Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 35, Vol. I, August 30, 1884
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 35, VOL. I, AUGUST 30,
1884 ***



[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 35.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]



A RIVER HOLIDAY.


What the yacht-races at Cowes and a score of other places are to that
section of the upper ten-thousand who delight in everything that
pertains to the sea, and to whom the smell of salt water is as the
breath of life—what Henley regatta is to those who find their exercise
or pastime among the sunny reaches of the Upper Thames—such is the
annual sailing-barge match from Erith to the Nore and back, to the vast
river-side population below-bridge who have more or less to do, or
are in some way connected, with the dock, canal, or up-river shipping
traffic of the port of London. To these worthy people, as well as to
some thousands of others from all parts of the metropolis, many of
whom, in all probability, rarely adventure so far on the Thames at any
other time, it is the race _par excellence_ of the year; and it has
much about it to render this widespread popularity deserved.

It is a bright midsummer morning, and the clock is on the stroke of
nine when we find ourselves on Blackwall pier, with its vast shut-up
hotel staring blankly across the river, once on a time famed far
and wide for its capital fish-dinners; but now, alas, given over to
desolation and decay. Even as far away as Dalston Junction, at which
place we have to change trains, unmistakable signs of holiday-making
are apparent; and at each station as we come along we pick up a
numerous contingent, all of whom, to judge from appearances, like John
Gilpin’s wife, are evidently on pleasure bent.

We find the pier gay with summer costumes and smiling faces; friend
greets friend after the hearty, robust English fashion which has not
yet died out ‘east of Temple Bar;’ the river gleams with a thousand
silver ripples in the morning sun; the heat is tempered by an
exhilarating breeze; everybody prophesies that we shall have a glorious
day. The majority of those on the pier are waiting the arrival of the
excursion steamers from London Bridge. We, more fortunate than many,
are the recipients of an invitation to a private party which numbers,
all told, some five-and-thirty souls. Presently, from among a cloud of
others we single out the particular bit of bunting we have been told to
look for; and there, at her temporary moorings at the upper end of the
pier, we find the smart little _Cygnet_, our home that is to be for the
next dozen hours. Old acquaintances welcome us with a cordial grip as
we step on board, and new acquaintanceships are made, which in their
turn will, we hope, grow riper by-and-by. And now we have time to look
about us.

The _Cygnet_ is gay with bunting from stem to stern. Aft, a large
awning is stretched, which will serve as a protection from either sun
or rain, as the case may be. Camp-stools in abundance are provided, so
that we can shift our quarters as we may list; and some neighbouring
hotel has supplied us with several oblong mahogany tables, for which an
excellent use will be found later on. Hampers crammed with good things
solid and liquid are being brought on board one after another; and some
one below deck is taking Time by the forelock already, in the way of
putting a preliminary edge on the carving-knife. We are evidently going
to have what our American cousins call ‘a high old time’ of it.

In confidence we may whisper that our little _Cygnet_ is neither more
nor less than a Channel steam-tug—one of that numerous fleet which
scour the English Channel from the Lizard to the Languard, from the
Mouse Light to Dunkirk, on the lookout for homeward-bound ships which,
anxious to save a tide or two, and reach their moorings in dock as
quickly as may be, are willing to pay for the help that will enable
them to do so. A rough life, my masters, and not without its dangers
when the stormy winds do blow. Often in wild midwinter weather, or when
the equinoctials seem as if they were tearing heaven and earth asunder,
these little craft will remain out for days and nights together, afraid
to risk making for any harbour, and preferring to keep in the open
while waiting for the gale to blow itself out. Only a few winters ago,
as the _Napoleon_ steam-tug was towing a huge liner up the Channel in
the teeth of a tremendous storm of wind and sleet, her hawser parted,
and when, some two minutes later, the crew of the big ship had time
to look for the tug, she was nowhere to be seen. At the moment her
hawser broke she had been struck by a heavy sea, and had plunged down
head foremost, she and all her crew. As a rule, however, these sturdy
little craft, which are built as strongly as iron and timber can make
them, will safely ride out a gale such as might well cause many a big
merchantman to quake with fear.

But to-day all thoughts of storm and disaster are far from us as we
sway gently at our moorings in the morning sunshine and watch the
ever-changing panorama before us. The twin domes of Greenwich Hospital
show white and ghostlike through the faint haze which veils everything
in the distance. Presently round a point of land where the river curves
sharply away to the left comes gliding in stately fashion the big
saloon steamer _Alexandra_, followed by the _Albert Edward_ and several
smaller boats, all with numerous flags flying fore and aft, and all, or
nearly all, with bands of music, military or otherwise, on board. A few
minutes later, the Committee Boat, the old and well-known _Eagle_, puts
in an appearance. Suspended by knots of blue ribbon from the captain’s
bridge are the silver cups which will be competed for a little later
on. More passengers crowd aboard the big steamers; one of the bands
plays lustily, an irrepressible drummer being well to the fore; flags
flutter in the breeze; our moorings are cast off; the _Cygnet_ gives
one last screech of triumph, or, it may be, of farewell to those left
behind, and at length we are fairly off on our way to Erith. In front
of us, behind us, and on either side of us are steamers and tugs of all
kinds and sizes; but the river is wide; there is room enough for all,
and we steam along in pleasant company. Now is the time to make sure of
a little luncheon, so that we may not miss the start of the race later
on.

Erith is reached a little before eleven; and here we find the competing
barges arranged in order, waiting for the signal, while the pleasant
little town itself is _en fête_, and thousands of eyes are looking on
from the shore. We voyagers who have come to watch the race keep well
in the background, so as not to impede the start; the Committee Boat
takes up its position; a gun is fired; and before you know what has
happened, anchors are tripped, sails are loosened to the breeze, and
the barges, topsail and spritsail, spring forward on their course like
a flight of dark-hued seabirds newly set free.

The topsail barges—so the official programme informs us—are not to
exceed fifty-five tons register. The first prize is a silver cup of
the value of twenty pounds, and ten guineas for the crew; the second
prize is a silver cup of the value of fifteen pounds, and five guineas
for the crew; then follow other prizes of lesser value. The spritsail
barges are not to exceed fifty tons register. The prizes follow in
the same ratio as those for the topsails, but are not quite equal to
them in value. In addition to their money prizes, a champion flag is
presented to each of the winners, which will flaunt proudly in the
breeze on their voyages up and down the river for many a day to come.

