and cold water, and on the landing I note another bath, on wheels, for
use in any part of the house where it may be required. All the
accessories are home-like; and in the invalid sitting-room, on an upper
storey, where two convalescents, not yet able to get downstairs, greet
me from a pair of easy chairs, there is the same pervading influence
which distinguishes the house from those large institutions where
everything is characterised by a depressing mechanical dead level. The
library--a pleasant cheerful room--is in course of refurnishing; and I
am glad to learn that our best known periodicals find a place there,
while the stock of books, either gifts or loans, are likely soon to be
replenished, a matter wherein extra aid would be appreciated, and could
readily be afforded by those who have volumes to spare.
Already the cloth is laid in the dining-room, and dinner itself consists
of hot meat with the usual accessories every day, except on Sundays,
when there is a cold dinner, while, of course, the invalids who are
ordered medical diet have fish, custards, or other delicate fare
specially provided. Each patient has a pint of ale or beer daily, and
wine as a remedial stimulant, according to the doctor's orders.
There is just time before dinner is served to walk through the room into
the grand old garden which extends from a pleasant sheltered lawn and
flower-garden, with a glorious fig-tree in full leaf and fruit against
the sunny wall, to a great kitchen-garden and orchard, with a wealth of
fruit and vegetables (and notably a venerable and prolific mulberry
tree), and extending in a pleasant vista of autumn leaves. On the other
side of the high wall is the Cedar Walk already mentioned; and the whole
place is so still and balmy on this autumnal day, that we may go away
with a very distinct appreciation of the rest and peace which, with
regular nutritious food, rest, and medicine, may bring restoration to
the physical health, just as the hopeful ministrations of good and pious
women who visit the home daily may bring a sense of peace and comfort to
many a weary spirit and burdened heart.
"_IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH._"
There are some of whom we might be ready to say, they dwell in that
valley;--that the shadow of death lies darkling before them, constantly
enwrapping them,--enshrouding them in gloom. We are accustomed to think
so of persons suffering from what we call incurable diseases, some of
which are painful, occasionally agonising, others susceptible of relief
from the suffering that attends them.
We are so apt to forget that we are every one of us incurable. Though we
may not at present be aware of the disease that will bear us farther and
farther into that valley, where the wings of the great angel, so seeming
dark as to overshadow all things, may yet be revealed to us as glowing
with the brightness of the light which our unaccustomed eyes cannot
behold, we are none the less certain to succumb to it. It may be that
some of us will live to be conscious of no other than the most fatal of
all diseases--because no mortal cure has been or ever will be found for
it--incurable old age. There have been those who lived long enough to
look calmly at the slowly lengthening shadow in the valley, and almost
to wonder if Death had forgotten and were departing from them, leaving
only the black trail behind; but the time at last came, perhaps when
they had learnt to see more than shadow, to catch the glint of the
heavenly glory beyond.
It is a happy thought that many poor afflicted children of God have seen
this too, and continue to see it daily, although, like St. Paul, they
also die daily. It is comforting to believe that many who know what
their disease is--who are pronounced to be "hopelessly incurable" in a
rather different sense to that in which we may all be declared to be
hopelessly incurable also--do not dwell perpetually in the Valley of the
Shadow. Christ has come to them and taken them out of it, that even in
this life, where He is they may be also, secure in the love of the
Father, having already, if one may so speak, overcome death through Him
who is the Resurrection and the Life. The great, the essential
difference between these sufferers and the rest of mankind is that they
are almost always conscious of the disease which is incurable because of
its accompanying pain, and that they are disqualified for many of the
ordinary uses, and also most of the ordinary enjoyments of life. Perhaps
the chief poignant sense of their condition is that they are no longer
capable of fulfilling the ordinary duties of life either. They must be
dependent always; and to many souls the suspicion that they may live
only to be a burden on others, to take instead of giving, to lean upon
instead of supporting, is itself almost intolerable, until they learn to
look higher, and acknowledge that not only all the things of the world,
but we ourselves, they and theirs, belong to God, and that life and
death, height and depth, principalities and powers, are but His
creatures, incapable of separating us from His love. The same
reflection, coupled with that of our own incurability and our own
constant liability to be stricken down with hopeless and painful malady,
should surely lead us to recognise the duty of helping some among the
thousands who have not only lost health, but with it the means of
maintaining life, and, more sadly still, the hope of restoration to
former strength, or even temporary recovery.
