account, with nothing but a college degree, a perfect constitution,
and a few hundred pounds scraped together by the sale of his personal
effects. How should he earn his living? He was sorely tempted to
emigrate. He had the frame and muscles for hard work, and outdoor life
would suit him. Yet he shrank from the idea of giving up as beaten in
his native land. Other men had made their way; why should not he? He
felt a consciousness of a certain ability which necessity might force
into full play. His mother suggested the church. ‘A clergyman of good
family can always marry a rich wife, and that you are bound to do now.’
Frank shrugged his broad shoulders, and thought sadly of his promised
wife, so many thousands of miles away. Eventually, he decided to read
for the bar. He knew it would be slow and dreary work to win success
there—that for many years he must be prepared to endure penury; but a
career might be made. If a hundred fail, one succeeds—why should he not
be that one?
Millicent must be told the bad news. He had no right to keep a girl’s
love during all the years which must elapse before he could offer
her a home. He must at least release her from her vows. If—and as he
believed it would be—she refused to be released, they must wait and
hope. Now that the reality of marrying on nothing came home to him, he
saw what it meant—what misery it must entail. Now that the earning his
own living, of which he had spoken so bravely when there was no need
of his doing so, was forced upon him, he became quite aware of the
sacrifices he must make. He was no desponding coward, and indeed had
little doubt as to his ultimate success. He felt that he could bear
hardship himself; but he could not bear it if Millicent must also share
it. At anyrate it was right she should know the change in his fortunes.
So he wrote a few words: ‘MY DARLING—We are all ruined. I am going to
try and make a living as a barrister. Of course I must now release you
from every promise.’ He signed his name; but before sealing the letter,
could not help adding: ‘But I love you more than ever.’ Then he sent
the letter to Millicent’s aunt, and begged that it might be forwarded
to her niece.
That letter never reached its destination. Whether it was mislaid or
misdirected—whether a mail-bag was lost either on the voyage or on
the long land journey—whether Miss Keene’s aunt, who had learned what
reverses had befallen the Abbots, simply threw it on the fire, will
never be known. All that can be said is, Millicent never received it;
and after months had passed, Frank, who was looking eagerly for the
overdue answer, grew very miserable, and began to doubt the love of
woman.
* * * * *
Five long years have passed by. Frank Abbot is now a barrister of
nearly three years’ standing. He works hard, is frequently on circuit,
and if, as yet, he has not achieved any brilliant forensic triumph,
he is neither briefless nor without hope. Some small cases have been
intrusted to him, and he finds the number of these slowly but surely
increasing, and knows that if the opportunity comes, and if, when it
does come, he may be able to seize it and make the most of it, success
may soon be his. Even now he makes enough to supply the modest wants
to which he has tutored himself. But for some time after the last of
his little capital had vanished, he had been hardly pressed. Indeed,
in order to live at all, he had been compelled to accept some aid from
his parents’ reduced means. They gave this readily enough, as, with all
their faults, they loved their son. Even to this day, Frank looks back
with a shudder upon one or two years of his life.
The five years have changed him from a boy to a man. He is handsome
as ever, but his look is more serious; his features express even more
character. He has given up all dreams of the woolsack; but is conscious
of possessing fair abilities, a good address, a commanding presence,
and a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels that in a few
years’ time he may have a home to share, if the woman he loves is still
willing to share it. He has not again written to her. He has heard
nothing from her, although the time by which he promised to claim her
has long passed. He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees the
future fairly promising, he will seek her, and learn whether she is
still true to him; or whether the sweetest episode of his life must
be linked with the memory of a woman’s faithlessness and inconstancy.
He sighs as he thinks of the time which has elapsed since she waved
him that last farewell at Plymouth. ‘She may be married, years ago,’
he says, ‘and have three or four children by now.’ Then he thinks of
her steadfast eyes, and knows that he wrongs her—blames himself for
his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot’s constancy remains firm; but he
is obliged to do what thousands of other men must do, hope for better
days, working, meanwhile, with might and main to bring the dawn of
those better days near.
Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of course he does, being
neither a fool nor of a superhuman nature. Many a day, as he sits in
wig and gown in the stifling court, listening to learned arguments on
cases in which he has not the remotest interest, his soul longs for a
day with the pheasants, a run with the Duke’s hounds, or a ride round
the home-farm; and he anathematises all joint-stock banks as roundly as
his father may be supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank is
not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and self-contained, but pleasant
company enough to the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.
He has not been near Chewton Hall since the family downfall. It had
been bought, with a great part of the furniture, by a rich London
merchant, whose name, although he had heard it at the time of the sale,
had slipped from his mind. Frank cared little who held it. He knew it
is only in romances that a ruined family regains possession of its
kingdom. Some day he intended to run down and have a look at the old
place which he had loved so well; although he feared the sight would
not improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less inclined to rail at
Fortune.
Just about this time Frank made a new acquaintance. It was long
vacation. The Lord Chief-justice was yachting; his brother-judges,
Queen’s Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their jaded
energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors had thrown their wigs
into their boxes, and were away on various holiday pursuits. Frank,
however, who had recently succeeded in getting some occasional work
on a journal, and who hoped to get more, was still in London. One
morning, a gentleman, who wished to see Mr Abbot, was shown into his
chambers. The visitor was a tall middle-aged man, strongly built, well
dressed, and with pleasant features. He looked like one who had led
a hard life, and lines on his brow told of trouble. His hands were
large and brown—it was evident they had not been idle in their day.
Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conventionally use, or abuse,
that word, but a noticeable, out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a
sharp quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and powers.
Apparently satisfied, he took the chair offered him, and explained
his errand. He had a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr Abbot to conduct
the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and told his new client that it
was etiquette for his instructions to come through a solicitor. He
explained that a barrister and the man whose cause he pleaded must
communicate through a third party. His visitor apologised for his
ignorance about such matters, and said he would see his solicitor.
However, after the apology was accepted, instead of bowing himself out,
Mr John Jones—for by that name he called himself—entered into a general
kind of conversation with Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a
variety of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook hands most
cordially with the young man, and hoped he should meet him again soon.
‘Wonder who he is?’ said Frank, laughing over the sudden friendliness
this stranger had exhibited. ‘Anyway, I hope he’ll make his solicitors
send me that brief.’
However, no brief came; but for the next few days Frank Abbot was
always tumbling across Mr John Jones. He met him in the street as he
went to and from his chambers. Mr Jones always stopped him, shook
hands, and as often as not, turned and walked beside him. Frank began
to like the man. He was very amusing, and seemed to know every country
under the sun. Indeed, he declared he was a greater stranger to London
than to any other capital. He was a great smoker; and as soon as he
found that Frank did not object to the smell of good tobacco in his
chambers, scarcely a day went by without his paying him a visit and
having a long chat over a cigar. Frank was bound to think that Mr
John Jones had taken a great liking to him. Perhaps, the man wanted a
friend. As he said, he knew no one in London, and no one knew him.
So young Abbot drifted into intimacy with this lonely man, and soon
quite looked forward to the sound of his cheerful voice and the
fragrance of those particularly good cigars he smoked. He even, at Mr
Jones’ urgent request, ran down to the seaside for a couple of days
with him, and found the time pass very pleasantly in his society.
Although the young man was very reticent on the subject of his family’s
misfortune, Mr Jones had somehow arrived at the conclusion that he was
not rolling in wealth. He made no secret of the fact that he himself
was absurdly rich. ‘I say, Abbot,’ he remarked one day, ‘if you want
any money to push yourself up with, let me know.’ Perhaps Mr Jones
fancied that judgeships were to be bought.
‘I don’t want any,’ said Frank shortly.
‘Don’t take offence. I said, if you do. Your pride—the worst part of
you. It’s very hard a man can only help a fellow like you by dying and
leaving him money. I don’t want to die just yet.’
Frank laughed. ‘I want no money left me. I shouldn’t take yours if you
left it to me.’
‘Well, you’ll have to some day, you see.’ Then Mr John Jones lit
another cigar from the stump of the old one, and went his way; leaving
Frank more puzzled than ever with his new friend.
But the next day an event occurred which drove Mr John Jones, money,
and everything save one thing, out of his head: Millicent Keene was in
England—in London!
