in 30-gram doses, which nearly
blew the roof of my skull off, and certainly paralyzed my organs of
digestion.
After a fair fight, medicine succumbed to microbes, and I had to beat
a retreat.
A river trip failing to have the desired effect, I determined to
try the sea. I was accordingly carried on board a steamer early one
morning and placed in an easy chair under an awning, where I reclined,
totally indifferent to all around, and perfectly willing to be heaved
overboard. My appetite had completely vanished, and for several days I
had eaten only oranges, solid food having been utterly distasteful and
tobacco equally so.
The bell struck for breakfast, and the captain tried to coax me down
into the cuddy, but without success. Towards evening, however, I
suddenly felt hungry, the first time for many days past, and I actually
managed to get through a good round meal, followed by a quiet smoke on
deck.
The voyage lasted a week, at the end of which time all traces of the
fever had completely vanished. The snake was, however, only scotched;
for the next twenty-five years it periodically raised its head feebly,
always of course when least wanted or expected; generally when I was
going to bed, and once even at the most awkward and critical period of
an accouchement.
This intermittent recurrence continued until I left the East for good
and all, when it expired in a singular fashion. I had been suffering
for some time past from the most painful boils, all of which had
vanished, save one on my leg. Some ten days after my arrival in Europe,
and while still in Germany, I was seized one morning with a most acute
pain in the region of the abdomen, followed by an attack of the _old
Burmah fever_, from which I lay insensible for three days. On coming
round, my attention was at once drawn to a spot on my leg which felt
icy cold, and I found that the boil had mortified and was black as a
coal. It came out with a charcoal poultice, leaving a circular, deep
excavation, which only healed after many weeks.
One of the numerous eccentricities of this disease is to lie dormant in
the system for many years; in my own case the “bacilli” appear to have
concentrated themselves in the boil, and, after having killed it, must
either have died themselves, or come bodily away with the tissues, for
I have, during the past twelve years, never suffered the least approach
to ague.
The specific germ of this disease will, without a doubt, soon be
isolated either in this country or on the Continent: there is a current
idea that the mantle of medical discovery has descended upon our
friends across the water to our own exclusion; an idea against which
such names as Harvey and Jenner alone cry trumpet-tongued.
At the same time some nicety will be requisite to distinguish between
those producing quotidian, tertian, quartan and more irregular forms;
how it comes to pass that these germs can be in abeyance for many
years, and then return to life and activity, is so far a hard nut to
crack.
Heat, moisture and vegetation are a combination that produce the most
virulent germs, hence the dangers attending the period in the East when
the rains are drying up.
Two of the three chief causes used also to operate with disastrous
effect in the days before the Lincolnshire fens were drained.
Just as in all countries we can estimate the character of any soil from
its natural vegetation, so in India, the appearance of its inhabitants
is a sure indication of the healthiness of a district. A leaden
complexion, for example, betokens an enlarged spleen, due to constantly
recurring attacks of ague, and where this is on the increase, the
locality is an unhealthy one.
Unpleasant as such an experience unquestionably is, one can scarcely
help being struck by the strange symptoms produced by the circulation
of this poison through the system; shivering, accompanied by icy
coldness and an insatiable craving for everything warm, inside and
out, is succeeded by violent perspiration, and a similar and opposite
longing for everything cold. The worst of it is, too, that the germs,
nowise routed by this outpour, live to fight another day!
The entire phenomenon is due to a specific impression on the nervous
centre, or what is popularly called the spinal marrow, the brain
remaining as a general rule uninfluenced. The cellular, spongy spleen,
acts as a reservoir into which the blood can flow, when driven by
certain emotions from the surface; but for this, the stream would
probably overwhelm what our distinguished lecturer used to call the
tripod of life, viz. the heart, lungs and brain.
From repeated attacks, the spleen will lose its elasticity, becoming
enlarged to such an extent as to occupy the principal portion of the
cavity in which it resides, and withal so exceedingly brittle, that a
push or even a deep sigh will cause it to rupture, resulting in almost
instantaneous death.
The germs are also guilty of other eccentricities, of which perhaps the
most remarkable is inducing an attack one day in a pregnant woman and
the next in her unborn child.
It is therefore impossible to overrate the importance of the discovery
of specific germs, for it must lead to a more rational treatment of
many diseases, a mode by which they can be acted on direct, instead of
through that long-suffering organ, the stomach.
In one disease of Asiatic origin we know that the functions of that
organ are so completely in abeyance that any medicine administered
through it is either unabsorbed or rejected.
Altogether, it will be a happy period for suffering humanity when
some process is brought to light by which hypodermic injection of a
germicide produces immediate contact.
