“’Tis now the summer of your youth;
Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek,
Though sorrow may have washed them.”
_Moore._
The rose is a sweetly beautiful flower, and no matter where it grows
it somehow always charms the human eye, always appeals to the human
heart. Lovely it is in the garden, especially perhaps at early morning
when gemmed by dew, the crystalline tears left by the dying night, or
at eventide, when the colour in a rose-garden seems to reflect the
tints of the sunset clouds. Roses of all classes and kinds are lovely,
grow they where they may, on castle lawn or draping the walls of the
humblest cottage. And just as sweet and tender are those lovely buds
and blossoms of the crimson _rosa canina_ that bedeck and mantle our
hedges in the month of June.
Children are ofttimes comparable to roses—girl-children I mean—mere
opening buds, and they ought to be none the less beautiful and
innocent-looking when older, but still in their teens. Ah, those
“teens,” would we not all prefer to remain that age and never to grow
older! I suppose angels are all and always in their teens, and the
saints in Heaven too!
But descending from romance, with which a medical man ought to have
nothing to do, the stern reality, life, to a girl in her teens is
often a trying time. This, for many reasons which I shall now briefly
consider and advise upon.
Every mother, if not her children, has often heard the word “heredity”
mentioned. The offspring is part and parcel of the parents, and
inherits, somewhat changed or modified perhaps, not only their good
qualities, their strength of body, brain, and constitution, but their
diseases also, if they have any. There is no mystery about that, as
some medical men tell us. It would be a mystery if it were the reverse.
If you take a cutting off a pure red rose, you could scarcely expect it
when grown into a bush to develop yellow roses. It is part and parcel
of the parent, and so is the child. But separate life and the mode or
manner of living may alter even inherited complaints, or prevent their
showing forth at all. It does not follow as a constant rule that the
children of, say, scrofulous parents shall be consumptive, or that
those of parents addicted to drink and dishonesty shall follow the
parental lead. It is this fact that gives one such hope in treating
the ailments and guiding the young lives of those who may be supposed
to be born with a taint of impure blood.
Note, mother, please, that I have said “_young_ lives” in my last
sentence, because it is when young, and only then, that much good can
be done to combat the evils of heredity.
We are sometimes told that the particular ailment handed down may
skip one generation and appear in the next. This should only give us
additional certainty that the trouble may be eradicated entirely.
For Nature does not skip generations in the manner some scientists
would have us believe. If an ailment, say phthisis or consumption, is
the trouble in one family and the children thereof escape, while the
grandchildren are attacked, one of two things may have happened; the
first generation of the afflicted ones had been reared in circumstances
inimical to the dispersing of the disorder, it lay latent in their
blood and revivified under circumstances favourable to it, in the
grandchildren, or—this is just as likely—the seed of the disease died
in the first generation, and the second were infected by ordinary
means. Phthisis is infectious: this should always be born in mind, and
a consumptive person should invariably sleep alone in the airiest and
best ventilated room in the house.
When I say that consumption is hereditary, I am of course showing you
that I am a believer in the microbe doctrine. So is every sensible man.
The microbes of phthisis may be carried in the breath from the sick to
the sound; or dried sputa—ever so little—may form dust and be breathed,
thus inoculating, as it were, the person who inhales it. Not of a
certainty, however, for there are many chances against those microbes,
even if breathed, finding their way into the blood. Healthy blood is
in itself a protection, for the white corpuscles thereof are veritable
tigers in miniature, and fall upon and destroy organisms that are
dangerous to the life or health of the individual. Moreover a disease
germ or seed of consumption cannot, in every case, even reach the
mucous membrance of the lungs, owing to the secretions therein which
sweep it away, if they do not actually destroy it. On the other hand a
weakly subject is far more likely to fall a victim to infection of any
kind than a strong. A consumptive mother may have several children,
all of which, bar one, are safe enough, though all must have inherited
the evil microbe or bacillus. And this is chiefly because one is more
delicate than the others.
But I deem it my duty to say here at once that a consumptive person
should never marry.
All mothers know, or ought to know, that consumption is caused by a
particular sort of matter called tubercle which, by way of getting rid
of it perhaps, Nature deposits in, say, the lungs of the young person.