There are fourteen competitors in the race this year, namely, eight
topsails and six sprits. The topsails, merely because they are topsails
and spread more canvas to the breeze than the others, gradually forge
ahead; but that is only what everybody knows will happen. Having seen
them fairly under way, we steam gently along, pass through the midst
of the little fleet, and then get well ahead of them, but not so far
as to be altogether quit of their company, except when some sharp
bend in the river hides them for a little while from view. Now is the
time to get up a friendly sweepstake on board, a task which two of
the company undertake, and carry out satisfactorily. Some enthusiasts
have discovered a pack of cards, and are already deeply immersed in
the intellectual game of Nap. By-and-by, the old historical fort of
Tilbury is reached and passed; and before long, Gravesend comes into
view with its famed hotels and its Gardens, at which we have been so
frequently reminded we may ‘spend a happy day.’ Here we come to a stand
for a little while, in order that we may watch the procession pass,
as do many of the other gaily-decked tugs, together with some of the
big steamers. It is a pretty sight to watch the brown and chocolate
coloured sails come stealing round the reaches of the river, and to see
how cleverly the little craft are handled as they tack here and there
to catch an extra capful of the capricious westerly breeze, or to steal
for a few moments the wind out of some rival’s sails. To-day, in honour
of the occasion, the crews are rigged out in new blue jerseys and
knitted scarlet caps; while the boats themselves are as spick-and-span
as paint and gilding can make them. Each barge carries at its fore its
official number on the programme; and as they glide one by one into
view, innumerable are the glasses levelled at them in the effort to
make out either their name or number. But position in the race at this
point is held to be of small account by those who are supposed to be
knowing in such matters: Tattenham Corner—otherwise the lightship at
the Nore—is still a long way ahead.

Again we steam along in the wake of the barges, again pass through the
midst of them, and again leave them astern. For a while we have left
behind us the excitement of the race. There is a pleasant sound of the
drawing of corks. It is the time for a cigar, a chat, and a bottle of
Bass. As we go gently down, we pass several heavily-laden barges making
their way up river, some of which are pointed out to us as winners in
matches of years gone by; but their racing-days are over for ever, and
they have evidently settled down to the sober, steady work of middle
age. They hail chiefly from the Medway district, we are told, and are
laden with cement, lime, bricks, stone, hay or straw, some of them
voyaging as far inland, by way of the Regent’s Canal, as Camden Town
and Paddington.

And so after a time Southend comes into view, with its terrace-crowned
cliff looking far out across the river, and its mile-and-a-quarter-long
pier, which seems as if it were stretching out a friendly hand to greet
its neighbour, Sheerness, over the way. Half an hour longer brings us
to the Nore.

The lightship at the Nore is the point round which each barge has
to make its way before starting on its return journey up river—the
distance in all, so we are informed, being about seventy miles: not a
bad day’s work for a class of craft which many people are in the habit
of decrying as the tortoises of the river. Occasionally it happens that
there is not enough wind to enable them to complete the regulation
course, in which case the Committee on board the _Eagle_ have power to
fix the point at which the return journey shall begin.

We have been taking matters easy for the last hour or so, and we find
several steamers and tugs lying on and off round the lightship when
we reach it. We follow their example, keeping up just enough steam
to prevent us from drifting with the tide, and here we are presently
joined by other steamers and pleasure-craft of various kinds. Among the
rest comes the indispensable Committee Boat, which is moored alongside
the light. Not long have we to wait before the cinnamon-coloured sails
of the little fleet steal into sight one by one. Glasses come into
requisition again, and all are agog to make out the number of the
leading topsail. ‘No. 3—_Frances_,’ calls out some one keener-sighted
than the rest. And so it proves to be. Gallantly she comes sweeping
down, every man at his post, every eye on the alert. Suddenly the helm
is put about; we see the crew hauling at the ropes like red-nightcapped
demons, and then we hear the swish of the water as the _Frances_,
answering to the call upon her, sweeps round the lightship in a short
but graceful curve, and catching the breeze next moment on the opposite
tack, is speeding away on her return journey, followed by a ringing
cheer from a thousand throats.

The next to round the Nore light is the _Whimbrel_, and after her comes
the _Bras-de-Fer_; while the leader of the spritsails, or ‘stumpies’ as
they are familiarly called, is the _Bessie_. We do not wait till the
whole of the laggards have rounded the light, but steam gently away
till we come to a certain quiet, sunny reach, where we lie by while
sundry hampers are opened and a large measure of justice is meted out
to their welcome contents. After this pleasant interlude, onward again
at full speed till we once more catch up the barges. Now does the
excitement grow apace among such of us as have drawn fortunate numbers
in the sweepstake, to ascertain which are the leading craft, for as
their positions are by this time, such in all probability will they be
at the finish.

Still we go pulsing along at a great pace, showing our heels to many
a steamer as big again as ourselves, till at length we find ourselves
once more at Erith. Here we secure a position close to the Committee
Boat, and not far from the winning-post—a small buoy with a flag atop
of it anchored out some distance in the river. Gradually more steamers
and tugs take up positions no great distance away. On every side of us
are music, dancing, feasting, and high-jinks generally; but not one
angry word, not one coarse expression is anywhere to be heard. Nowhere
could there be a better-tempered holiday crowd.

At length a buzz, a murmur, a general movement, and each one says to
his neighbour, ‘Here comes the first topsail,’ while everybody seems to
ask at once, ‘What’s her number?’ A gun is fired, a band plays _See the
conquering Hero comes_, a great shout is set up, and we all know that
the _Whimbrel_ has won the first prize.

‘Never prophesy till you know,’ seems to be a maxim of wide
application. Who would have thought that the saucy _Frances_, which
headed all the others round the Nore, would only come in fifth at
the finish? But so it was; while the _R. A. Gibbons_, which was
fourth round the light, came in for the second prize. So among the
spritsails—the first round the light came in second, and the second
first.