Such a discovery will doubtless take time; but then Rome was not built
in a day, and the marvellous contributions of Jenner, Harvey, Simpson,
and Lister were the result of years of patient study and untiring
research. And what a result! Think of the millions that have been saved
by vaccination from a loathsome disease, of the floods of pain that
have been averted by the use of anæsthetics; of the manner in which
atmospheric germs have been kept at bay, while the surgeon searches for
a deep-seated aneurism or performs an amputation! Pasteur’s inoculation
for that harrowing disease, rabies, is progressing slowly but surely;
and the discovery of Koch—based on the presence of “bacilli” as the
_fons et origo malorum_—will probably lead to results of which we can
at present scarcely form an idea.
In India cholera is endemic and devastating; in this country we have
scrofula, struma or tubercle. Neither respects persons, attacking rich
and poor alike, the latter being particularly subject to tubercle for
reasons which need no explanation in these days, when education stalks
through the length and breadth of the land, dragging pianos, science,
and art in its train.
We may therefore hope that the cure of “intermittents” will be
performed on the same model; then will the alkaloid of cinchona descend
from the position of anti-periodic and febrifuge to the level of a
valuable tonic.
Just as the gardener must thoroughly fumigate his greenhouses with
tobacco in order to rid his plants of aphides, so must these “bacilli”
be attacked early and thoroughly, and then I feel sure that sea voyages
would be attended with better results.
I am aware that one swallow does not make a summer; but, taking into
consideration the palpable improvement mentioned above, only one
deduction could fairly be made as to the beneficial effects of sea air.
The average time spent by me in any one place during the two years I
had been in Burmah was about four months; the next three years this
increased to seven; and the year afterwards it fell to a week.
A rolling stone may gather moss, but is almost sure to drop it again;
in my second nomadic stage, a clear sweep was made of all that I had
accumulated, and, by this time, the surface had probably become too
slippery for any to cling to.
But it is not my intention to enter into the particulars of the next
three years, for my book has already swollen like a mountain stream,
and I have more to relate about the part of our dominions I was now
leaving. The curtain falls; and, after the manner of the dramatic
author, I must ask the reader to imagine an interval of nearly four
years before it rises again upon the land of Gautama the contemplative.
And, as the audience are looking round the house, I may as well finish
this chapter by forging a few connecting links.
Those mean “bacilli,” mixing with my pure blood, hurled me from a
happy position and forced me to encounter not only cloudy weather,
but a hurricane of angry passions dark as Erebus. The first cloud was
comparatively no larger than a man’s hand; but it rapidly spread, soon
blotting out the azure vault of heaven.
Instead of returning when my leave had expired, I was persuaded in some
unaccountable manner—still perhaps under some subtle influence of the
fever—to join a regiment, with which I marched for six weeks through a
country the monotony of which is not to be described.
Having obtained “Privilege leave” for a month, I should have a
fortnight for looking about, leaving a week for the journey either way.
Instead of carrying this programme into force, I found myself—oh,
irony of fate!—marching in a diametrically opposite direction. The
destination had been depicted in glowing colours, and I found it
commonplace, not to be compared with Rangoon or Prome.
* * * * *
Two years afterwards the sky cleared again for a period of six weeks,
after which it became darker than ever; for no sooner had I settled
down in a comfortable manner with a young wife, than the Mutiny burst
upon us in all its fury, scattering everything to the four winds,
ourselves included.
It is well known that during a campaign soldiers of every denomination
keep in good health; whereas the hospitals fill soon after peace is
proclaimed.
In the one case they are kept from flagging by activity and excitement,
hope of distinction, and “seeking the bubble reputation even in the
cannon’s mouth;” but, when the “dogs of war” have been chained up
again, their spirit barometer falls suddenly and low. I have noticed
the same with our principal trees during and after a heavy storm.
The Mutiny formed no exception to the rule; climate, weather, and every
kind of hardship were forgotten, as Europeans marched with impunity
under the most trying conditions to a conflict tinctured on both sides
with the worst elements of human nature.
Having witnessed some of the worst episodes of the Mutiny—the sudden
shooting down of trusting officers; arson, massacre, and pillage;
blowing from guns, beheadings, and such like cheerful proceedings—and,
having marched with camp for many months from pillar to post, the
reaction necessitated a thorough change; and, as a return home was
impossible, I decided upon a trip round the Bay of Bengal, which
brought me once again in contact with Burmah.
Before bringing this chapter to a close I wish to allude to a painful
subject, which is, however, of too much interest to all connected with
the East to be omitted.
