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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
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NO. 33.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
CAVE-CHAPELS.
In the biographies of the saints of the early Celtic Church it is
frequently recorded that towards the close of their lives they left
their monasteries and sought the seclusion of some lonely island or
mountain solitude, in order to pass the evening of their days in
undisturbed devotion and freedom from worldly cares. Joceline in his
_Life of St Kentigern_ also records that it was his custom to retire
to a cave during Lent, so that, ‘removed from the strife of tongues
and the tumults of this world, he might hide himself in God.’ Such
retreats, whether they were used for periodical and temporary seclusion
or for permanent retirement, were called in the ecclesiastical language
of the day _Deserta_; and the frequent occurrence of this term in
the topography of Scotland and Ireland—in its modern form of Dysart
or Disert—shows how common the custom must once have been. Sometimes
the recluse erected a habitation for himself of stones and turf, as
St Cuthbert did in the island of Farne; but frequently he chose the
shelter of a natural cavern or crevice in the rocks, as St Cuthbert
is also said to have done at Weem in Perthshire. As the veneration
for the memory of the saint increased with lapse of time, the sites
of such hermitages naturally became places of pilgrimage, and troops
of devotees were drawn to visit them by rumours of special benefits
accruing to pilgrims of weak health, or peace of mind procured by
the performance of special vows. In consequence of the peculiar
prevalence of this mode of retirement in the primitive Celtic Church,
cave-hermitages must have been exceedingly numerous in Scotland. But
the thoroughness of the breach which the Church of the Reformation made
with the traditions and especially with the superstitious practices of
the past, has obliterated most of the traces of this early devotion;
and it is only in a few isolated and exceptional cases that any of its
associations have survived to our day.
St Ninian’s Cave, near Physgill, in the parish of Glasserton,
Wigtownshire, is situated a little to the west of the wooded valley
which terminates in the creek known as Portcastle. It is simply a
triangular fissure in the rock, some ten or twelve feet wide at the
entrance, and about fifteen feet in height, narrowing inwards until,
at a distance of about twenty-five feet from the entrance, the sides
of the fissure come gradually together. A rudely-built wall has been
constructed across the mouth of the cave, of which the lower part
still remains. On the occasion of a visit to the cave by the late
Dean Stanley of Westminster, a small cross was discovered carved on a
projecting part of the rock, and three others were subsequently made
visible by the partial removal of the debris from the face of the
rock. The form of these crosses is peculiar. They are equal-limbed
crosses, formed by four arcs of circles intersecting the circumference
of a circumscribing circle. Similar equal-limbed crosses, but bearing
the hook-like curve at the right-hand corner of the upper limb, which
constitutes the _chrisma_ or monogram—the combined _Chi_ and _rho_ of
the Greek word _Christos_—are found upon early Christian monuments
at Kirkmadrine and Whithorn in the same county, but nowhere else in
Scotland. These monuments bear inscriptions commemorative of certain
‘holy and distinguished priests’—Viventius, Mavorius, and Florentius.
Their names are so different from those of the priesthood of the
Columban Church, that they may be regarded as followers if not as
contemporaries of St Ninian. But none of the crosses in Ninian’s Cave
present this peculiarly ancient characteristic of the _chrisma_, and
these crosses may therefore be of a much later date than Ninian’s time.
They are not confined to the rock-face, but have also been carved upon
several of the loose stones found on the floor of the cave.
In the month of June last the cave was thoroughly explored for the
Ayrshire and Wigtownshire Archæological Association, under the
superintendence of Sir Herbert Maxwell, M.P., and Mr Cochran-Patrick,
M.P., Secretary of the Association and of the Society of Antiquaries
of Scotland. They found that the whole floor of the cave had been
regularly paved; and close to the entrance, but outside the external
wall which converted the cave into a chapel, there was a large stone
basin placed under a natural drip from the rock, which may have
served as a holy-water vessel. A number of additional crosses were
also discovered. On a stone which had been placed as one of the steps
leading down to the paved floor there were four crosses in a line.
On one of the stones of the pavement was an inscription in Roman
letters, of which the word SANCTI could only be deciphered. Underneath
the pavement and throughout the debris of the cave-floor there was a
considerable accumulation of shells, consisting chiefly of limpets and
periwinkles, mingled with splintered bones, evidently the refuse of the
food of some earlier occupants. At a considerable depth immediately
outside the wall of the chapel, the decayed remnants of a human
skeleton were disentombed. Whether these were the bones of a hermit of
the chapel who had chosen to be buried in the spot where he had ended
his solitary life, or the remains of some victim of violence placed
there for concealment, will probably remain unknown.