This acts like a foreign body; that is, it may lie quiescent for a long
time, and as the child gets stronger, it may even be absorbed, but if
she catches cold, that wicked little lump of deposit is sought out and,
becoming inflamed, sets up mischief all around. It is coughed up, but
leaves an ulcer, and this forms a cavity, after which the end is not
far distant. But consumption in children, or the young either, is more
often caused by the deposit of tubercle in other parts of the body,
especially in the glands.
Now, the probability being that I shall devote a whole article to a
consideration of consumption, I need not do more here than generalise
and give a few words of good advice. I think, mater, that if this
advice proves of service to you and gives you hope, this health sermon
shall not have been written in vain.
“I’m afraid that my lassie is dwining,” said a Scottish mother to me
once. “What think you, doctor?”
I was only a very young fellow then, but had inherited a modicum of
common sense from most intelligent parents, so I took Mary in hand.
Mary was then sixteen, I but twenty, and although a medical student,
I could not have known a deal. The mother and daughter were country
cottagers, and being poor, the family doctor did not, probably could
not, devote overmuch time to the case. One thing, however, I objected
to: he kept pouring cod-liver oil into his patient, completely
deranging the stomach and rendering the digestion of the food a
complete impossibility.
From the very first week that Mary stopped the oil her appetite
improved, and—the old doctor stopped away. The case was mine therefore,
and I took no small pains with it. I thought that if there was any
chance of getting the girl over her trouble at all, it was by making
her strong. We live by food and not by physic, I argued—food and fresh
air.
Mary’s bedroom was a small one and downstairs; but there happened to
be a large attic or garret above, and the father being a handy man—and
Mary the only girl-child—he did as I told him, and made a large window
on the south side of the attic. Then it was completely cleared out and
cleaned out, the walls whitewashed and the floor well scrubbed. When
mats were put down here and there, and a nice bed at one side on which
the morning light could fall, the room was so far ready for occupation.
The mother wanted bed curtains and window curtains. I would hear of
neither. I shook my young head with an air of awe-inspiring profundity
as I tabooed the curtains. But I permitted any amount of artistic
though rural decoration. Mary had much taste, and the hours she spent
in making that attic into a boudoir were the best investment of time
possible, because they occupied her mind, and I would not let her
believe she was ill, or had the seeds of consumption in her system.
All she wanted, I said, was strength. And I really was not far wrong.
I gave her Hope instead of cod-liver oil. But I insisted upon her
being out of doors nearly all day long, wearing clothing to accord
with the state of the weather, but never fearing the cold. She was to
sleep, not in a draught, but with her window open. Her mother said, “My
conscience, doctor laddie!” at first, but I insisted.
All the medicine Mary had for the next twelve months could have been
placed inside a walnut shell. Her mental medicine was not neglected,
and this consisted of books to read—I gave her these—and light work to
do, chiefly out of doors, also pleasant quiet companionship.
Fresh air was the most important weapon I used to fight the trouble.
Next came food. Cream, butter, good milk, nice bacon, and suet
dumplings were ten thousand times better than expensive and fulsome
cod-liver oil. She had meat too, as much as she could take, with
vegetables—potatoes and greens—and bread.
Hygienic rules were most strictly carried out. The cottage, luckily,
was surrounded by bonnie country gardens, in which Mary spent much
of her time, not even fearing rain, because she wore a cloak—not
an india-rubber mackintosh, be assured—and strong boots, without
disease-producing goloshes. From top to bottom, from one end to
another, the house was kept spotlessly clean, free from dust, and dry.
Mary was no worse at the end of a month! Mary was better at the end
of three months!! Mary was well, and the blush of health was on her
cheeks, at the end of eighteen months!!!
The old-fashioned doctor never spoke to me after I put my foot on his
cod-liver oil. He used to pass me on the road like a speck of March
dust, and he told a friend of mine I was an insolent young dog. No
doubt he was right. I had all the faith and arrogance of youth, but—I
cured Mary.
It was at the end of the eighteen months I went to sea, and seven long
years elapsed before I saw her again. She was married, and had two
bonnie healthy children. She is living _still_, and her family too.
Now, mother, this is a true story, and I have only told it as a
proof of the benefits derivable from fatty and flesh-forming foods,
perfect hygiene, and fresh air indoors and out in cases of incipient
consumption; and not in these alone are such health-giving and curative
agents beneficial, but in all cases of chronic ill-health in young
girls.