I have already spoken of the work done by convalescent homes and
hospitals; but there are those who, being sick unto death, yet do not
soon die--those who must be discharged from hospitals uncured, in order
to make room for the curable, and who, unable to work, unaccustomed to
beg, and almost ready to meet death itself rather than sink into sordid
abject pauperism, know not whither to turn in their dire necessity. It
was to aid these that an appeal was written twenty years ago, asking for
funds to establish an institution for the reception of those suffering
from hopeless disease. It is to see what has been the result of that
appeal that I visit the Royal Hospital for Incurables at Putney Heath
to-day.
It was in 1854 that Doctor Andrew Reed--to whose indicating hand we are
indebted for the installation of many of our noblest charities--made an
urgent appeal on behalf of those who, being discharged as incurable from
various hospitals, were left helpless, and often destitute, since,
amidst all the institutions which beneficence had founded, there was
none to which they could prefer a claim.
Let us see what has been done in twenty years to alleviate what might
seem to be almost hopeless suffering.
Let us, coming face to face with the mystery of pain, and looking as it
were from afar on that dark shadow which yet always lies so near to
every one of us, note how in the heart of the mystery there is hidden a
joyful hope for humanity, how in the very shadow of death there is a
light that never yet has shone on land or sea.
It is a still autumnal day, and, as we turn up the wooded lane on the
left of the hill leading from the Putney Railway Station to Wimbledon, a
tender gleam in the grey clouds betokens coming rainfall. A light,
hanging drift descends upon the distant hills, and breaks into pale
vaporous shapes amidst the wooded slopes and valleys. The yellow leaves
that strew the ground lie motionless, as though they waited for their
late companions to fall gently from the branches overhead and join their
silent company.
Coming into a broader roadway, and passing through the gate of a lodge,
we come almost suddenly upon a glorious sloping lawn, adorned with
goodly trees, worthy of the great building--meant for a ducal residence,
and now put to nobler uses--which, for all its stately look, has about
it a home-likeness that is full of promise. Even the matchless landscape
lying around it--the expanse of wood and dale, the soft slopes of Surrey
hills, the deep-embowered glades where the bronze-and-gold of moving
tree-tops takes a changeful sheen from slowly-drifting clouds, or
reflects strange gleams of colour from the glistening silver of the
rain--will not hold us from the nearer glow of windows bright with
flowers, which give a festal look to the place, although it is so quiet
that we stand and imagine for a moment what it is that we have come to
see. For this great mansion, with its long rows of windows and
wide-spreading wings, is the home of a hundred and fifty-four men and
women, some of whom have been suddenly stricken down, others having
slowly fallen day by day into a condition of incurable disease, and, in
many cases, also into a condition of utter bodily helplessness. They,
and the attendants whose constant kindly services are essential for
their relief, constitute the family of what is known, plainly enough, as
"The Royal Hospital for Incurables." There are no distinctions among its
members, though in their previous lives they have belonged to various
grades--no distinctions, at least, except those which arise from
personal qualifications.
The claim for election to the benefits of the charity is the necessity
which is implied in the name of the institution itself: and once within
its sheltering walls the patients, whose failing eyes brighten, and
whose wan cheeks flush with every loving mention of it as their home,
are all alike sharers in its benefits.
Not only the 154 at present within its walls, however, but 327 of those
who, having family and friends with whom to dwell, receive pensions of
£20 a year each, and so cease to be a heavy burden to others.