St Ninian, to whom the cave was dedicated, was the first who preached
Christianity among the southern Picts. His life and labours are briefly
related by the Venerable Bede, and more fully by Ailred, a Cistercian
monk of Rievaux, in Yorkshire. Ailred, whose _Life of St Ninian_ was
written in the second half of the twelfth century, states that he
derived his materials from a certain barbarously written manuscript,
presumably of much earlier date. He informs us that Ninian was born
at Whithorn—then called Rosnat—and that he was the son of a Christian
Prince. Having received his education under the care of St Martin
of Tours, he subsequently went to Rome, where he remained till he
was made a bishop and sent to evangelise the people of his native
province. From St Martin he obtained masons to build a stone church in
Galloway after the Roman fashion. As this was the first stone church
erected in Scotland, the fame of Ninian’s _Candida Casa_ or White
House has been perpetuated in the Saxon form of Whitherne or Whithorn.
The date of its erection is fixed by the fact that St Martin died in
397 A.D.; and St Ninian, having heard of his death while the church
was being built, resolved to dedicate the finished edifice to his
memory. Ninian himself, after a life full of labours, was buried in
the church of St Martin which he had built; and Ailred mentions the
stone sarcophagus which contained his remains as still existing in his
day, and much venerated in consequence of the many miraculous cures
said to be wrought upon those who devoutly frequented it. Pilgrimages
continued to be made to the shrine of St Ninian down to the period of
the Reformation. In a letter of King James V. of Scotland to the Pope,
the king states that pilgrims from England, Ireland, the Isles, and
adjoining countries came yearly in flocks to St Ninian’s shrine at
Whithorn. That notable pilgrim King James IV. made special pilgrimages
to this famous shrine, and his Treasurer has preserved an account
of his disbursements on these occasions. From it we learn that the
king made offerings in money ‘at the Rude Altar; at the fertir (or
shrine) in the outer kirk; at the reliques at the Hie Altair; at the
Lady Altar; and in the chapel on the hill—at ilk place xiiis. 4d.’
And in 1505 he offered also ‘ane relique of the king’s awn silver’ of
considerable weight and value.
The number of dedications to St Ninian, scattered over the whole
country from the remotest Northern and Western Isles to the Mull of
Galloway, bear testimony to the widespread devotion to his memory which
once pervaded the Scottish Church. The removal of a portion of the wall
of the choir of the old church of St Congan at Turriff in 1861 brought
to light a fresco-painting of St Ninian, robed as a bishop, with mitre
and pastoral staff—the only relic of pre-Reformation work of the kind
that has been discovered in Scotland. Neither in his _Life_ nor in any
ancient document has any reference been found to the occupation of
the cave at Physgill by St Ninian; but Sulpicius Severus, who wrote a
Life of St Martin of Tours, mentions that he had a little cell in the
rock at Marmoutier to which he was accustomed to retire for prayer
and meditation, and that many of his disciples also dug cells in the
rock and took up their abodes in them. St Ninian being a disciple of
St Martin, there is reason to conclude that in this respect he would
follow the example of his master. But apart from this consideration,
it is certain that from a very early period this cave has been
traditionally associated with his name, and that this association was
the reason for converting it into a chapel, where services would be
held on the saint’s anniversaries, pilgrimages performed, vows paid,
and offerings presented. It is not unlikely that in its earlier days
the chapel may have been ministered to by a resident recluse, as was
often the custom in similar circumstances. For instance, we are told by
Bower, the continuator of Fordun’s _Chronicle_, that in crossing the
Firth of Forth in the year 1123, King Alexander I. was driven by stress
of weather to land on the island of Inchcolm, ‘where at that time lived
an island hermit, who, belonging to the service of St Columba, devoted
himself sedulously to his duties at a little chapel there, content
with such poor food as the milk of one cow, and the shells and small
sea-fishes he could collect.’ It is suggestive, too, that one of the
copies of the _Scotichronicon_—that which belonged to the Abbey of
Coupar-Angus—connects the island of Inchcolm with St Columba by saying
that he lived in it for a certain time during his ministry among the
Picts and Scots, just as the cave at Physgill is connected with St
Ninian.
There is another cave-chapel on the Wigtownshire coast, which had a
reputation scarcely less famous than that of St Ninian. St Medan’s
Cave, still locally known as ‘The Chapel Co’,’ is an irregular rent
in the cliff between Maryport and East Tarbert, about four miles from
Drumore. In front of it are the remains of a wall about four feet
thick, of rough stones and lime, still showing traces of the doorway,
and one deeply splayed window. About twelve feet farther in is the
back wall of the chapel, reaching to the roof of the cave, but giving
access, by a square-headed doorway four feet high and two and a half
feet wide, to the small natural cell in which the cave terminates. Near
the external entrance there are three pools or rock basins, within the
tide-mark, and usually full of sea-water. The largest, which is about
four feet in diameter, is known as ‘the Body Pool,’ and was used for
the cure of internal and wasting disorders, being specially efficacious
in cases of ‘back-gane bairns’. The second pool, of an irregularly
triangular shape, and about two feet long, was known as ‘the Knee
Pool,’ and was considered effectual for the cure of diseases of the
lower limbs. The third pool, a circular basin about six inches diameter
and the same in depth, was used for sore eyes. The cave and its pools
were largely frequented for curative purposes down almost to the
commencement of the present century, and continued to be occasionally
visited to a much later period. There are persons yet living who
remember large gatherings at St Medan’s Chapel, especially on the
first Sunday of May, old style. St Medan, who is commemorated in the
dedication of the church of Kirkmaiden, was one of the ‘devout women’
of the early Celtic Church of whom there is no distinct biographic
record. The _Breviary of Aberdeen_ states that she came from Ireland
to Galloway, and ended her days near the blessed St Ninian. Mr Skene
identifies her with Modwena, whose original name was Darerca, a convert
of St Patrick, who died on St Columba’s birthday, July 6, 519 A.D.
