sickness this delightful fluid gives a temporary stimulus to the brain,
and though possessing no feeding qualities in itself, it prevents or
retards the waste of tissue—a property of considerable importance in
illness where but little food is taken. Above all, the fact of being
allowed one favourite beverage, albeit greatly diluted, when everything
else that pertains to the routine of daily life seems interdicted or
upset, has a beneficial effect on the patient, who welcomes his cup of
weak tea with something of the anticipation of that refreshment and
social enjoyment he derives from it under brighter circumstances.
‘Is the bone broken, or only fractured, doctor?’ is an anxious
question often asked apropos of an injured limb. Broken and fractured
are synonymous terms in surgery, my dear madam—it is always a lady
who asks this—but I think I know what you mean. A fully developed
bone is rarely cracked—nearly always it snaps in two pieces—but
the soft cartilaginous bones of children sometimes sustain what is
called a ‘green-stick fracture,’ a name which almost explains itself,
meaning that the bone is broken through part of its thickness, but not
separated, as happens with the green bough of a tree. Many people have
a totally erroneous idea, when an arm or leg is badly bruised only,
that it would be better if it were broken. ‘Right across the muscle,
too!’ implies that an injury has been received across the upper arm
in the region of the biceps, that being the only ‘muscle’ which is
honoured by general public recognition. How many people know that
what they call their flesh, and the lean part of meat, is nothing but
muscles, the pulleys by which every action of the body is performed?
Common mistakes lie in trying to ‘walk off’ rheumatism, sprains, and
other things which should be kept entirely at rest; and in squeezing
collections of matter which have burst or been lanced, with a view to
hasten their healing by the more speedy emptying of their contents.
Of late years, the Latin or other scientific equivalents for diseases
have crept into general use, with the curious result that in many cases
they are taken to mean different things. Scarlatina, for instance, not
only sounds much nicer than scarlet fever, but is often considered
to be that disease in a milder form; and the identity of pneumonia
with inflammation of the lungs, or of gastric with typhoid fever, or
of the various terms ending in ‘itis’ with the inflammation they are
intended to specify, is far from being universally recognised. Abscess
is a better word than ‘gathering;’ and though, on the other hand,
‘tumour’ seems very dreadful, we may find consolation in remembering
that after all it only means a swelling, whatever the nature may be,
from a gum-boil to a cancer. There is much in a name. Dipsomania sounds
much better than the other thing; and kleptomania by any other name
would not smell so sweet. Much in a name? I should think so. Read what
follows, if you doubt it. When a ship arrives in an English port from
abroad, before those on board are allowed to have any communication
with the shore, the ship must be declared healthy by the sanitary
authorities, who accordingly board her at once, inspect her bills of
health, and especially the list of those who have been ill during
the voyage. If any of these are entered on the sick-list as having
suffered from intermittent fever, printed forms have to be filled up,
declarations made and signed, certificates written out, all sorts of
questions answered about whether their bedding or clothing has been
destroyed; and the men themselves paraded on deck for inspection.
But if it is stated, instead, that they have suffered from ague—only
another word for intermittent fever—then no notice is taken of it!
After all, there is very little rationale in any amateur system of
medicine; all its treatment is purely empirical, and has its root in
that love of mysticism which prevails in everything. Medicine, like
every other science, is built up of hard, unromantic facts, amenable
to the laws of logic and common-sense. The popular idea runs always on
specifics. Every bottle in a druggist’s shop is supposed to contain
a definite remedy for a definite disease; and the patient weaving of
link with link in a chain of logical inferences, of the correlation
of causes and effects, which constitutes medical science, is unknown.
‘What’s good for so-and-so?’ is a query constantly put to a doctor; and
if he answers honestly, he must confess that in nine cases out of ten
he can give no absolute reply, but must preface his words with, ‘That
depends!’ Take two very frequent illustrations by way of conclusion.
What is ‘good for’ indigestion? and what for a headache? But what is
indigestion? Not a disease, but a generic name for fifty different
diseases, all attended with the same symptoms in some measure, but
proceeding from not only different but often entirely opposite causes.