We do not wait to see the prizes given away, for the evening is growing
chilly, and many of us have a long way to go. We chase the dying sunset
as we steam swiftly up stream, but fail to overtake it. Little by
little its splendours soften, fade, and vanish. Some time between nine
and ten, and while there is still a dusky shimmer on the river, we find
ourselves once more at Blackwall pier; and there we part, hoping to
meet next year when time shall have again brought round the pleasant
River Holiday.



BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XLIV.—AN APPLE OF DISCORD.

It did not occur to either of these young people that there was
anything at all remarkable or irregular in the circumstance of a lady
visiting the chambers of her betrothed alone. But as this was her first
visit, Madge felt a little awkward, and would have been much more at
ease if Wrentham had not been present.

That gentleman, however, as soon as he perceived who the visitor was,
took up his glossy hat, made his salutations to Miss Heathcote, and
informed Philip that he was obliged to hurry along to the office before
it closed, but would probably return later.

When he had departed, Madge glanced with curiosity round the apartment,
and her first comment was:

‘You ought to have curtains over that doorway, Philip’ (she alluded to
the uncovered entrance to a small recess which was a storeroom); ‘and I
must come in soon and dust the place thoroughly. I wonder you have not
been choked. See here; it is positively disgraceful.’

She ran her finger over the ledge of a bookcase, making a line in the
dust. And with half-timid but wholly curious interest, she continued to
scrutinise the place, making mental notes of what she would have to do
to insure his comfort.

He was astounded. She had been with Mr Shield. She must have been made
acquainted with the terrible nature of his position; and yet she could
placidly criticise the furniture of his room and interest herself in a
question of dusting! He had often admired her cool firmness in moments
of accident, illness, or difficulty; but he could find nothing to
admire in this absolute indifference to the crisis in his affairs. In
his bitterness he was unjust, and his reflections were to this effect:
‘How blessed are those who can be callously calm in the presence of
suffering—of the suffering even of those they are supposed to love!
How many pangs they must be spared; how easy it must be for them to
pass comfortably through the world, where every step we take leads us
by some scene of misery. Ay, they are the happy ones who can pass with
eyes closed, and therefore, nerves unshaken.’

But even whilst these uneasy thoughts were flashing through his brain,
he felt ashamed of himself for allowing them to be suggested by Madge,
whose calmness he knew was not due to want of feeling, but to a
delicate shrinking from the display of it.

She appeared to become suddenly aware of his singular silence, and
looked quickly towards him. His face was in shadow, and she could not
see the ravages which anxiety and sleepless nights had made upon it;
and he did not observe that under her apparent composure there was
suppressed much agitation. The tender eyes looked at him wistfully, as
if afraid that she had done something to offend him, and that he was
about to chide her.

‘Why do you not speak, Philip?’

‘I was wondering if it can be possible that you have not heard how
things stand with me. I was at Willowmere this forenoon, seeking you,
and was told that you had gone to see Mr Shield, intending also to
call on me. Has he said nothing to you about the letter I sent to him
last night? I was obliged to write, because he persists in refusing to
listen to any explanations from me in person. Has he said nothing about
it?’

Madge hesitated. She was in a most unpleasant position. She had hoped
to be able to come gleefully to him with the good news that the
reconciliation between his father and uncle had been effected, and
she was disappointed. Her proofs of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence of all
complicity in Austin Shield’s misfortunes had not been accepted in the
way she had expected. As regarded Philip, she had been assured that he
was safe so long as she kept her promise to Mr Beecham. So she could
neither give him the good news she had been so confident of bringing
to him, nor sympathise fully with his anticipations of absolute ruin.
That was what rendered her manner peculiar, and in his present vision,
ungracious.

‘I have been told that you are harassed by the way things have been
going, and that there have been mistakes somewhere. But I heard nothing
about your letter.’

‘And yet you have been with him and Mr Beecham all day!’

She did change colour at the mention of Beecham’s name, the blood
flushing her cheeks, and then as suddenly fading from them. His
over-wrought nerves rendered him sensitive to the slightest change of
voice, look, or manner.

‘Yes,’ she replied at length steadily; ‘I have been with them a long
time to-day, and they spoke a great deal about you, for they are both
your friends.’

‘No doubt, no doubt. Beecham has no reason to be otherwise; and Mr
Shield has acted as my friend until now, when he leaves me in this
horrible suspense.’

‘But it must be because he is considering what is best to be done for
you.’

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘He did not say it exactly in those words; but I understood it from
what he did say and from his whole manner in speaking of you.’

‘I suppose I ought to find satisfaction in that.... But how was it you
came to visit Mr Shield? You have not met him before.’ (This abruptly.)

Her eyelids drooped, and her head was bowed a little.

‘He wrote to me. I have met him before.’

‘And you never told me! Where did you become acquainted with him?’

‘At Willowmere.’

‘Why, when was he there? Aunt Hessy does not know of it, or she would
have told me. You did not, although you should have known how pleasant
it would have been to me to find that he had seen you and liked you.’

That she had not previously told him of her acquaintance with Mr
Shield, was a disagreeable sign of want of confidence; but his surprise
was greater than his displeasure. He had never been able to obtain more
than ten or fifteen minutes’ audience of him; and yet here was Madge,
without giving the slightest hint that she had ever seen him, accepted
by him as a friend, and allowed to spend hours with him. If this
was not deception on her part, it bore such a strong resemblance to
conduct of that kind as to make him feel cold. A new pain entered his
distracted mind. If she were capable of deceiving him in one way, how
was he to trust her in other ways? She knew how he hated all mysteries
and underhand work. She knew how he insisted on the simple rule, that
as it was so much more easy and comfortable to be plain and above-board
in everything, than to adopt subterfuge, only fools chose the crooked
course. Yet here he found that, for some unknown reason, she had been
concealing most interesting facts from him.

To Madge the conversation was becoming more and more awkward and even
distressing. She could feel the suspicions which were hovering around
him, and she made an effort to dispel them by assuming a hopeful and,
as far as possible, a cheerful tone.