St Kieran’s Cave is situated in the precipitous cliffs of Achinhoan
Head, about three miles south of the site of the church dedicated to
him at Kilkerran, in Kintyre, Argyllshire. It is one of many fissures
occurring in the limestone rock on this coast, irregularly triangular
in shape, spacious and lofty. A substantially built wall three feet
thick has been constructed across the entrance. Immediately within the
entrance is a rough boulder with an oval basin scooped in its upper
surface, which is placed beneath a drip of water from the roof of the
cave, and thus forms a reservoir, which may have answered the purposes
of a hermit’s well, a holy-water vessel for the pilgrims’ chapel, and a
curative or holy well for the superstitious uses of later times. Close
by it is another boulder about two feet in diameter, the upper surface
of which is prettily carved with a circular border of fretwork, such
as is frequently seen on the early sculptured monuments of Scotland
and Ireland, inclosing a hexafoil with its points connected by arcs of
circles. A writer in the old _Statistical Account of Scotland_ also
speaks of the cross which St Kieran had cut upon the rock; but this
is no longer visible. Kieran Macantsaor, or the ‘carpenter’s son,’
was Abbot of Clonmacnois. In his youth he was a disciple of St Finan
of Clonard; and in proof of the sanctity of his life, it is told of
him that ‘he never looked upon a woman, and never told a lie.’ He was
held in great esteem by St Columba, who is said to have written a hymn
in praise of Kieran. He died at the age of thirty-three, and ‘was
likened to Christ, both on account of his age and that his father was a
carpenter like Joseph Muire.’
A cave on the western shore of Loch Caolisport, also in Argyllshire,
is associated with the name of the great evangelist of Scotland, St
Columba. Like most other cave-chapels, it has the remains of a wall,
with a doorway, constructed across the entrance. On a kind of rocky
shelf close by the doorway is a rude circular basin, which probably
served as the holy-water vessel of the chapel. Against the rock forming
the east side of the cave is the altar platform, roughly but solidly
built, and still standing—or at least till quite recently—to nearly
its full height. On the smooth face of the rock above the centre of
the altar platform is a cross carved in relief, of the Latin form, but
with its arms and summit slightly expanding towards the extremities.
This cross is placed a little to one side of the centre; but more
nearly in a central position over the altar there are discernible
the almost obliterated outlines of a much older cross which has been
incised in the rock. At a little distance from the cave are the ruins
of an ancient chapel dedicated to St Columba. It is a small plain
edifice about forty feet by twenty-two, with one east window, and the
remains of a window in each of the side-walls near the eastern end.
The tradition is that St Columba, landing here on his way to Iona,
established the chapel in the cave, which was ever afterwards held
sacred to his memory, and that the chapel near it was subsequently
founded in his honour. The cave was cleared out about two years ago
by the proprietor; but no record of what might have been a most
interesting scientific investigation appears to have been preserved.
It is said that a great many burials were found in the floor of the
cave—as many as sixteen or eighteen different skeletons are supposed
to have been found—and underneath them the traces of a more ancient
occupation of the cavern, probably in pagan times.
The cave of St Molio in the Island of Lamlash, or Holy Island, on the
east side of Arran, is a natural cavity in the sandstone rock, about
twenty-five feet above the present tide-mark. Traces of a rudely-built
wall across its entrance are still visible. A shelf of rock within
the cave is known as ‘the Saint’s Bed;’ a large flat-topped rock
close by with several step-like recesses cut in its circumference is
called ‘the Saint’s Chair;’ and a fine spring of pure water, which is
known as ‘the Saint’s Well,’ was formerly much resorted to for the
healing virtues of its water. The Island of Lamlash appears in ancient
documents as Helant-in-laysche or Almeslach, and this form of the name
identifies it with St Molaissi or Laisren of Leighlin, a nephew of St
Blane of Kingarth in Bute. His mother was a daughter of Aedhan, king of
the Scots of Dalriada; and it is told of him, that in order to avoid
being made king, he retired to an island in the sea between Alban and
Britain—between the country of the Scots and that of the Britons of
Strathclyde. This answers precisely to the situation of the Holy Island
which is still associated with his name. There was a relic either of
St Molaissi or of St Moluag of Lismore preserved in Arran down to the
time of Martin’s visit to the island in the beginning of the last
century. This was the _Baul Muluy_, a ‘green stone, like a globe in
figure, about the bigness of a goose-egg,’ which was much used by the
islanders for curing diseases and ‘for swearing decisive oaths upon
it.’ It seems to have been in the hereditary custody of a family of
Mackintoshes, and had also the reputation of having been anciently a
_vexillum_ or battle-ensign of the Macdonalds of the Isles, carried
with their host in their conflicts, in the belief that its presence
would secure to them victory over their enemies. The cave of St Molio
has several Runic inscriptions cut upon its interior—mere _graffiti_
of occasional visitors at the time when the galleys of the Northmen
frequented the western seas. Amudar, Ontur, and Sea-elk, who have left
their names there, may have been pagans; but Nicolas of Haen, who
carved the longest inscription, bears a good Christian name.