Thus, the pain may be produced by a deficiency or by an excess of the
gastric juice; and by any derangement, from a simple error in diet
to a cancer; and it requires the practised eye, ear, and hand of the
physician to detect and appreciate those minute differences which point
to the root of the evil. As for a headache, such a complaint hardly
exists _per se_, but is almost invariably a symptom only of some other
disorder; and we all know how many varying states of the body will give
us headache. Nevertheless, may the practice of domestic medicine and
the virtues which go with it long continue in our midst, and let no man
be so ill-advised as to banish the harmless little medicine-chest with
its associations from his hearth.
OUTWARD AND HOMEWARD BOUND.
Many a long journey by sea and land, in fair weather and in foul, has
fallen to my lot; but to none can I look back with such vivid delight
as to the first which found me turning from wintry England to seek a
perpetual summer beneath Eastern skies.
I fancy every one’s first voyage by one of the P. and O. steam-packets
must be a matter of considerable amusement, from the novelty of
everything. Perhaps one of the most curious sights is the coming on
board of the Indian and Colonial mails. It seems scarcely possible
that such a multitude of boxes and sacks as those which lie heaped up
in such solid masses can really be all postal matter. A very great man
on board is the guardian of Her Majesty’s mails. A man of wondrous
authority—occasionally a thorn in the side of the captain, as being
the possessor of certain powers of interference or of counsel, rarely,
however, brought into action. Then as to fellow-passengers, there is no
type of man, woman, or child who is not here represented. Happily, when
outward bound, the proportion of children is very small. The return
voyage is very different. Perhaps ninety or a hundred children of all
sizes and ages, flying from oriental climates, in which young English
life cannot flourish, and all more or less spoilt by the care of ayahs
and native servants, whose sole idea of training is to give a child
whatever it cries for. Imagine the torture which must be inflicted
by such an army of babies on the older passengers, probably never,
at the best, much addicted to babiolatry, but now rendered doubly
irritable by long battles with sun and liver; for on a voyage homeward
there are generally a sad proportion of sickly folk; men conscious
of possessing a liver, and all manner of other complaints, or, worse
still, unconscious alike of life’s cares or pleasures. On our return to
England, there were no less than twelve lunatics on board, victims of
the combined influence of the sun and the system of incessant ‘pegs,’
alias brandy and soda-water.
Outward bound, we find abundant studies of character in ship-life,
where business is laid aside, and in general every one tries to make
the best of his neighbours. From the grave old Indian official,
returning to his high post in some distant corner of the empire,
down to the beardless Competition Wallah, still breathless from the
educational high-pressure to which he has been subjected, all minds
are naturally more or less tinged with thoughts of the land for which
they are bound; and we hear more of Indian and Colonial manners and
customs than we should do in a year in Britain. A considerable number
of the more energetic set to work at once to learn Hindustani or some
other oriental language—generally a fruitless struggle, as only an
exceptional few, with wondrous powers of abstraction, can find leisure
for any settled work.
Among the small novelties which catch the unaccustomed eye, is the
setting of a great dinner-table in stormy weather. The table from
end to end is covered with skeleton frames of mahogany, laid over
the tablecloth. These are called ‘fiddles,’ and keep your plate from
rolling too far. As to your cup or wine-glass, it stands on a swinging
table opposite your nose, and preserves so perfect an equilibrium, that
in the wildest storm, not one drop of the contents is spilt. How the
stewards manage to wait, and the cooks to cook, for such a multitude,
in such a rolling and turmoil, and in such limited space, is a matter
for perpetual wonder and admiration. If you go for’ard, you will find
a regular town—butcher’s shop and baker’s shop, carpenter’s shop and
engineer’s shop, tailors and laundrymen—that is, sailors doing amateur
work; and as to the live-stock, there are sheep and pigs, and cows and
oxen, and poultry of every description; in short, a regular farmyard;
and I think some of the big children find as much amusement as the
little ones in that corner of the ship.