When he saw her letter lying on his table, Frank Abbot feared it could
not be real. It would fade away like a fairy bank-note. No; before him
lay a few lines in her handwriting: ‘MY DEAR FRANK—I have returned at
last. I am at No. 4 Caxton Place.—Yours, MILLICENT KEENE.’
Early as it was, he rushed out of his office, jumped into a cab, and
sped away to the address she gave him.
We may pass over the raptures, the embraces, the renewed vows, the
general delicious character of that long-deferred meeting. We may
suppose the explanation of the lost letter accounting for the girl’s
silence; and we may picture her sympathy with her lover’s misfortunes,
and her approval of the manly way in which he had gone to work to
retrieve them, in some degree. Let us imagine them very very happy,
sitting hand in hand in a room at No. 4 Caxton Place; Millicent,
by-the-by, looking more beautiful than ever, her charms not lessened by
the look of joy in her dark eyes.
Their first transports are over. They have descended to mundane things.
In fact, Frank is now telling her that he believes he can count on so
many hundreds a year. What does his darling think?
Miss Keene purses up her pretty mouth and knits her brows. To judge by
appearances, she might be the most mercenary young woman. Frank waits
her reply anxiously.
‘I think we may manage,’ she says. ‘I have been accustomed to poverty
all my life, you know.’
Frank would have vowed to work his fingers to the bones before she
should want anything; but remembering just in time that his profession
worked with the tongue instead of the hands, checked himself. He
thanked her with a kiss.
‘When shall we be married?’ he said.
She looked up at him shyly. ‘Would you think it very dreadful if I said
the sooner the better? In fact, Frank, I have come from Australia to
marry you. If you had forgotten me, I should have gone straight back.’
‘Next week?’ asked Frank, scarcely believing his own happiness. ‘Will
next week be too soon? One advantage of being poor and living in
lodgings is, that we can be married without any bother “about a house.”’
Millicent gave him to understand that next week would do. She was
staying with some distant relative. No one’s consent had to be asked.
She had told her father all. The day Frank chose, she would be his wife.
‘How is your father? I forgot to ask,’ said Frank.
‘Much the same as ever,’ answered Millicent in a way which inferred
that Mr Keene’s struggles to redeem fortune were as great as before.
Then she dismissed Frank until to-morrow. He went home walking on air,
and, like a dutiful son, wrote to Mrs Abbot, telling her that Millicent
had returned, and next week would marry him. Mrs Abbot’s reply may be
given here:
‘MY DEAR FRANK—I _say_ nothing. I am too much _horrified_. If any
young man was ever called upon to marry money and build up the fallen
fortunes of a family, it is you. My last hope is gone. The obstinacy of
your character I know too well. If I thought I could turn you from your
purpose, I would come and _kneel at your feet_. If I knew Miss Keene’s
address, I would make one last appeal to her. She, I believe, was a
sensible young woman.—Your affectionate MOTHER.’
COMMON ERRORS IN DOMESTIC MEDICINE.
BY AN OLD PRACTITIONER.
Among the various passions which are inherent in the human breast, none
is stronger or more evident than the desire which every one manifests
to practise the healing art in some form or other, either on himself
or—more frequently—on his fellow-creatures; a propensity which betrays
itself in the gratuitous administration of physic, the infliction of
minor surgery, or, if these suggestions be not favourably received
by the patient, in copious advice of a hygienic nature. This is
particularly the case with the gentler sex. Every woman is a physician
at heart, and nothing is more refreshing than to sit and listen to
two ladies in confidential medical conversation respecting the merits
of their favourite nostrums. It is to them that homœopathy especially
appeals. What more delightful spectacle can be found than that of a
fair amateur ‘doctress’ with her book, her case of phials and little
gold spoon, dispensing globules to her family, to her servants, to
her neighbours, to any one and every one; and to enjoy at the same
time the sweet reflection that she is not doing a particle of harm!
Nevertheless, there are some not unfrequent mistakes in the application
of so-called household remedies, excellent in themselves; and to call
attention to these, and to a few popular fallacies on the subject of
health and disease, is the object of the present paper.