St Serf’s Cave at Dysart, in Fife, derived its sanctity—as the town
of Dysart has derived its name—from its having been the _desertum_
or place of retirement of the saint during his seasons of meditation
and prayer. The _Aberdeen Breviary_ states that ‘once upon a time the
devil tempted the blessed St Serf with divers questions in the cave at
Dysart; but confounded by the divine virtue, he went away; and from
that day the said demon has appeared to no one in that cave, although
the place is still held famous in honour of St Serf.’ Andrew of
Wyntoun, prior of St Serf’s monastery in Lochleven, as in duty bound,
gives, in his _Cronykill of Scotland_, a circumstantial account of this
disputation with the Evil One:
Quhill Saynt Serf in till a stede
Lay eftir Maytynis in hys bede,
The devil came in full intent
For til fand him with argument;
proposing to the saint many of the questions of high theological
speculation which presented themselves to the cultivated minds of
the fifteenth century, and receiving orthodox, and consequently
unanswerable replies to them all:
Thane sawe the devil that he coud nocht,
With all the wylis that he socht,
Ourecum Saynt Serf; he sayd than
He kend hym for a wys man;
and the saint becoming impatient of his flattery, commanded him to
begone from his cave, and never more to annoy any one in it. This
prohibition apparently obtained for the cave a reputation as of a place
for ever freed from the temptations of the Evil One, and it continued
in consequence to be used as a chapel, and largely frequented by
pilgrims down almost to the Reformation.
St Adrian’s Cave at Caiplie, also on the north shore of the Firth of
Forth, consists of a cluster of contiguous cavities formed by the sea
washing out the softer parts of the rock. The principal cavity bears
obvious marks of artificial adaptation. It is somewhat irregular in
shape, but large and lofty; and the foundation courses of a wall
constructed across its entrance are still visible. Near the mouth
of the cave, a kind of platform or seat is shaped in the rock, and
a door cut through the rock communicates with a smaller cell on the
south side. On the west side, a series of steps led up to a smaller
cell, in the inner part of which was a kind of bench cut in the
rock, which is said to have been the hermit’s bed. In front of the
cave, five human skeletons were found, four of which were regularly
buried east and west, the heads to the west, but without coffins. A
considerable quantity of bones of oxen, sheep, and swine, and portions
of deer-horns, were found mixed with the debris in front of the cave,
evidently the refuse of the food of its occupants at some remote
period. On the interior of the rocky walls of the cave, many pilgrim
crosses are carved, some of the equal-armed form and surrounded with a
border, but mostly of the Latin form. St Adrian, whose true name was
probably Odran, is represented as having settled and laboured among the
Pictish people of the east parts of Scotland. His settlement in the
Firth of Forth is thus described by Wyntoun:
Adriane wyth hys cumpany
Togydder cam tyl Caplawchy,
Thare sum in to the Ile off May
Chesyd to byde to thare enday.
And some off thame chesyd be northe
In steddis sere the Wattyr off Forth.
At Pittenweem, St Monance, and other places along the coast as far
as Fifeness, there are several caves which have pilgrim crosses and
other symbols of archaic character carved upon their rocky walls. All
of these seem at one time to have been occupied as places of retreat
and devotion by saints or recluses of the early Celtic Church, and
doubtless are the _steddis sere_ (that is, the ‘several places’)
referred to in Wyntoun’s narrative. At Fifeness is the cave of
Constantine, king of the Scots, who, after a reign of forty years,
exchanged the sceptre for the pilgrim’s staff, and ‘died in the house
of the Apostle;’ that is, of St Andrew. At St Andrews itself is the
cave of St Rule, or rather what remains of it, for it has been much
destroyed within the last half-century. Sir Walter Scott describes the
palmer in _Marmion_ as bound to fair St Andrews:
Within the ocean cave to pray,
Where good St Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,
Sang to the billows’ sound;
and mentions that on one side of the cave there still remained a sort
of stone altar. The _Aberdeen Breviary_ states that St Gernadius, who
settled at Kennedor, in Moray, lived in a cell partly natural, but
artificially adapted for a habitation, in which he was wont to repose
his wearied limbs on a bed of stone. His cave in the neighbourhood of
Lossiemouth is distinguished by the holy well close beside it, which
had a local reputation until quite recently, and is still known as St
Gerardine’s Well. St Baldred of the Bass, who sat upon the rock in
Aldhame Bay, and caused it to transport itself out of the fairway, had
his cave also in the cliff opposite this rock; and traces have been
found both upon the rock itself and in the cave of a long-continued
occupation at a remote period.