One thing startling to a new traveller is the rapidity with which
time changes. He finds his watch going very wrong, and perhaps, for
the first day or two, is weak enough to alter it, till he finds it
simpler to count ‘bells’ after the manner of the sea. Speaking of
hours, one of the many small gambling devices to relieve the tedium
of the voyage is a system of sweepstakes as to the exact moment when
the vessel will drop anchor at any given port, tickets being issued
for every five or ten minutes of the expected forenoon or afternoon,
and the winnings being sometimes presented to a Sailors’ Orphan Fund.
Some of my fellow-travellers have told me that in long weary voyages
they had been driven to institute races for short distances, the steeds
being cheese-mites, or maggots carefully extracted from the nuts. These
races at last became positively exciting; and the same creatures being
preserved from day to day, were, if of approved speed, worth small
fortunes to their owners. A very swift maggot would sell for a large
sum! Fly loo was another favourite game, but happily, we have never had
occasion to try such singular amusements. There are games at Bull for
those who want exercise; and sedentary games and books, and singing
and chatting, for sociable folk. For my part, being an unsocial sort
of animal, I think that ‘to be talked to all day’ is the sum of human
misery, as much on board ship as on land. So, on my memorable first
voyage, when all was new and delightful, I soon discovered a quiet
nook on the top of the deck cabin, right astern, where, with infinite
satisfaction, I established myself, and there read in peace, no one
venturing to invade that haven of refuge save under a solemn vow of
silence. But when the light began to wane, the silence was no more;
for the sons and daughters of music there assembled, and as there were
several good voices and a first-rate leader, the glees and choruses
were sometimes very effective.
Thus pleasantly day and night slipped by in quick succession. Casual
acquaintanceships ripened into lifelong friendships; and when at length
we reached our journey’s end, the joy of arrival was tempered by true
regret for the break-up of a pleasant party, and the dispersion of many
friends, of whom the majority in all probability might never meet again.
* * * * *
A brief year passed away—a year of ever-changing delight in the
wondrous Indian land, and ere we realised that our allotted twelve
months were over, we found ourselves numbered with _The Homeward
Bound_. Very different was our return journey from the last. Instead of
finding ourselves surrounded by a superabundance of bright energetic
life, our companions were almost all on the sick-list, as few people
who were not driven home by illness, would exchange an Indian winter
for the chilly frosts and snows of England. Instead of the continuous
sunshine of our outward journey, we had bitter winds and sharp storms,
and though we were too good sailors to be thereby affected, some of our
neighbours were wretched enough.
But the saddest change of all was the long list of funerals, which,
commencing ere we left the deep-blue Indian Ocean, only ended as we
neared the English shores. Sometimes we heard the beautiful words of
the solemn funeral service read in the quiet moonlight, and sometimes
when we could scarcely distinguish a word for the howling of the storm
and roar of waters, and only knew by the sad, earnest faces of sailors
and soldiers crowding round, that the uncoffined clay, which lay so
still beneath the outspread Union-jack, was about to be committed to
the deep. The first who thus ‘fell asleep’ was a little child, on whom
the tropical sun had laid its fiery finger. Not all the ice of Himla
could cool the burning of that fevered, throbbing brow; and the wistful
baby-eyes looked vainly up, in piteous mute appeal, to those who knew
too bitterly how utterly powerless they were to help. But when the
red glowing sun sank below the mellow waters, that tender spirit rose
to its Home, far beyond the stars; and loving hands laid the tiny
marble form in a pure white shell, meet for so fair a pearl. Then kind,
warm-hearted British tars covered that little coffin with England’s
flag, and laid it down gently and reverently, standing round bareheaded
in the warm southern moonlight, while holy words were uttered as the
little white coffin sank down into the quiet depths of that wondrously
blue sea.
A few more days went by, and again the Angel of Death was among us.