Do you think at first sight, and from the external appearance of the
building, that charity here has gone beyond precedent in providing such
a place--a palatial pile standing amidst scenery that one might well
come far to see? Remember what is the need of those who have to be
lifted out of the dark, hopeless depths of what is almost despair; of
those who, finding themselves banished from hospital wards, unable to
earn their bread, feeling themselves a burden upon those for whom they
would almost consent to die rather than live upon their poverty; of
those who, in the midst of hourly pain, have the mental anguish of
knowing that the long calendar of darkening days may find them utterly
dependent on the toil of others most dear to them, and whose few
expedients can bring little ease, and will not serve to hide the
ever-present sense of disappointment and distress.
Think how much wealth is wasted daily in the world, and what a small
part of it suffices to lighten by every available means the burden of
such lives as these; the sorrow of those who, in the dreadful
deprivation of what to us seems almost all that makes life dear, have no
resource between that provided for them in such a place as this and the
infirmary-ward of a workhouse, amidst sordid surroundings and the hard,
mechanical, unfeeling officialism which in such cases is little more
than organised neglect.
There are people who would reduce all charitable institutions--yes, even
such as this, of which living personal interest and the care that comes
of more than merely casual benevolence are the very foundation and
corner-stone--to a dead level of official rule, in which benevolence
should be represented by a mechanical department, and the sentiment of
charity by a self-elected board of control, dealing with public
subscriptions as though they were a poor-rate, and recognising neither
individual interest nor the right of contributors to give it expression.
Such a system would lack the very qualification most needed here, and to
be found only in that voluntary personal interest that brings to the
recipients of bounty more than the mere bounty itself, the heart-throb
of sympathy, the feeling that the gift means more than the cold official
recognition of a national duty, that it is the expression of
loving-kindness ever active and living; and so making for the helpless,
the destitute, and the dying, not a mere asylum, but a home.
The entrance into the hall of a cheerful, genial gentleman, with a
kindly, brisk manner, and a reassuring expression of deliberation and
repose in his observant face and easy bearing, rouses us from melancholy
fancies, and with a few words of courteous welcome we are at once
conducted to the door that is to open to us the first scene in this
wonderful visit.
A spacious assembly room--let us call it by the good old name of
"parlour," for there is much quietly animated talk going on--talk, and
needlework of all kinds, from the knitting of a warm woollen shawl to
the manipulation of delicate lace, and the deft handling of implements
for making those exquisite tortures of society known as antimacassars.
With ever so wide an experience of halls, salons, suites, or
drawing-rooms, the visitor can see nothing resembling this wonderful
parlour elsewhere. A room of noble proportions, one end of which is
occupied by an organ; the great windows reaching almost from floor to
ceiling, and overlooking a broad expanse of lawn, with a glorious view
of hill and woodland beyond; on the tables flowers, books, ornaments; in
every kind of couch and chair--many of which are comfortable beds on
wheels and springs--a company of women, with bright, cheerful,
intelligent faces, full of a recent interest, and, even in cases where
some paroxysm of pain is passing, with a certain serene satisfaction
which it is infinitely good to see.
There has been a morning service, conducted by a visiting clergyman, and
there is a general expression of approval which, if the reverend
gentleman himself were present to witness it, would surely prove highly
gratifying. The congregation has settled down to easy talk, and has
resumed its occupation of plain and fancy needlework. Here is an old
lady whose silver hair adds to her natural grace and dignity, who is
busy with wool-knitting, and at the same time engages in a
discriminating criticism of the address to one of the many visitors who
sit and spend an hour of their afternoon in agreeable chat. There is a
pretty but rather sad-eyed _mignon_ lady, whose excellently-fitting silk
dress, delicate hands, and general "niceness" of appearance, quite
prepare us to see the beautiful examples of all kinds of fancy work of
which she never seems to tire. Every year, in June, they hold a grand
bazaar at the hospital, so that those who are skilful and capable are
able to earn enough money to clothe themselves as they please--everything
except clothing being found by the charity, except to two or three
inmates who are able to pay for their own maintenance. Now we hear the
low tones of cheerful talk, the pleasant ripple of laughter--note the
brightening glance, the quick smile, the feeble but earnest finger-clasp
which greets the cheerful salutation of the house governor, Mr.