Although the materials for the illustration of this long-forgotten
phase of ecclesiastical life are so few and fragmentary, they suffice
to reveal the presence in these early ages of a passionate fervour
of devotion and a child-like simplicity of faith to which we are
altogether strangers in these times. The systems and institutions by
which they were created and fostered ‘are productions of old ages,
not to be repeated in the new: they presuppose a certain rudeness of
conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end
to.’
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XLII.—A LAND SHIPWRECK.
To be unhappy and alone at night in chambers is to have an opportunity
of realising the sense of desolation in its bitterest degree. The
double doors and double windows which secure the stillness that is
of so much importance for working purposes, seem now to shut you off
doubly from the world; from help if you are dying, and from sympathy if
you live. The rumble of the heaviest wagon reaches the ears as a faint
sound from afar off; no footstep is heard at all; and the adjacent
chambers are silent as the tenements of the dead. You welcome the plash
of rain against the window-panes—dull as that is—as if it were a friend
come to speak to you in your solitude.
That is the time for thoughts of suicide to haunt a man if his mind is
disturbed; and that is the time for cynical broodings on the vanity
of life, the falsehood of friendship, and the fickleness of love. He
sees in what miserable failure his most earnest efforts have resulted;
he misinterprets the most trivial word and look of his friend, and he
loses grip altogether of that faith which in healthier state enables
him to find consolation in love. He recalls all the bitter things that
have been written about women, and for the time-being believes them.
How was it, Philip asked himself, that he had fallen into this
desperate position? He had laboured with all his might for others
rather than for himself; his object was a noble one, and quite
feasible, he was still convinced. Yet the social revolution he
had dreamed of was as far off as ever, and he suddenly found that
he was face to face with absolute ruin. Evidently his blunder lay
in his miscalculation of the power of his capital. There had been
disappointments with his fellow-workers, who, shrewdly counting the
cost of material and the market value of the manufactured article,
saw that the latter would barely realise enough to give them a fair
ordinary wage in the best of times, to say nothing of the share of
profits promised them. The cost of material was too high; and it was
natural that they should conclude the cost was so fixed by arrangement
with their chief in order to deprive them of what they now called their
rights.
Philip saw the force of their argument, and began to inquire about the
items of expenditure. Hitherto, he had been so deeply occupied in the
organisation of his scheme, that he had left financial matters almost
entirely in Wrentham’s hands. Hints were given him that the prices he
was charged were not the prices paid for materials, but that a large
proportion went in secret commissions. As soon as he began to look
into the question closely, he was met by the astounding fact, that he
had reached the end of his capital, and had heavy liabilities to meet
almost immediately, as well as heavy current expenses to provide for.
How to do this without applying to Mr Shield, he had been trying for
weeks to find out; and the more harassed he became, the more impossible
it appeared to work through the mess without assistance.
Then had come the last humiliation: he must submit to the immediate
and entire overthrow of all he had been working for, and in which he
had sunk the considerable fortune placed at his disposal, or he must
seek the help which only a short time ago had appeared to him as an
impossible necessity. He was bewildered, and could not understand how
it came about. It should not have been so. He yielded to the necessity,
however; but determined that when his course became clear again, his
first task should be to institute a thorough investigation into the
causes of his failure.
Through all this agitated survey of his position, how was it that the
figure of Beecham continually obtruded itself? What could Wrentham
have had in his head, when he urged him so strongly to find out from
Madge all that she knew of the man’s history and possible friendship
with Mr Shield? He had not felt very keenly impressed by the suggestion
during Wrentham’s presence; but now, in the silence and alone with
his chagrin, he became infected with Wrentham’s suspicion. It had not
occurred to him until now that there was something most incongruous
and altogether incomprehensible in a girl consenting to accept from
an acquaintance of only a few weeks a confidence which she could not
disclose to her guardians or the man who was soon to be her husband.
If Beecham had been a younger man than he was, there would have been
a ready and most bitter explanation of the mystery; but it was not
available in the present case. And yet (so outrageously morbid had he
become that he was capable of the thought!) women were such strange
creatures, that there was no telling who might win their favour or by
what charm it might be done.
Pah!—What madness was this?
He went to the front room and opened a window overlooking Gray’s Inn
Road. The stillness of the chambers had become intolerable. This was
better; much better. There was more air; he could hear the rattle of
cabs, and catch glimpses of hurrying foot-passengers on the opposite
side of the way.
Why should he remain indoors, to be haunted by these horrible phantoms
of doubt and suspicion? He knew they were phantoms, and yet he could
not drive them from his brain. Sleep was impossible, and he was afraid
to take more drugs, for he was conscious that they had already impaired
his power of self-control. When would the morning come? The active
duties he had to discharge would relieve him. He looked at his watch.
Very little past midnight. Why, it seemed as if two nights had passed
since Wrentham went away!
Well, he would try Dr Joy’s specific, and endeavour to work, or walk
off this nervous frenzy. First he tried the work. There was much need
that he should master the accounts and compare prices paid with prices
quoted in the markets. But the figures performed such strange antics
before his eyes, that after an hour of vain endeavour to master their
meaning, he impatiently closed the book and rose no wiser, or rather
less wise, than he had been before he sat down.