‘Well, Philip, he asked me to hold my tongue because he wanted to give
you a surprise; and I do not see any harm in it. Will you not let me
have a little freedom of action, when I think I am doing what is to
your advantage?’

‘There never can be any advantage gained for me by your hiding things
from me.’

‘But you must not look upon it so seriously, Philip,’ she said with a
mingling of earnestness and playfulness. ‘Come now; let us talk about
what is of most importance to us both. Tell me how it is your affairs
have come to such a crisis so soon, and how you mean to proceed.’

‘I shall do so; but first I must ask you how long Beecham has known Mr
Shield?’

‘A long time,’ she replied, averting her eyes.

‘And has the secret he confided to you anything to do with me or my
business?’

She would have liked to answer at once, and she was obliged to
hesitate. She saw that he was vexed, and her natural impulse was to
remove every source of vexation between them by telling him all she
knew. The impulse was restrained on his account.

‘It has to do with you; but I wish you would not press me on the
subject—at least not for a little while.’

‘So be it. I have always respected your wishes,’ he rejoined coldly,
and there was even a distant note of bitterness in the tone. ‘I can
now easily give you the information you require about myself. Should
my uncle decline to assist me, I shall to-morrow resign everything I
possess to my creditors, and seek some employment by which I may be
able in course of time to make up to them whatever deficit there may be
in my accounts.’

‘But Mr Shield will assist you—he will not allow you to give up
everything!’

‘As you will not permit me to know the grounds of your confidence in
the continuance of his generosity, and as I have bitter reason to know
that he would be justified in refusing to give further help to a fool
who has in such a short time made away with the capital he placed at my
disposal, I cannot share your expectations or hope.’

‘I am sure he will carry you safely over this difficulty.’

‘In any case, I am his debtor, and the necessity to repay him’——

‘But he does not expect you to repay him,’ she interrupted, watching
him with rapidly increasing anxiety, and now observing how haggard he
looked.

‘I _will_ repay him,’ was the answer, emphasised by passion that was
suppressed with difficulty. ‘I know it will take a long time—maybe all
my life. Knowing that, I am compelled to regard as inevitable and just
the view which Mr Crawshay will take of our position. He will insist on
the same arrangement which he insisted on when I intended to go abroad.’

Wonder was in her eyes, strange pain in her breast. She could scarcely
remember the time when, except in the presence of strangers, Philip had
spoken of Uncle Dick as Mr Crawshay. This simple change affected her
more than his words or his manner, for he maintained a degree of the
bitter calmness of despair. There must be some evil at hand greater
than she could imagine, since it forced him to refer to his friend at
Willowmere in that way.

‘What arrangement are you speaking about, Philip?’

‘I agreed to it then with a light heart; I agree to it now with a
hopeless one. Then it was a jest—now, it is earnest. But it was wise,
and it is wiser now. He required me to consider our engagement at an
end, and to leave you free to choose’——

‘Oh, Philip, Philip!’

The cry came in such piteous accents, that despite his frenzy
he stopped. For a moment he was conscious of the cruelty he was
perpetrating in making such an announcement so abruptly. The golden
visions of the future they had so often conjured up together flashed
through his mind, and he was dazed with pain like her own.

For Madge, she had covered her face with trembling hands, as if in
that way she could shut out the thoughts his words suggested. ‘Free to
choose some one else,’ was what he had been going to say, she knew.
Free! Could love be ever freed when once given? He might die before
her; then she would live on his memory. He might go away from her
and never return; what difference could that make? Men change; women
change; but the being once realised in the idealism of love never
changes to the lover. Else how could love survive, when the mortal form
becomes plain and ugly, old and petulant?

Her thoughts did not run precisely in this form, but they were to the
same purport. She could never care for any man but Philip; and to
suggest the possibility of it would have been hard to bear if made by
any one, but hardest of all when made by Philip. Then a little spring
of mingled indignation and pride started, and the hands dropped from
her face.

‘And can you think that any one at Willowmere would turn from you at a
time of trouble?’

‘No, no; I do not mean that,’ he answered, and his voice had become
feeble, whilst his body swayed slightly, as if he were struggling with
diverse emotions. ‘But if it was fair that you should not be bound down
to a man who was only going away for a year, it cannot be fair to bind
you to one who may have to contend with poverty all his life.’

‘Mr Shield—your father will see that it is not so.’

These names roused him, and his thoughts became collected again. He
spoke almost calmly.

‘My father has distributed his fortune amongst his other children.
Mr Shield has given me a fortune which I, by my careless folly, have
squandered or allowed myself to be cheated out of, as a fool in a
betting-ring might have done. I must pay the penalty of my folly alone.
Therefore I say, you are free.’

She took the lamp and held it up so that the full light fell on his
face. There was a wildness in his eyes, but his lips were compressed,
as if he had come to an unalterable resolution.

‘Do you _wish_ me to think myself free?’—the voice steady, although
the lips trembled.

‘I wish it!’

A pause; and presently through the silence came the low sad words:

‘Then we must say Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye’ was the husky response, and that was all.

(_To be continued._)



HOME-NURSING.

BY A LADY.

SECOND ARTICLE.


Before commencing our subject proper, the sick-room, it may be well to
consider two points very frequently neglected in home-nursing. First,
as to a nurse’s dress. Unless the case be infectious, nothing is better
than some soft woollen material that will not rustle or creak, after
the fashion of silk or print, but that will bear washing should the
necessity arise. If the patient’s taste is known and can be consulted,
all the better; but if a favourite dress is too valuable to be devoted
to sick-room wear and tear, a ribbon bow of some soft bright colour,
and spotless collar and cuffs, will help to give that air of quiet
cheerfulness which is soothing to senses so often rendered painfully
acute by illness. Should there be more than one patient to attend to,
or should the one be quite helpless, there will be a considerable
amount of injury to clothing by rubbing against the beds, &c., which
probably accounts for the style of dress affected by the professional
nurse, which consists usually of a costume of either black flannel
or stiff print. The former is so unsuitable, that it may be regarded
as amongst the last relics of barbarism; and the latter, though
economical and clean-looking, has the great drawback of creaking to an
unlimited extent, and, moreover, would give the home-nurse an unnatural
appearance—a thing to be studiously avoided.