Darbyshire, or the presence of his wife, the lady matron of this great
happy family of incurables, we begin to wonder at our gloomy estimate of
the place before this visit.
Nor is the revelation of cheerfulness, of light in shadow, less
remarkable in the dormitories themselves. But then what rooms they are!
Each bed is, as it were, set in an alcove of its own snow-white
hangings, relieved by bits of colour which would delight an artist's
eye--pieces of embroidery, framed illuminated texts, bright flecks of
Berlin woolwork, or glistening designs in beads, or deep glowing
knick-knacks wrought in silk and lace. Each little bedside table, though
it may hold medicine and diet--drink and requisites for the sick--is
decked with flowers and little framed pictures, gaily-bound books, and
bright-hued toys and trifles, that make it look like a miniature stand
at a fancy fair. In some cases the sense of combined purity and glow of
colour is so great, that it is difficult to realise that we are in one
or other of a series of sick-rooms. Everything is so spotless, so
exquisitely clean and orderly, that nothing less than perfect nursing
could explain it--for be it remembered that the place is open to
visitors every day--and amidst some of the most terrible afflictions
from which humanity can suffer there is nothing revolting. Expressions
of pain and of utter prostration and weakness there are, of course; but
even these are only alternative with the general placid contentment and
thankfulness that is the prevailing characteristic.
Even in two severe cases of cancer the terrible effects of the malady
are less notable, because of the surrounding conditions. A sprightly and
engaging girl, with features and social life alike marred and
obliterated by this dreadful malady, is surely one of the saddest of all
the sad sights in such an institution; but here the brightness and
genial influence of the place, and of those who are its ministrants,
have had their effect, and even the half-obliterated features gain a
grateful, loving, cheerful expression; the poor eyes beam with pleasure
as the governor starts some reminiscence of that pleasant summer
water-party of his, in which one of the two sufferers had to be carried
to the boat in his arms, and both of them, deeply veiled, were rowed by
those same guarding arms for a glorious voyage on the river, where the
summer's sunshine and gladness stole into the hearts of the sufferers,
and left a halo of remembrance that is not perhaps so very far from the
anticipations of that stream which maketh glad the children of God.
Here are rooms wherein only two or three beds are placed, while few of
them contain more than six, but all of them are bright, airy, lofty,
full of space, and with the same sense of purity. And from every window
some fresh and lovely view of the surrounding landscape, with all its
changeful aspects, may be seen--the beds being so placed that every
patient has her own special expanse of territory to solace her waking
hours, even though she be unable to go down to the assembly-room. Here,
in a room particularly bright and cheerful, lies a young woman with a
wealth of dark hair on the pillow where her intelligent face beams with
a certain courage, although her body and limbs have been for years
immovable--only one arm, for an inch or two, and three fingers of the
right hand, can be stirred--and yet, as we stand and talk with her, some
small simple jest about her own condition causes her to laugh till the
bed shakes. She has learnt to write by holding a pencil in her mouth,
and inscribes neat and legible letters on paper placed on a rest just in
front of her face. She is not only cheerful, but actually hopeful,
though she has been for years in this condition; and her relations,
great and small, visit her, to find her always heartily determined to
look on the bright side. At the foot of her bed, near the window, is a
swing looking-glass on a pedestal, and in this she sees reflected the
distant prospect of autumn wood and field, extending miles away. Judging
from her nobly equable and smiling face, she must be the life of the
room of which she has been so long an occupant. In another apartment a
poor schoolmistress suffering from hemorrhage of the lungs lies reading
for many hours a day, her face bearing a painful expression, her manner
eager, her constant craving to work on, by the study of books concerning
the problems of this earthly life and the sciences that strive to
demonstrate them and yet only bring us to the barrier of the eternal
world. She yearns for one more day amidst her classes, and for the
opportunity of testing the results of sick-bed thoughts on a method of
education which should adapt itself to the individual temperament and
mental peculiarity of each child. Amidst a troubled tide of thoughts
that are perhaps sometimes too much for the weary brain, she may learn
to recognise the rest that comes after hearing the Divine voice say,
"Peace! be still;" and so a great spiritual calm may fall upon her, and
give her rest.