In relating my little story of Mary, I may have seemed to disparage
cod-liver oil. I merely wish, however, to imply that it is only in
cases where it can be easily digested that it can do any good, and that
in all others it is positively injurious.
Mind this, mater, that the days have long gone past when people pinned
their faith on medicine alone in the cure of diseases. Indeed, mostly
every ailment of a chronic nature, if curable at all, has a better
chance if physic is left severely alone and a thorough system of
hygiene and dietetics adopted; for if medicine is taken, people as a
rule think that this is of greater consequence than good food and a
life spent in the fresh and open air.
What are called “peptonised foods” are often beneficial where there is
want of proper digestive power, or pepsin in the form of tablets may be
used. These are to be had at most respectable chemists, and the dose is
marked on the bottle.
The new food-medicines called vivol and marrol, so highly spoken of in
medical journals, should in many cases supersede the use of cod-liver
oil, or even shark-liver oil, in the case of a girl who does not seem
to be thriving.
The Scotch word “dwining” is very expressive. It was usually applied to
girls just entered on their teens, who do not appear to be healthy, and
are but little likely to make old bones. They are rather poor in flesh,
growing rather rapidly, perhaps, but not “building as they go,” as the
farmers say about rick-making. They have but little appetite, are pale
in face, flabby in substance, have little real life about them, and are
very thick-headed of a morning. They feel the cold much, and therefore
seldom have their bedrooms properly ventilated. Moreover, they do not
make bone. It is as if Nature said to herself, “I need not bone in the
case of this girl, for it will never be wanted.”
Well, in all cases of “dwining,” the fresh air and food treatment works
wonders.
I must call the attention of mothers of delicate girls to the fact that
there are in the market, and very largely advertised, pills containing
iron which kill thousands yearly. Iron, in the hands of a skilful
physician, who knows how and when to prescribe it, is often a valuable
tonic, but taken without precaution, as people do who see things
advertised and shored up with lies and so-called cures, it is a _most
dangerous_ and _poisonous drug_.
What is called anæmia or bloodlessness in girls sometimes gets the name
of “chlorosis” or “green sickness” from the peculiar appearance of the
skin. It is an exceedingly common complaint, and really the number of
white faces one sees in the streets of great cities, as girls hurry to
and from their work, is saddening. When one notices a face of this kind
in a beautiful carriage, the girl who owns it being perhaps wrapped up
in furs, one may put it down as a bad case. There is either some real
disease to account for it, or the girl is over-coddled, the laws of
hygiene and dietetics ruthlessly broken, and faith pinned on medicine
alone—a broken reed.
When the working girl is anæmic, her mother or whoever owns her must
see that she gets good food, that the system is kept regular in every
way, and that her room is clean, tidy and well-ventilated, with no
curtains on bed or windows.
All the weariness, all the heaviness, tiredness in the morning, the
low spirits, and even the neuralgic pains from which she suffers, will
vanish before a better diet if it is well regulated. But in such a
case, the daily bath—cold before breakfast—will often be the very first
thing to set her to rights.
If she can get down into the country and keep out of doors nearly all
day, so much the better, only hard exercise should be avoided.
Red meat does good in these cases. If this is too expensive to be had
in any quantity, plenty of milk should be used. Oatmeal is a cure
in itself in many cases. Bacon is good, especially the fat, and a
teaspoonful of Bovril should supplement this.
Peas meal, if it can be got in bulk and fresh, makes an excellent
staple of diet for many hard-working girls. It can be made into
porridge (thick), and eaten with butter and milk it is most nourishing
and delicious. The Aberdeen girls (factory hands, etc.) use a deal of
this, and no more wholesome, blooming and bonnie lassies are to be
found anywhere. Indeed, I have never yet seen any to match them. The
fresh and bracing sea air may account to some extent for their “caller”
looks, but, believe me, the diet has a deal to do with their health.
Nervousness is another hereditary complaint. Now although there are
a great many medicines that have an effect for good on the nervous
system, they need to be used with caution, and only in conjunction with
a well-regulated diet.
Rheumatism is still another heirloom that descends in families.
On both these subjects and others I shall speak at length in early
numbers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, so those interested should look out
for my papers.
“OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.