Let us commence with that finest of domestic institutions, the
poultice—bread, linseed, or mustard—soothing, fomenting, or
stimulating, according to circumstances. There are few remedies in the
pharmacopœia of wider beneficial application in surgery and medicine
than this; yet terrible mischief often follows its injudicious use. A
man has a cough, or his child wheezes with a ‘tightness on the chest,’
and on goes a poultice straightway. So far, so good; in all probability
they wake up next morning greatly relieved. But the father is off
to his daily business, and the child runs about and plays as usual,
while—since they feel so much better—neither takes any precaution, by
extra clothing or otherwise, to guard against the consequences of the
poultice itself. The skin and subjacent tissues have been rendered
lax by the heat and moisture, the blood-vessels are dilated, and the
circulation of the part increased; to use a common expression, the
‘pores’ are open, and there is thus a tenfold liability to catch cold,
especially in winter-time, when these things most frequently happen.
Ordinary colds which are said to have ‘run’ into congestion of the
lungs, bronchitis, or pneumonia, may often be traced to their serious
or fatal termination through the _undefended_ use of a poultice.
It should be borne in mind that a common poultice—such as is made of
linseed meal or bread—is merely a vehicle for the application of damp
heat—a continuous fomentation, in fact—and has no specific curative
action. A muslin bag filled with bran, or flannels dipped in hot water,
have precisely the same effect, but are not so conveniently employed,
as they have to be more frequently renewed. A poultice should always be
thoroughly mixed and homogeneous in consistence throughout; just so wet
as to permit of its retaining the mould of the cup when turned out, but
not wet enough to exude water by its own weight when lightly applied.
A _hot_ poultice should never be allowed to remain on after its outer
part is less than the temperature of the blood, nor must it get dry
and caked. As a general rule, it may be said that bread makes a better
cataplasm than linseed meal, but requires to be changed oftener. There
are, of course, special medical reasons in occasional cases for the
preference of one or the other, but such instances scarcely come within
the scope of this article. Well-mashed carrots make a capital soothing
application, and a poultice composed of tea-leaves is, owing to its
slight astringent action, generally suitable when one is required about
the region of the eye. An abominable mixture of soap and sugar is very
popular as a local remedy in some parts of England, and is credited
with great ‘drawing’ properties. On the other hand, it is good to know
that the old-fashioned liniment of hartshorn and oil is one of the
best embrocations ever invented under ordinary circumstances, and that
therapeutical research amongst all the drugs that the vegetable and
mineral kingdoms afford has never discovered an improvement on salt and
water as a gargle for simple sore throat.
What British home would _be_ a home without its little roll of sticking
or court plaster? How often is it that little tearful eyes look mistily
down on a poor scratched finger, held carefully out in the other hand,
as if there were some danger of its coming off, while mamma cuts a thin
yellow strip and wraps it round the injured member with comforting
words, all lamentation being temporarily reduced to an occasional sob
in the interest of the operation. That the sticking-plaster exercises
a fine moral effect in such a case, there can be no doubt; but I fear
there is as little doubt that it often does more harm than good from a
physical point of view, and this arises from the fallacious belief in
it as a healing agent. The only real service that sticking-plaster does
is to hold two cut surfaces together while Nature’s process necessary
for their union is being completed, acting for a slight wound as
stitches do in a deep one. But to cover an abrasion or raw surface with
it is worse than useless, as it only irritates it. The plea is often
advanced that it serves to keep dust and dirt off. A bit of wet linen
rag, however, would be far better for that purpose.
Most of the ordinary household cures for chilblains are well enough in
their way, but an unfortunate mistake is often committed in applying
certain of them, which are fit only for the chilblains in their
early stage, to broken ones, setting up thereby great inflammation
and producing very painful sores. A broken chilblain is a little
ulcer, and must be treated as such. As for the thousand-and-one
remedies in vogue for corns, it is wonderful that they should exist
at all, since nine people out of ten could cure their own without any
application whatever, by wearing properly fitting boots and shoes. It
is irregularity of pressure which creates corns; boots which are too
big being as productive of the tiny torments as tight ones. A wet rag
covered with oiled silk—to retain the moisture—and bound round the
corn, is one of the best cures.