He took himself to task. It was of the utmost importance that in the
morning he should be cool and clear-headed; but he could not hope to be
so unless he obtained sleep. Well, he would try the second remedy.
He put on his hat and overcoat and went out. It was not of any
consequence to him in which direction he should walk, his sole object
being to exhaust himself by the physical exercise, in order to induce
healthy sleep. To distract his mind from its troublous ruminations, he
turned instinctively towards those quarters where he was most likely to
encounter signs of life.
He strode along Oxford Street and down Regent Street. But he was
walking in a dream. The lights of the lamps were dim in his eyes, the
figures which flitted by him were like shadows, and he could not have
told whether they were men or women. The voices of those who passed
him seemed to be muffled, and he scarcely distinguished any sounds. A
hansom cab came rattling at full speed towards him: the horse slipped,
staggered, fell. There was a commotion, and although, a minute before,
the street seemed to be deserted, figures sprang out of the darkness,
and there was a crowd at the scene of disaster.
He passed on, with that insensibility to the fate of others which
characterises people when in dreamland. His feelings were numbed as
his eyes were dimmed. The sense of humiliation at the utter failure of
what he had believed to be so certain of success produced the one pain
of which he was conscious, and which no drugs, fatigue, or reason had
power to subdue.
If the money had been his own, he could have borne with comparative
calmness the overthrow of his hopes and the ridicule of those who had
from the first called his project folly.
But despite the assurances of Mr Shield and of Mr Shield’s solicitors,
Philip had never regarded the money otherwise than as held in trust;
and the loss of it was as bitter as the destruction of the beautiful
palace he had built in air.
The only bit of ballast left him was the dogged conviction that the
principle which he had endeavoured to carry into practical effect was
a right one, and would be turned to good account by some one more
fortunate or more careful than he had been.
He set his teeth together and marched on. He began to realise how
strangely numbed his sensations were, and how vague everything appeared
to him. The rain had ceased, and the tiny pools in the roadway
glistening in the lamplight seemed like great white eyes staring at
him in pity. He passed down the Haymarket, nor did he slacken his pace
until he reached the Embankment. There he halted and leaned over the
parapet. He was not fatigued: the rapid walk seemed to have instilled
new strength into him and had partially cleared the cobwebs from his
brain. He was attracted by the lights gleaming in the dark fast-flowing
river. Out there, were black islets of barges, and on the opposite
shore the fantastic outlines of buildings, showing like irregular
ramparts against the dull gray sky. He was thinking of Madge, and the
pain she would suffer on his account, when the worst was made known to
her in the morning, perhaps, or next day.
‘Got a copper to spare a poor cove as hasn’t had a crust for two days?’
said a husky voice close to him.
Philip started up. He was aware of the evil reputation of the
Embankment and the character of the roughs who infest it after
nightfall. A lamp close by showed him a miserable-looking wretch,
ragged and hungry-eyed. He did seem to need help, poor fellow. Philip
gave him a shilling, and was about to pass on. But a huge hulk of a
fellow stood in his way.
‘We want som’at more nor that, guv’nor. So tip us’——
The man went down as if he had been shot. Philip was in the mood for
mischief, and he had not forgotten his practice with the gloves. So
the first words of the ruffian plainly intimating his purpose, a
well-delivered blow straight from the shoulder finished the sentence
for him. Philip knew that it would have been madness to have given
the man time to attack him, and as it was, the other man was already
attempting to rifle his pockets. This one belonged to the sneak tribe,
and finding his throat suddenly gripped by fingers that seemed to
possess the strength of a vice, his hands went up to loosen them.
He was hurled aside; and Philip hurried away with a sort of savage
pleasure in having punished the brace of scoundrels, as well as
disappointed them of their expected prize.
Near Blackfriars Bridge he met a policeman, to whom he briefly reported
the incident. The man listened with stolid indifference.
‘They are a bad lot about here, at nights, sir,’ he said composedly;
‘and it ain’t a place for decent people at this hour.’
The constable’s idea evidently was that decent people should keep out
of the way of the roughs, not that it was his duty to keep the roughs
from molesting the decent people who might be compelled to use the
thoroughfare.
Philip entered his dreary chambers again. He felt better, but still he
could not sleep.
LONDON HOSPITALS AND DISPENSARIES.
From the day when Rahere the troubador, in the year 1123 A.D., founded
the hospital of St Bartholomew, the number of hospitals, dispensaries,
infirmaries, and other institutions for the cure and medical treatment
of the sick poor, has gone on increasing, till now it stands at
considerably over one hundred and fifty for London and its district
alone. This is altogether exclusive of the workhouse infirmaries.