This time he came to call away a poor fellow with the frame of a
young giant, who but a few months before had left the Emerald Isle in
glowing health and strength, but who now wearily dragged himself along
sun-stricken, utterly unconscious that the shadow of the angel’s wing
already darkened over him; only craving once more to reach the old
home, where mother and sisters would welcome him. But when the sun
rose, one cold, bleak morning, we were told he had passed away in the
night. We were on the Red Sea; but it was bitterly cold and stormy, and
the dull, drear, wintry winds were echoing over bleak bare shores, and
sighing among the masts and rigging. Even the sea was leaden-hued; and
when the funeral service was read, and the body lowered into the sullen
waves, the pale sunrise was overclouded by a heavy drifting shower. It
was the saddest, dreariest funeral at which I was ever present. In the
cabin next to his was another victim of the sun—a handsome young bride,
with mind, alas! all unstrung. Of course she could not have known what
was passing so near, yet, through all those sad hours she kept on
crooning a low plaintive song, telling how
Somebody’s darling, so young, and so fair,
Somebody’s darling lay dying there.
An hour later we lay-to, off the wreck of the ill-fated _Carnatic_, the
property of the same Company as the ship in which we sailed; which,
but a few weeks previously, had, one Sunday night, in calmest weather,
diverged but a little from her course, and struck upon a hidden coral
reef. There she lay all the long day in the sunshine. So little was
danger suspected, that not even Her Majesty’s mails, or the precious
human lives on board, were landed on the island of Shadwan, which lay
at a distance of about three miles; and where all might have found a
safe refuge. Meals continued to be served with the usual wonderful
regularity; and between whiles, the passengers amused themselves with
angling for fish of dazzling colours, which swarmed all round the coral
rock. In short, the affair seems to have been treated in the light of
a summer picnic, till the dread moment when, at midnight, the vessel
suddenly parted mid-ships and went down. Thus, like another _Royal
George_, the good ship suddenly foundered in a calm sea, carrying with
her many a brave British heart. Some good swimmers, though carried down
with the swirl, struggled to the surface, and after many a hard blow
from floating spars and luggage, escaped with their lives; and a few
boats likewise got beyond the reach of the whirlpool. It was Tuesday
night before the survivors were all safe on the isle of Shadwan; and
of their goods, only one dressing-bag and one dry box of matches had
escaped. Some huge bales of dry cotton had, however, been cast ashore,
so tightly packed that the centre was still quite dry. This they heaped
up as material for a bonfire, wherewith to greet the first sail that
hove in sight; and while some stood by, ready to kindle the blaze,
others rowed out to sea again, taking with them their only rocket.
They had not long to wait. Soon a great steamer belonging to the same
Company drew near, and the Homeward-bound rescued the survivors of the
Outward-bound, whose journey sunward had been thus sadly damped at the
outset. All we saw of the wreck were the extreme tips of the masts
appearing above the waters, to mark where the divers were even then at
work, seeking to rescue property of all sorts. The mails had previously
been rescued, and many half-legible letters had reached India before we
had sailed thence.
Strangely, in truth, fell our Christmas Eve, as we landed, on the dull
shore of Suez, where, on a little sandy island, so many of England’s
sons, ‘homeward-bound,’ sleep their last sleep beneath the burning sun;
and as we stood in the starlight, watching the last of our companions
hurrying on to Alexandria, it was hard indeed to realise that festive
Yule had found us in such dreary quarters. Nor—for it was before the
Suez Canal days—did it mend matters much to spend our Christmas Day
whirling across the Desert in an Egyptian railway. But when evening
brought us to the green banks of the Nile, we were content.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
WHY DO WE NOW DRINK LESS COFFEE?
For many years past it has been plainly apparent that there has been
a decline in the consumption of coffee; and while the use of spirits,
wine, tobacco, tea, and cocoa has considerably increased, that of
coffee has fallen off to a considerable extent. Dr Wallace, F.R.S.E.,
in a paper read before the Society of Public Analysts, is of opinion
that the people of this country are losing their taste for coffee
because of the difficulty of obtaining it in a pure state. About the
time when the consumption per head was highest, coffee began to be
adulterated with chicory, and now this is done so universally, that
many people prefer the mixture to pure coffee, and few know the taste
of the genuine article.
When travelling on the continent, the tourist enjoys the fragrant cup;
but the beverage supplied at the best hotels and restaurants in this
country is not coffee, but a mixture of that substance with chicory,
in the proportion of three-fourths to one-third of the whole, and
sometimes more. As Dr Wallace correctly says, this substance may be
described as chicory flavoured with coffee. Chicory being bitter, with
three times the colouring power of coffee, gives it the appearance of
great strength; but it should always be remembered that it contains no
caffeine, and wants the exhilarating qualities for which good coffee is
partaken. The sooner the public awakens to a sense of this fact, the
better.