As regards economy, a good substitute for a costume bristling with
starch will be found in a large apron with a full bib, and loose
sleeves to draw up and tie over the elbows. Even these should be made
of a pretty and soft material; for, in our experience, colour and
cheerful surroundings seldom fail to exert a beneficial influence. As
an instance of the decided effect of colour, take the case of a baby,
who at six months had taken no notice whatever of his surroundings;
his parents were beginning to fear the possibility of blindness, when
a friend coming in one day wearing a bright necktie, the sober little
face relaxed, and a smile brought expression to the hitherto vacant
features. The fact was little Hugh had never seen anything but black on
his nurses, and the sight of a bit of bright colour woke up new ideas
of pleasure. I have said that illness often brings back much of the
sensitiveness of childhood, and for this reason, in dealing with the
sick, even small details are worthy of careful consideration. As to
what a nurse should wear on her feet, there are few people who would
not be horrified at the idea of creaky shoes; but I am by no means sure
that the popular notion of list slippers for sick-room use is not a
worse evil. Any one who has experienced the sensation of being wakened
by a sudden presence at his bedside, can see how injurious must be the
same experience to the invalid, who is in a state far more susceptible
to shock, and who, once frightened, will not easily lose the dread of
a repetition. So, on these grounds, wear only ordinary house-slippers
without heels; and in walking across a patient’s room, be careful to
tread quietly, but at the same time in a firm, even way, and never on
tiptoe, nor in that elaborately slow, hesitating manner which keeps an
invalid on tenter-hooks of anxious watching.

Our second point—the care of a nurse’s own health—is one on which it
is impossible to strike too serious a note of warning, for important
as it is, there are very few who give it practical consideration. Yet,
over-zeal is sure to defeat itself, and nature, the sternest balancer
of accounts, only allows a certain amount of work to be done, and
rigidly exacts the penalty from those who forget or ignore her wise
limitations.

All institutions sending out nurses have fixed rules as to a certain
number of hours for sleep and exercise, without which, experience
teaches, no one can safely carry on the laborious duties of a
sick-room; yet the inexperienced imagine they can do what the trained
nurse wisely refuses to undertake, and make attempts at such work as
nursing both by night and day. Such attempts generally retard the
patient’s recovery, and always cause more or less injury to the nurse
whose zeal has been without knowledge. In all cases where the patient
is ill enough to need night-watching, two nurses are absolutely
needful; but one may with advantage take the lead, and never leave the
patient without arranging that he shall be properly cared for in her
absence. The strongest, physically, had better be chief; and it will be
well if she can undertake the whole of the night-work.

It is this question of night-work that is the _bête noire_ of
inexperience; but properly managed, and given an average amount of
health, there is no reason why there should be any great fatigue,
even with prolonged night-watching. The one essential thing is, to
understand and remember that there _must_ be a good allowance of sleep,
and at least two hours devoted to brisk, open-air exercise. It is one
of the rarest things to find the latter point remembered in amateur
nursing, and I have known cases where the whole female portion of a
family has remained indoors for weeks, simply for want of understanding
the vital importance of fresh air and exercise to counterbalance the
unaccustomed strain of nursing. No wonder that in such cases, depressed
spirits and shaken nerves become associated with night-nursing, when,
as a matter of fact, it is only ill-regulated zeal that is to blame.

Still, at first, night-nursing does seem formidable, especially when,
as often happens, it is made to follow upon an anxious day. The only
wise method of beginning is to lie down in the afternoon, after a warm
bath if possible, and try to read yourself to sleep. If you fail, the
rest itself will be some preparation; and if you succeed, you will be
surprised to find how easy your work will be. Take a good meal, and
wash your hands before going into the sick-room; but do not commence
work before eleven o’clock at the earliest. Beginning night-work too
early is a mistake, especially where there is a natural tendency to
fall asleep under the influence of warmth and quiet; but by making it
as late as eleven or half-past, you will have a much better chance of
keeping awake without a struggle. Ordinarily, too, a nurse not going on
duty early will be able to take the lead in washing the patient in the
morning and in making his room tidy. When this is done, she should give
directions for the day, and, if possible, not enter the sick-room again
till it is her turn to mount guard. The only drawback to this plan is
that there may be difficulty in arranging to meet the doctor; but a
little management will generally smooth the way, especially if helpers
are reliable.

On leaving the sick-room, the night-nurse should at once go for a brisk
walk, if possible with a pleasant companion, and the walk ought to
occupy a couple of hours; but if exercise has not been a habit of life,
it will be well to begin with less and gradually increase. It must be
remembered that a dawdling lounge is useless, and that the walk must be
brisk to be of any real service. On returning, the nurse should at once
go to bed and have her sleep out. But if she feel particularly wide
awake, a warm bath will supplement the effects of exercise. On waking,
she should take a cold or tepid bath according to habit. A nurse should
be careful to change her under-linen as often as convenient.

One other thing must be borne in mind in regard to night-work, and that
is, the necessity for taking food during the hours of watching. A nurse
who takes proper time for sleep, misses at least one meal in the day,
whilst needing more than the ordinary allowance of food; so that it
is her duty to take nourishment during the night. A meal between two
and three will help her through the hardest part of the twenty-four
hours; and as soon as she feels hungry or weary, a glass of milk with
an egg in it, a cup of cocoa, or some light soup, will give the needed
support, and will also make a great difference to the ease of keeping
awake and on the alert.

If these rules are carefully followed out, we venture to say there
will be very little cause to dread even the most trying part of
nursing—night-work.