Besides hospitals and dispensaries, there are included in the above
number institutions for the supply of surgical instruments, &c.,
either free, or at such reduced prices as bring them within the reach
even of the very poor. Twelve of the London hospitals have medical
schools attached to them, amongst which is one for the education of
lady-doctors. Differences of opinion of course exist as to the medical
woman, some no doubt regarding her as a great acquisition, and one of
the glories of the nineteenth century; whilst others would speak of her
as an institution naturally to be expected in the dark ages, but quite
an anomaly in a civilised age. Which of the views may be the correct
one, we will not pretend to say. However this may be, in Henrietta
Street stands the medical school for women, which is in connection with
the Royal Free Hospital, Gray’s Inn Road.
The hospitals with medical schools attached undertake the treatment of
almost every form of disease both surgical and medical. Still, there
are some diseases which it is necessary should be treated apart in
special hospitals, and the chief of these is that terrible scourge of
past times, smallpox. Not only smallpox but scarlet fever and other
infectious diseases have to be excluded from some of the hospitals
of which we are speaking, inasmuch as they are not all provided with
wards set apart for infectious cases. To get an idea, however, of
the great variety of work undertaken by the largest hospitals, it
may be well to glance at the various departments of medicine and
surgery represented at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest of
these London institutions. In addition to the out-patients’ rooms,
and wards devoted to the treatment of ordinary medical and surgical
diseases and accidents, there are the following special departments: A
department for skin diseases; for diseases of the eye, ear, and throat;
an orthopædic department; a dental department; a department for the
special diseases of women; a maternity department; and lastly, in the
case of this hospital, a ward for the treatment of cases of infectious
disease. The average number of in-patients is estimated at over six
thousand annually, and the out-patients at more than one hundred and
fifty thousand. It will readily be believed that the work of the
physicians and surgeons, both visiting and resident, connected with
such an institution is by no means light. There are many other general
hospitals in various parts of London, besides those having medical
schools attached to them, but we cannot speak of them here. The nature
of their work is much the same as that of the others, though of course
the extent of it is more limited.
Coming next to the dispensaries—their name is legion. Almost every
parish in London has one or more, and they are very abundant in the
immediate suburbs also. Some of these dispensaries are free, others are
to a greater or less extent self-supporting. It is, we hope, needless
to say that the public dispensaries of which we are speaking are not
to be confounded with the private dispensaries set up by medical
men, quite legitimately, for their own benefit, but which are not
unfrequently conducted upon the lowest of commercial principles. The
public dispensaries of London, with their committees of management
and staffs of physicians and surgeons—who in the case of the free
dispensaries are almost invariably honorary—do excellent work, and are
worthy of all, and more than all, the support which they obtain. Unlike
the majority of hospitals, they undertake the treatment of disease
at the patients’ own homes; and by calling in the aid of the nursing
institutions, they are able to supply not only medical attendance and
medicine, but also trained nurses. Recently, an effort has been made
to increase the number of provident dispensaries; and this indeed
appears to be one of the best ways of meeting the difficulty of
supplying good medical treatment to the poor cheaply, without demanding
of medical men more unpaid work. It has been estimated that the
medical profession does more work without payment than the rest of the
professions put together.
We will now say a few words concerning the special hospitals and
dispensaries. And first, it is to be remembered that all are not of the
same merit. Many of them may be said to be above praise; but some, it
is to be feared, are almost beneath contempt. Indeed, the opinion of
those in the medical profession best able to judge of the matter is, we
believe, strongly opposed to the multiplication of special hospitals,
except of course for those diseases which cannot be advantageously
treated in the general hospitals. Enumerating now the special hospitals
and dispensaries in their alphabetical order, first of all come those
for the treatment of cancer, of which there are two. Then there are
eight hospitals for children. A visit to the hospital in Great Ormond
Street is calculated to make most persons enthusiastic on the subject
of well-managed children’s hospitals; and many readers will remember
the glowing description given by Charles Dickens of the East London
Hospital for Children. Of hospitals for diseases of the chest there are
five. The physicians of the general hospitals do not, if they can avoid
it, admit patients suffering from consumption. The air of a hospital in
which wounds and diseases of almost every kind are being treated is ill
fitted to give any good chance of recovery to a case of consumption,
which requires almost more than anything else fresh air and plenty of
it; and if such a patient gets no good, he only occupies uselessly
the place of some one who might benefit greatly by admission. Chest
diseases require, too, arrangements for the securing of appropriate
temperature, and this it would not be easy to do in a general hospital.
It is well, therefore, that there should be special hospitals for
diseases of the chest, and it is to be regretted the number is at
present quite insufficient. Still, these chest hospitals contrive to
treat a very large number of patients in the course of the year, the
average being estimated at considerably over thirty-two thousand.
There are six hospitals and infirmaries for the throat and ear; and
three for diseases of the nervous system. Next we come to the fever
hospitals—four in number. It is almost impossible to overrate the value
of these hospitals. They not only tend to prevent the occurrence of
epidemics, by removing the fever-stricken from the healthy, but they
also save many from the untimely death that might have befallen them in
their own ill-ventilated homes, and with the intermittent nursing which
alone they could have secured. And further; even when the danger of
death is past, the continuous care which can be given to patients in a
hospital may restore many more to sound health, who in their own homes
would only have escaped death to remain for the rest of their days
miserable invalids.