Yet another visit, and we find a girl who, from an accidental fall, is
as immovable as a statue, her dark questioning eyes and mobile face
alone excepted. Yet she is sometimes lifted into a wheel-chair that
stands stabled by her bedside, and joins the company in the great
parlour downstairs. There is another little parlour, with quite a select
coterie, under the presidency of an elderly gentlewoman, who is busily
knitting at a table, while her friends recline at the windows, on their
special couches; and in several of the dormitories patients are sitting
up, reading, working, or looking at the fitful aspect of earth and sky
on this October afternoon. Sufferers from heart-disease, with that
anxious contracted expression so indicative of their malady, are
numerous; but the larger number of the patients seem to suffer from
rheumatism, or paralysis--among them one lady, with silvered hair, and
yet with bright expressive eyes, and still bonny face, who was once a
well-known singer in London. She is unable to rise from couch or bed,
but the readiness of repartee, the bright inquiring look, the quick
appreciation and retort, remain, as do a certain swift expressive action
of head and hands, which is marvellously suggestive of dramatic gesture;
for, happily, her hands and arms are still capable of movement, and she
has several periodicals on the coverlet--among them the latest monthly
part of a magazine, in one of the stories in which she is evidently
interested. She, with two or three others, are inmates of the hospital
at their own charges.
We have but little time to devote to the men's side of this great
institution; but its dormitories and furniture, its large day-room,
where daughters sit talking in low voice to fathers, sisters to
brothers, wives to husbands--its pleasant out-door contingent, who have
just returned from slowly perambulating the grounds in wheel-chairs, or
sit basking outside in the latest gleam of sunshine--its club in the
rustic hut especially appointed for this purpose--all might bear
comment. Here is a sturdy youth, who, falling from a tree, and alighting
on his heels, incurably injured his spine, and now lies all day, mostly
out of doors, and without a coat, frequently engaged in knitting. There
is a poor gentleman, who has for sixteen years been almost immovable,
from rheumatism, even his jaw being so fixed that he takes food through
an aperture in the teeth. He has been through two or three hospitals,
and under the care of the most eminent surgeons, and has come here now
as to an ark of refuge, where he can read and talk, and be wheeled about
the neighbourhood on occasional visits. Only one case of all those that
we witness is startling in its melancholy sense of terrible loss and
incurability; that rigid, grimly-set face, in the ward where the corner
bed in which the grizzled head lies is the only one occupied this
afternoon. The body belonging to that face is almost immovable--the ears
are deaf, the tongue is mute, the eyes are nearly sealed--not by sudden
calamity, but by gradual yielding to decay or disease. He has been an
inmate several years, and is the one case here before which we may
almost quail in our solemn sense of affliction; and yet, to the touch of
certain loving hands that dead face kindles; that mind, seemingly locked
in stupor, wakes to life; that intelligence, encased in a casket
iron-bound and motionless, can understand the signs that are made upon
his own hands or forehead, and interpret them so as to give some kind of
grateful answer. It needs the touch of the lady nurse to bring out this
strange music from an instrument so unstrung; but that it should be done
at all is an evidence of the hold that loving sympathy and some subtle
influence almost beyond mere bodily capacity of expression has taken in
these dear souls of the sick and the afflicted. That is where the shadow
lifts, even in the darkness of the valley; that is how the Spirit of
Christ may abound; and the soul, in recognizing the work of the
disciple, may recognise the Lord therein, and remember the Living
Word--"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
"_WITH THE HALT AND THE LAME._"