And now as to the sick-room itself. If a choice is possible, let the
room selected be of good size, cheerful, and quiet. It needs to be
fairly large, because air is consumed by nurse as well as patient;
for this reason, a dressing-room adjoining is of great service.
Except in acute and dangerous illness, it is better if the nurse can
sleep away from the patient, always provided there is ready means of
communication. Helpless patients, as a rule, have a natural dread of
being left alone; but few will object to a nurse’s going to bed in an
adjoining room, as long as they have the means of calling her at a
moment’s notice. If she be a light sleeper, a piece of tape tied to her
wrist, the free end being left within easy reach of the patient, will
be enough; or instead of tying the tape to her wrist, she may fasten a
small bell, letting it rest over the head of her bed. Where the patient
is very weak, an excellent contrivance is a piece of india-rubber
tubing with a whistle at one end, and a compressible air-ball at the
other. The latter should be placed on the patient’s pillow, and by the
slightest possible effort, he will be able to make the whistle sound.
Of course, a nurse who adopts such methods must have dressing-gown and
slippers at hand, that she may obey the summons instantly, for nothing
is more likely to irritate a patient than being kept waiting at night.

The sick-room should, if possible, face south or south-west, so as
to get the benefit of the sun. Should the light be too strong, it
is easily regulated by drawing down the blinds, or by hanging up a
piece of some dark material; and in convalescence, the cheerful light
of the sun plays an important part. In a sunny room, however, it is
necessary to exclude the early morning light. The rising sun begins—in
summer—to shine just at a time when, if the patient sleeps at all,
he will be most likely to doze off; and it need hardly be said that
to allow him to be awakened then is to deprive him of one of his best
chances of improving.

But whilst cheerfulness is an essential of a sick-room, it is hardly
less important that it should be free from liability to sudden
noises. It should, therefore, never face a thoroughfare; nor, in a
large family, be so situated as to necessitate much in the way of
footsteps overhead. In cases where there is a nursery, it is well
to take that for the invalid, at whatever risk of injury to other
rooms; for nothing can be more distressing to a patient’s nerves than
the constant pitter-patter of small feet, added to the tumbles and
screams inseparable from nursery-life. At the same time, a room at the
top of the house has the serious disadvantage of causing much extra
up-and-down-stair work, so that in small, grown-up families, it is
well to choose a room as low down as possible. In houses where there
are bedrooms behind the sitting-rooms, it is convenient to take one of
such, especially where there is the comfort of a slab outside, of the
use of which we shall have more to say later on.

A sick-room should not have French-windows, those opening at the top
and bottom being much better for ventilation; and if possible, there
should be either venetian or sun blinds, for the easier regulation of
light. Before beginning to nurse a case, it should be ascertained that
bolts and sashes of windows, cords and pulleys of blinds, hinges of
doors, and ventilators, are all working easily and quietly. It would
seem hardly necessary to add that a fireplace with a good grate, and a
chimney that does not smoke, are also essential.

Before removing a patient to the room that has been selected, it should
be well cleaned, the doors and windows left open, and a fire lighted.
By the time the latter has burned up brightly, the air of the room will
be perfectly fresh, and one of the nurse’s first considerations will
be how to keep it so. Her aim should be so to arrange ventilation that
at no time should an incomer perceive any closeness or smell; in other
words, the air of the sick-room ought to be as pure and fresh as the
outside air; but in our climate this is not always easy, and will never
be accomplished without constant thought and attention.

To understand how important is the question of ventilation, it is
well to consider what it is that causes air to become impure, and
consequently unwholesome. The air we breathe consists, roughly
speaking, of two gases, oxygen and nitrogen. The former is absolutely
necessary for the maintenance of animal life; it is drawn into the
lungs, to be mixed with the blood, and used in various operations of
the body; consequently, the pure gas of oxygen becomes used up, and
the air we breathe out has changed its character, and is charged with
the poisonous gas, carbonic acid. If the same air continues to be
breathed over and over, carbonic acid increases its proportions with
each inspiration, and fatal results follow. From this it will be seen
that even in health there is positive necessity for providing a supply
of fresh air, as well as for the removal of that which has become
vitiated. But in sickness, the need is even greater, as the air given
off from the lungs of the invalid will contain a larger proportion of
poisonous matter. Impure air has always a tendency to ascend, and the
secret of successful ventilation consists in getting rid of the warm,
vitiated air floating at the top of a room. Once get this out, and
nature, abhorring a vacuum, will pour in a fresh supply of pure air.
You may sometimes be able to do this by opening the window wide for
a few minutes, your patient being meanwhile covered up with an extra
blanket, and a light handkerchief over his face. But in cold weather,
this would lower the temperature of the room too much, and in any
case it is hardly a method for the unprofessional nurse, unless with
the doctor’s special permission. And even if this is allowed, it will
not be enough, as the air consumed by you and your patient requires
constant as well as thorough changing.

A fire is an excellent ventilator, as by it warm air is constantly
being drawn up the chimney, whilst its place is taken by fresh; but a
fire alone will not be sufficient, though it will enable you, often,
to keep the window open an inch or two. This will in ordinary cases be
quite sufficient; but it often happens that a patient unused to fresh
air complains of the draught of an open window, and asks to have the
door open instead. Never, if possible, yield to this. It is one of
the commonest mistakes in home-nursing. As I said before, impure air
ascends; and so, if your room be above the ground-floor, the heated,
vitiated air from all the rooms below will come pouring through the
open door of the sick-room. Yet, I have known cases of long-standing
illness where there has been no attempt at ventilation other than
through the door, and where the window has not been opened for months.
In such cases, it not seldom happens that nurses complain of feeling
heavy on waking—they and the patient have been using up the same air
all night—and yet obstinately refuse to put the window down or use a
ventilator, or even to see that the staircase window near the sick-room
is kept open. The last-named expedient is the only one by which
door-ventilation can be of any use; but it is far better to adopt one
of the following plans, nearly always available and safe, even for the
most delicate. The first is a very simple contrivance, which deserves a
place in every bedroom where the window is not kept open at night. Get
a piece of wood the exact width of the window and have it nailed to the
lower sash; you will then have a space between the two sashes, through
which cold fresh air will enter; the current will drive it up towards
the top of the room, whence it will gradually sink through the lighter,
warmer air; and this, with fire-ventilation, will keep an ordinary room
fresh and sweet, at least in winter-time.

Another method is to have the window open at the bottom, and to place,
a couple of inches away from the opening, a screen somewhat higher than
the bottom of the lower sash. A third way is to open the window from
the top, and across the opening nail a piece of muslin or perforated
zinc. Both these methods give an additional current of air; but the
screen in the one case and the perforation in the other prevent such
a rush as to cause the patient to complain of cold. If he objects to
one plan, try another; but never be satisfied with anything short of
complete ventilation, at the same time being very careful to avoid all
draughts.