The hospitals to be next mentioned are one for fistula and one for
diseases of the hip. Then there are three buildings for the reception
of cases of incurable disease; two hospitals for lunatics; six
lying-in hospitals; six for diseases of the eye; three orthopædic
hospitals; one specially for accidents; six for skin diseases; four for
smallpox—to which the remarks made on the fever hospitals of course
apply; one for stone; three for women; and four for women and children.
We have said nothing concerning the convalescent hospitals. Most of
them are of course situated in the country; but those anywhere near
London are largely supplied with patients from the metropolis. Their
value is immense, for they restore many patients to complete health,
who, had they gone back to their work immediately after severe illness,
and the bad hygienic conditions pertaining to their homes, might have
sunk into a state of permanent ill-health.
There are a few other hospitals which may be alluded to, for, though
they are not special as regards the diseases treated in them, yet they
are special in other ways. Thus, there is the hospital at Greenwich for
seamen; the French hospital for all foreigners who speak the French
language; and the German hospital ‘for natives of Germany, others
speaking the German language and English, in cases of accident;’ and
lastly, there are a temperance hospital, a medical mission hospital,
and one medical mission dispensary.
And now it might perhaps seem that London has hospitals enough; but
those who have had some experience of the matter are not wont to say
so. They freely admit that numbers of persons seek and obtain the help
of hospitals who have from their circumstances no right to it, and
these they would gladly see excluded; but they cannot admit that even
then there would be hospital accommodation enough for the legitimate
claimants. Nay, they may go further, and declare that there is, through
the length and breadth of that ‘great province of houses’ which men
call London, an urgent and increasing demand for more. An attempt to
meet this demand so far was made a few years ago, when Pay-hospitals
were opened in Fitzroy Square and elsewhere (as described in this
_Journal_ for October 13, 1880). This class of institutions might well
be extended, as there are many patients both able and willing to pay
for the treatment they require; and the still further development of
such hospitals would greatly relieve the pressure presently felt by the
purely charitable institutions.
IN A FLASH.
When first I remember my aunt Barbara, she was over forty years of
age; but she could never have been accounted a handsome woman. She was
very tall and very angular, with a long thin face, the most remarkable
feature of which was a Roman nose of commanding proportions. But as she
had one of the kindest hearts in the world, her paucity of good looks
seemed a matter of trifling moment to those who had the privilege of
knowing her well. It was at my request that, some two or three years
before her death, she wrote out the following narrative of an actual
occurrence in her early life. I put the manuscript away at the time,
and did not come across it again till the other day. On looking over
it once more, it seemed to me not unworthy of being transcribed for a
wider circle of readers than that comprised by the writer’s immediate
friends and acquaintances.
* * * * *
You ask me to go back in memory (begins my aunt) to what seems to me
now like a period of remote antiquity, when I, Barbara Waldron, was
twenty-four years of age, and my sister Bessie five years younger, and
endeavour to put down in writing the little story I told you by word of
mouth a few days ago.
You must know, then, that in those far-off days, my sister and I
were keeping house for our brother John, who at that time filled the
position of steward and land-agent to Lord Dorrington. The house we
lived in was a pleasant but somewhat lonely residence, about half a
mile from the little country town of Levensfield. The house suited us
for several reasons. In the first place, the rent was low; in the next,
a large walled garden was attached to it, in which Bessie and I spent
many happy hours; and in the third place, there was a side-entrance
to Dorrington Park, by which my brother could take a short-cut to
the Hall whenever he had business with his lordship, or his lordship
had business with him. Our household was a small one, and besides
ourselves, comprised only Mary Gibbs, a middle-aged woman, and her
niece, a girl of sixteen. John’s horse and gig were looked after by
a young man named Reuben Gates, who did not, however, sleep on the
premises. An important part of John’s duties was to receive and pay
into the Levensfield bank the rents due from the farmers and other
tenants of property held under Lord Dorrington. One such tenant was a
certain Mr Shillito, a corn and seed merchant, who was noted for his
eccentricities. It was only in keeping with Mr Shillito’s aggravating
way of doing business that he should never pay his rent at the time
other people paid theirs; that he should always pay it in gold and
notes, instead of giving a cheque for the amount, as he was quite in
a position to have done; and that he should make a point of bringing
it himself, instead of naming a time when my brother might have called
upon him; and finally, that he seldom arrived with the money till after
banking-hours.
We come now to a certain autumn evening. Kitty had just brought in the
tea-tray. It was growing dusk, almost too dusk to see clearly without
the lamp; but Bessie and I liked to economise the daylight as much as
possible, especially now that the long winter nights were so close upon
us. John had come in for a cup of tea. This evening, he was going to
drive over to Nethercroft, some ten miles away, dine there with some
friends, and stay all night. After dinner, there was to be a dance;
and I was not without my suspicions as to the nature of the attraction
which was taking him so far from home, although he laughingly
pooh-poohed the soft impeachment, when I challenged him with it. John
was in the act of putting down his cup and saucer, when we heard a
noise of wheels outside, which presently came to a stand opposite the
house. He crossed the room and peered through the window.