Wise people at home are pleased to find fault with the order of
matrimony as applicable to officers abroad, and their arguments would
carry more weight with them were they directed to the anxiety entailed
in supporting children at home.
That ordeal is unquestionably its principal sting, not from a pecuniary
standpoint, but from the sad record of the treatment they endure when
their parents are far away and helpless to shield them.
Confining myself to personal experiences, I have found relations far
ahead of any others for sheer cruelty. One of them, herself a mother,
surpassed the rest in her artistic brutality. I have to lay at her door
the fate of my eldest son and the early death of two sweet daughters.
She was well paid, but turned and stung us as soon as our backs were
turned. With such a dearly-bought experience I turned to the stranger.
The age of advertising “Happy homes for children, whose parents were
going abroad,” was then in its infancy, and not yet raised to a fine
art as now-a-days.
We tried one; and a short trial sufficed. However, what we failed to
find at home we met with abroad. It is, I know, the fashion to say
everything bad about foreigners, but all I can say is, that, whatever
be their faults, their sense of duty is at least equal to their greed
for gain, which is more than can be said for many at home.
Marriage, therefore, to nine-tenths of the European population in the
East is shadowed o’er with this dark and lowering cloud.
Many of our periodicals teem with advertisements anent the “happy
home,” in which all the advantages of a thorough moral and intellectual
training, combined with much motherly kindness and fatherly discipline,
are set forth in glowing terms. Specious as are these insertions, the
places themselves prove on inspection still more so—charming people,
salubrious locality, and most desirable surroundings.
The scenery has been well got up, and the inimitable acting is worthy
of a better cause. The inconsolable widow, so passionately fond of
children, so anxious to drown her thoughts in occupation, and resolved
never to marry again, is to be shunned like a cobra.
One of these, whom I have reason to remember, produced excellent
testimonials, and took a house by the sea, where she entertained the
parents sumptuously before their departure, winning their regard and
the affections of the little ones; and as soon as father and mother
were gone, a complete change came o’er the spirit of her dream. The
children were utterly neglected, and, but for the interposition of a
friend, heaven knows what would have become of them!
This growing thirst for the _care_ of children hailing from the East
has its mainspring doubtless in that universal regulator of thoughts
and actions, money: the parents pay well and punctually, generally too
in advance; and as some thousands of miles intervene between them and
their offspring, the _care-takers_ have the whip-hand all round.
Their strength is that of a giant, and as such I have ever found them
use it. The amount of direct and indirect cruelty practised upon their
helpless charges is simply appalling. The despised Hindoo despatches
a female infant for whom he can anticipate no dowry; the enlightened
European sacrifices male and female alike for reasons still less
valid. Infanticide is extensively carried on in this country under the
euphonious and rural _alias_ of “Baby Farming,” a process by which
infants are permitted to die by inches—the result of starvation and
neglect, whereas the more merciful Oriental has his suffocated almost
before full birth.
Indian legislation has almost stamped out the evil by vigorous and
well-timed measures, while the machinery employed to effect the same
purpose at home falls very short of the desired end. Ask those genuine
philanthropists who pass their time amid the poor quarters of our
over-populated towns and villages, what goes on _sub rosa_, aggravated
by the modern facilities for insurance, which more than covers the
simple funeral (expenses).
Periodical fits of indignation likewise surge up at home against the
line of conduct adopted by the Indian Government with regard to the
continuance of the opium-traffic. There is something sublime in the
public disregard of far greater evils at our own door; though any
well-informed physiologist can demonstrate that excessive smoking of
opium is less deleterious in its effects than excessive consumption of
alcohol.
The former exalts the imagination to a region of blissful dreams, where
it can revel in all that is bright, and even the succeeding depression
is not accompanied by any injury to either brain or stomach.
Alcohol, on the other hand, irritates the nervous centres permanently.
A very large slice of our home revenue is flavoured with alcohol and
tobacco; and our Indian Government also derives much support from
opium. But there is a mighty difference: the Chinese are supplied from
India with a pure, unadulterated article. What _is_ unadulterated in
modern England? Echo answers.
Without further delving into the abysmal and prolific mine of our
misdoings and shortcomings, I think I have succeeded in directing the
reader’s attention to the subject of the treatment of our young ones
that we are compelled to leave to the tender mercies of relations,
friends, and strangers.
Children from the East require even greater care than those born at
home; and there ought therefore to be some safeguard, some compulsory
registration and reliable inspection.
My own experience may perhaps be an exceptional one—I hope and trust
that it is so—but if such things can be done in the green tree,
what may not occur in the dry! It is time we bestirred ourselves to
legislate, for something is rotten in the state of Denmark!