To keep a sick-room at the proper temperature is another serious
matter. From sixty to sixty-five is the ordinary temperature; but
various diseases require modifications, and it is always well to ask
the doctor what he wishes in this respect. The nurse should never trust
to her own sensation, but get a thermometer, and hang it up near the
patient’s bed. The temperature of a room will often vary by several
degrees in different parts, and the nurse’s concern is that her patient
shall be breathing the right degree of warmth, so the thermometer
should be hung as near the bed as possible. Special care is needed at
night, as the outside air will be considerably colder than by day, and
the nurse will have to keep the fire proportionately larger. This and
keeping the fire clear demand no little attention, especially when the
patient does not sleep well and wakes at the slightest sound. When
this is the case, it is well to start the night with a supply of coal
done up in separate bits of paper. These may be dropped on one by one
with hardly a sound. If the fire requires to be poked, use a piece of
stick with a quick decided movement, which is better than worrying
the patient by stealthy efforts to move first one piece of coal and
then another. Here, a properly fixed gas radiating stove would be
serviceable.

If sleep is a necessity for the patient, and he sleeps on till the fire
gets very low, one of the forms of patent fire-lighters will cause
less noise than the ordinary wood. Ashes should never be allowed to
accumulate, and a wooden shovel for removing them is quite a comfort in
a sick-room.

In very warm weather, of course the fire must be dispensed with; and
there are days even in this country when to keep the temperature cool
is no slight difficulty. The window should be open both at top and
bottom, to give as much current as possible, and the register of the
chimney must not be closed. Agitating the air with a large fan and
sprinkling the window-sill with water are cooling; but best of all is a
large block of ice placed in the middle of the room on a strainer, with
a vessel below to receive the drippings.



VERMUDYN’S FATE.

A TALE OF HALLOWEEN.


IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

‘Of the troop of figures who came flocking into that strange and
mysterious house, I observed that some of those behind held more
lights, though the room was bright enough already, while the foremost
carried dishes. But I had no eyes for the meat and drink they brought,
or for anything but a girl in their midst; and it was just the same
with Vermudyn, I saw in an instant; only, whilst I was full of horror
and a dread I couldn’t shake off or overcome, Vermudyn felt no fear, no
surprise; only an intense delight flushed his face with joy, and his
eyes glittered, as he came forward eagerly to meet the girl, who, it
seemed to me, was pale as death, with eyes that glowed like flame.

‘I think I never saw so colourless a creature to live and move—if
indeed she did live. And her hair—redder, and yet more golden than the
chain Vermudyn held—was coiled round her beautiful head in the same
snaky folds. She never looked at me for an instant, but went straight
to Vermudyn, and putting both her hands in his, said some words in a
strange language that sounded like spoken music. It was the sweetest
voice I ever heard, and the softest. He answered in the same tongue,
laughing and clasping the hands she put in his. From that minute, he
fell under her spell, and had no eyes or ears for anything save that
strange white woman.

‘She poured out wine for him, and he drank it with feverish haste,
still looking at her and holding her hand. I noticed, though, that he
shuddered when she first touched him, as if her hands were icy-cold;
but he felt that no longer; he was just mad-like and stupid, as a bird
is with a snake. He could only watch her with wild eyes that never left
her face.

‘The men and women who came in with this awful, beautiful creature
were dark mostly, and reminded me of the gipsies I used to see when I
was a boy at home in England. One of the girls, dressed in outlandish
clothes, embroidered in scarlet and gold, came up and offered me some
wine—even held it to my lips—and the scent of it made me mad to
taste. The girl’s arm was close round my neck, and her wicked eyes, dry
and bright as a toad’s, were looking into mine with a mocking smile,
as she sang a soft, strange song, like laughing and crying all in one.
But I shut my teeth hard, and turning away my head, closed my eyes,
determined to resist her with all the strength of my will so long as I
was conscious. Even in that dreamy, bewildered state, I felt afraid of
entirely losing my senses, and something seemed to tell me I was lost
if I yielded for an instant. My tempter laughed then, a loud hideous
laugh, and flung down the silver cup she had offered me. The wine was
spilt, and I fancied it turned to liquid flame as it touched the floor.

‘Still I had no power to speak or move from my place, but I watched
Vermudyn more eagerly than ever. The supper-table was pushed on one
side; and the room was now filled with dancers, dancing fiercely and
madly to a wild tune, like the song of the gipsy when she leant over
me with the poisoned wine. The tune rose louder and higher, and the
dancers moved faster to keep time with the unearthly music—unearthly
and wild, but so beautiful that I could have listened for ever, I
thought. At times it sounded like the wind sighing through the aspens
at night; then it rose to a roar like waves breaking on the beach in a
storm. Yet, with all the changing sound, the roar of a storm, and the
wailing of the wind—tears and laughter and pain—the music still kept
time and tune, and the mad dance went on without a pause.

‘Foremost amongst them all was Vermudyn, and the woman in white with
the glittering eyes and hair. He was holding her fast in his arms as
they flew round; her head lay on his shoulder, and his face was bent
down over hers. But I could see, as I watched him, that he had grown
almost as white as the girl he held; and now her great eyes blazed with
such awful light, I shuddered to look at them; while, as she danced and
clasped Vermudyn, I fancied a tinge of colour came into her white lips,
and her cheeks were a shade less deathly.

‘Still they danced, and still she grew brighter and warmer, but not
like a living woman yet. And Vermudyn, like a mere straw drifting round
and round in a whirlpool, became weaker and fainter every minute, and
his face now was something ghastly to see; but his eyes were still
fixed on the girl, and he could see nothing and feel nothing beside.
Her shining hair had got loosened in the dance, and seemed to be flying
round them like thin golden flames as they moved.

‘It was she, now, who held Vermudyn up and forced him still to dance.
His arms were round her yet; but her strength alone sustained the
fainting man. She flew round as easily as ever; her feet scarcely
touching the ground. The noise grew furious and deafening—music and
laughter, shouts and screams that made my blood run cold, with snatches
of old songs between, were all mingled together in one hideous mighty
roar.