Pure coffee can be had; but it is only sold with a grudge, for
the grocer has his chief profit in the chicory with which it is
adulterated. To show where the profit lies, take the case of a
particular coffee sold in tins, which contains one part of coffee
to three parts of chicory, and is sold at one-and-fourpence per
pound. The coffee in a pound of it costs, retail, say sevenpence, the
chicory, say fourpence, tins, say threepence, profit twopence—total,
one-and-fourpence. But the purchaser gets no value except the
sevenpenceworth of coffee, the chicory only adding colour, bitterness,
and body, so that he pays one-and-fourpence for sevenpenceworth of
coffee.
Amongst the other substances used to adulterate coffee in order to
yield a higher profit to the dealer, are burnt sugar or caramel,
dried and roasted figs, dried dates, date-stones, decayed ships’
biscuits, beans, peas, acorns, malt, dandelion root, turnips, carrots,
parsnips, and mangold-wurzel, all of which are roasted in imitation of
coffee. There is little wonder, therefore, that coffee, which lends
itself so easily to unprincipled adulteration, is becoming unpopular.
According to Dr Wallace, the quantity used per head in 1843 was 1.1 lb.,
increasing up to 1848, when it was 1.37 lb. It has since slowly but
steadily declined, especially since 1853, and is now only .89 lb.; a
decrease since 1843 of nineteen per cent., and since 1853 of fifty-four
per cent. About five pounds of tea per head are consumed to one of
coffee. In France, with a heavier duty, the consumption of coffee is
3.23 lbs. a head; Germany and Holland, 5.3 lbs.; Switzerland, 6.68
lbs.; Italy, only 1.05 lb.; while Belgium is largest of all, being 9
lbs. a head. The total consumption in Europe is about four hundred
thousand tons, of which Great Britain used fourteen thousand tons
in 1880. In the same year, about six thousand tons of chicory were
retained for home consumption, which is an index to the extent of the
adulteration. When the public taste ceases to lend itself to coffee
adulterated with chicory and other rubbish, and when folks have
acquired the art of making it properly, then the beverage might take
the high place in general estimation to which it is justly entitled.
ABNORMAL HUMANITY.
A new phenomenon has lately appeared in Paris in the shape of a
man with a head resembling that of a calf. The similarity is said
to be wonderful. For his own sake, it is to be hoped that this
eccentric-looking person will prove as great a financial success as
his three recent celebrated predecessors—the Man-frog, the man with a
goose’s head, and the Man-dog, who have all retired into private life,
having made a nice little fortune. The Man-frog was first exhibited
in 1866, at a French country fête. He had a stout ill-shapen body,
covered with a skin like a leather bottle, and a face exactly like a
frog’s, large eyes, an enormous mouth, and the skin cold and clammy. He
attracted a good deal of attention from the Academy of Medicine, and a
delegate was deputed to make him an object of study. He went all over
France; and at the end of a few years, retired to his native place,
Puyre, in Gers.
The man with the goose’s head was first shown at the Gingerbread Fair
in 1872. He was twenty years of age, had round eyes, a long and flat
nose the shape and size of a goose’s bill, an immensely long neck,
and was without a single hair on his head. He only wanted feathers to
make him complete. The effect of his interminably long neck twisting
about was extremely ludicrous, and was so much appreciated, that his
receipts were very large. He now passes under his proper name of Jean
Rondier, and is established at Dijon as a photographer. He is married;
and, thanks to enormously high collars and a wig, is now tolerably
presentable.
The Man-dog came from Russia, and was for a long time exhibited in
Paris. He is now settled at Pesth, having established a bird-fancier’s
business there, which is decidedly flourishing.
THE SOLITARY SINGER.
Sweet singer!—sweet to hear when only one
Among the thousand voices of the spring
Thou carollest—how sweeter far, alone
And all unrivalled, art thou wont to fling
The spell of music o’er the list’ning air
From yon drear spray by winter’s blight left bare.