And let me say a word about self-denial: because, as we all know, there
can be no real Nursing without self-denial. We know the story of the
Roman soldier, above fourteen hundred years ago, who, entering a town in
France with his regiment, saw a sick man perishing with cold by the
wayside--there were no Hospitals then--and, having nothing else to
give, drew his sword, cut his own cloak in half, and wrapped the sick
man in half his cloak.
It is said that a dream visited him, in which he found himself admitted
into heaven, and Christ saying, “Martin hath clothed me with this
garment”: the dream, of course, being a remembrance of the verse, “When
saw we thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee?” and of the answer,
“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,
ye have done it unto me.” But whether the story of the dream be true or
not, this Roman soldier, converted to Christianity, became afterwards
one of the greatest bishops of the early ages, Martin of Tours.
_We_ are not called upon to feed our patients with our own dinners, or
to dress them with our own clothes. We are comfortable, and cannot make
ourselves uncomfortable on purpose. But we can learn Sick Cookery for
our Patients, we can give up spending our money in foolish dressy ways,
and thus squandering what we ought to lay by for ourselves or our
families.
On one of the severest winter days in the late war between France and
Germany, an immense detachment, many thousands, of wretched French
prisoners were passing through the poorest streets of one of the largest
and poorest German towns on the way to the prisoners’ camp. Every door
in this poor “East End” opened; not one remained closed; and out of
every door came a poor German woman, carrying in her hand the dinner or
supper she was cooking for herself, her husband, or children; often all
she had in the house was in her hands. And this she crammed into the
hands of the most sickly-looking prisoner as he passed by, often into
his mouth, as he sank down exhausted in the muddy street. And the
good-natured German escort, whose business it was to bring these poor
French to their prison, turned away their heads, and let the women have
their way, though it was late, and they were weary too. Before the
prisoners had been the first hour in their prison, six had lain down in
the straw and died. But how many lives had been saved that night by the
timely food of these good women, giving all they had, not of their
abundance, but of their poverty, God only knows, not we. This was told
by an Englishman who was by and saw it; one of our own “Aid Committee.”
And at a large German station, which almost all the prisoners’ trains
passed through, a lady went every night during all that long, long,
dreadful winter, and for the whole night, to feed, and warm, and
comfort, and often to receive the last dying words of the miserable
French prisoners, as they arrived in open trucks, some frozen to the
bottom, some only as the dead, others to die in the station, all
half-clad and starving. Some had been nine days and nights in these open
trucks; many had been twenty-four hours without food. Night after night
as these long, terrible trainsful dragged their slow length into the
station, she kneeled on its pavement, supporting the dying heads,
receiving their last messages to their mothers; pouring wine or hot milk
down the throats of the sick; dressing the frost-bitten limbs; and,
thank God, saving many. Many were carried to the prisoners’ hospital in
the town, of whom about two-thirds recovered. Every bit of linen she had
went in this way. She herself contracted incurable ill-health during
these fearful nights. But thousands were saved by her means.
She is my friend.[6] She came and saw me here after this; and it is from
her lips I heard the story. Smallpox and typhus raged among the
prisoners, most of whom were quite boys. Many were wounded; half were
frost-bitten. Sometimes they would snatch at all she brought; but
sometimes they would turn away their dying heads from the tempting hot
wine, and gasp out, “Thank you, madam; give it to _him_, who wants it
more than I.” Or, “I’m past help; love to mother.”
_We_ have not to give of our own to _our_ sick. But shall we the less
give them our all--that is, all our hearts and minds? and reasonable
service?
Suppose we dedicated this “School” to Him, to the Divine Charity and
Love which said, “Inasmuch as ye do it unto one of the least of these my
brethren” (and He calls all our patients--all of us, His brothers and
sisters) “ye do it unto me”--oh, what a “Kingdom of Heaven” this might
be! Then, indeed, the dream of Martin of Tours, the soldier and
Missionary-Bishop, would have come true!