A very common but reprehensible practice is that of holding a burn as
close to the grate as possible, ‘to draw the fire out’—not out of the
fireplace—but from the injured part. It is quite feasible to conceive
that such a proceeding may give ease by deadening sensation in some
instances; but it by no means follows that it does good or expedites
recovery—indeed, we shall see that in such a case the loss of sensation
really proves further damage to the tissues. Burns have been divided
by surgeons into six classes: (1) Simple scorching, sufficient only
to redden the surface. (2) Blistering; the cuticle raised and forming
little bladders of water. (3) The skin denuded of its cuticle. This is
the most painful stage of all, as it leaves the nerve-ends exposed. (4)
Destruction of the entire thickness of the skin; painless or nearly
so, because the sensitive nerve-bulbs are destroyed. (5) Destruction
of all the soft parts; and (6) charring of the bone—two conditions
very difficult to imagine as co-existent with any remnant of life.
It can thus be readily understood how a burn of the third order of
magnitude can be converted by additional heat into the fourth, and
temporary relief from pain purchased by transforming a trifling injury
into a serious one, liable to be followed by severe illness and
permanent deformity. A most mysterious cause of death after burns is
the ulceration and bursting of a certain blood-vessel in the stomach.
The connection between the two has never been discovered. People talk
about this or that being good for a burn, but not for a scald, or _vice
versâ_; but practically no distinction is to be drawn between the two,
further than that, as we know the highest temperature of water, we
know the utmost limit of injury in a scald, whereas there is no limit
to the possibilities of a burn. To keep the air from both is the main
object in treatment. Cook, who generally appears on the scene of the
disaster with her flour-dredge, is a very efficient surgeon for burns
and scalds of the first degree—this little scientific technicality will
comfort the sufferer marvellously; but where the skin is raised or
broken, something of an oily nature—Carron oil, for instance—should be
substituted. Cover it up with lots of cotton-wool, as though you wished
to keep it as warm as possible; and, mind, no soap and sugar on any
account!
What is the origin of the popular idea that the finger-nails are
poisonous to a wound? It does not do a wound much good to scratch
it, or indeed touch it, but that is no reason why those useful
little shields of our finger-ends should be so libelled. Whence
comes the notion that to pierce a girl’s ears and compel her to wear
earrings improves her eyesight? Possibly this may have arisen from
the fact that medical men sometimes put blisters behind the ears as
counter-irritants, to relieve some chronic ophthalmic disorders. Why
is a glass of hot rum-and-water with a lump of butter in it not only
familiarly prescribed for but familiarly swallowed by catarrh-afflicted
mankind? Speaking of colds generally, we may remark in passing that
treacle posset, hot gruel, putting the feet in mustard-and-water, &c.,
are all capital things, but that they effect only the one object of
inducing perspiration. There is nothing specifically curative about
any of them. It is a mistake, however, to give spirits, negus, or any
alcoholic fluids in influenza colds where there is much congestion of
the mucous membranes, as it increases the incidental headache.
Some people fancy that a magnet will draw out a needle, broken off
short in the hand, even when it has passed in altogether out of sight.
When a medical practitioner is called upon to extract a broken needle,
he usually finds that it has been driven beyond reach by injudicious
squeezing and other futile home-attempts at extraction, for the
lightest touch makes a needle travel. A very troublesome class of
case this is, owing to the uncertainty of its exact situation, of the
direction of its long axis, and of its even being there at all—each
sufficient to create the disagreeable possibility of cutting into the
flesh without finding it. In such a state of affairs, one might as
well put a magnet in the mouth to draw one’s boots on, as to expect
to extract the needle by its influence. But a celebrated surgeon, Mr
Marshall, has devised an ingenious application of this force for the
purpose of detection. A powerful magnet is held upon the part which
contains the suspected needle for some time, so as to influence it.
Then a finely-hung polarised needle is suspended over it, and is
immediately deflected, if any metal be concealed beneath. Never press
or squeeze the flesh about a broken needle or bit of glass. If you
cannot lay hold of it with the fingers or scissors, or, still better,
a pair of tweezers, and pull it right out at once, keep quite still
until a doctor has seen it. By so doing, you may save yourself weeks or
months of pain, and even possible amputation of a limb.