‘The faces of the men, or the demons who took their shape, got more
fiendish as they danced; when suddenly the dancers swept out of the
room in a wild crowd, just as they had entered it, and in their midst
Vermudyn, lying dead, or senseless, on the floor. I tried to move—to
reach him somehow at that desperate pass; but I couldn’t stir a finger.
I struggled to shout aloud—to call his name. I might have been dead,
for all the help I could give him. I had no power to speak or move.

‘Directly that demoniacal crew left the room, the lights seemed to fade
and the fire grow dim. Thick darkness fell over everything, and I could
not see a ray of light from where I now lay like a helpless log.

‘I remembered nothing more until I opened my eyes in broad daylight,
stiff, and shivering with cold. I was lying at the entrance of a little
cave among the rocks, wrapped in my blanket, and close to the embers of
a dying fire. My horse, I saw, was picketed not far from me.

‘I was still in the Devil’s Panniken, sure enough. I saw the road by
which we had come last night; but the place was strange to me; these
were not the rocks I had seen before, which surrounded the place where
we had spent the night.

‘_We?_ I was quite alone now, and broad awake! The house and all else
had vanished. As the recollections of the past night came crowding
back, I sprang up and looked around in wonder. The house—the very
room—in which I’d been was so distinctly before my mind’s eye, that
I stood staring in amazement to find myself alone. No vestige of the
house I’ve described to you, and no Vermudyn either! I told myself that
I was clean mad. I searched for him in a sort of frantic hurry, and
shouted his name, but heard only the echoes answer me.

‘I tried to get farther into the cave at the mouth of which I’d been
lying; but I soon found the way closed by a big chunk of rock. There
was no other outlet to the cave, and there was nothing to explain the
mystery. There was no sign of Vermudyn or his horse; _that_, no doubt,
had strayed during the night. But where was _he_, and where, above all,
had we two spent the night? I was fairly stunned. I felt for my knife,
my revolver. These, with my belt, were safe enough. I had lost nothing.
I was simply cold, hungry, and quite alone—save for my nag; and how
glad I was of that companion, I can’t tell you! He would be the means
of getting me away from that awful place faster than my legs could
carry me.

‘I found a hunch of bread and some meat in my wallet; but I was too
excited and wretched over Vermudyn’s disappearance, to light a fire and
boil some tea. As soon as I’d swallowed down my breakfast, I mounted my
horse, and rode backwards and forwards for a good two hours, searching
for the body, for I was clear in my own mind that my poor old mate was
dead.

‘Dead or alive, I hated to think of riding away and leaving him there
in the Devil’s Panniken. But it was no good. I hunted every hole and
corner within a mile of the place—as near as I could judge—where we
had spent the night. At last I gave up the hopeless search—no signs of
Vermudyn anywhere; and before noon, I had turned my horse’s head away
from the wretched place, and for the first mile or so I rode so hard
and fast that I began to blame my own folly in running away in broad
daylight. From what, too?

‘Ay, there was the rub! What was I riding away from? and how had I
escaped, while Vermudyn was lost? I was almost mad when I went over the
past twenty-four hours. I couldn’t believe my senses. All I’d seen and
heard too; and the only other witness was gone, vanished as completely
as if he had been a spectre or part of some nightmare dream!

‘I felt my brain reel as I passed mile after mile along the lonely
road, till at last I began to wonder if the Vermudyn I thought I knew
was ever a living man, or if he made part of a long hideous dream,
which I thought I should never forget or get over.

‘But I couldn’t cheat myself so; the man had written his name inside my
pocket-book, “C. Vermudyn,” and had given me a ring he told me he once
bought in an eastern bazaar. I’ve worn the ring ever since, in memory
of him and that awful Halloween night.

‘Sure enough, Vermudyn was no dream; but from that day to this his name
has never crossed my lips; and nothing would induce me ever again to
ride through the Devil’s Panniken either by day or night.

‘In my own mind, boys, it’s as clear as daylight that the body found in
that cave Gentleman Jack was telling you of a while since was neither
more nor less than the skeleton of my poor old mate Vermudyn. I
never thought to hear of his bones being found after all these years,
poor old chap; or of telling you to-night what happened to us that
Halloween in the Devil’s Panniken. I only hope he wasn’t alive in that
awful place!—alive, and shouting for help, shut up there alone, and
hopeless in the dark, whilst I was riding away in sunshine and clear
air!—Phaw!’ muttered the old man; ‘it’s no good to think of that now;
and talking’s dry work.—Another go of whisky, Pat!’

The murmurs of admiration, astonishment, and feeble doubt over this
wondrous story of Old Grizzly’s were arrested almost ere they began,
and each man stopped short, as a low, long laugh sounded through the
room, and they then perceived what, being absorbed in the ‘tale of
mystery,’ they had been too preoccupied to notice before—namely, that
a stranger had entered the room some time during the progress of the
narrative, and it was he who had dared to laugh! All eyes were turned
significantly and inquiringly upon this presumptuous stranger; and one
gentleman had gone so far as to deliver himself of the original remark,
that ‘he calculated to call that mighty cool,’ when the new-comer
advanced into the light of the flaring kerosene lamp, and Old Grizzly
sprang to his feet, speechless and aghast.

‘Well, old boy, don’t you know me now?’ asked the stranger. ‘Am I so
little like the Vermudyn you chummed with in Cherokee Dick’s claim?’

‘It’s Halloween _again_,’ muttered the other hoarsely, still delaying
to take the proffered hand.

‘And an unlucky night for me to turn up, after the scurvy trick I
played you,’ laughed the stranger. ‘But look here, mate—if you kept my
ring, I’ve kept yours; and I’m flesh and blood safe enough—no spirit
or demon, as you seem to fancy.’

Old Grizzly grasped both his hands, looking long and earnestly in his
face meanwhile. ‘It is Vermudyn!’ he at last exclaimed. ‘Though how
they found your bones yonder in the Devil’s Panniken, and yet you’re
alive and hearty here to-night, is more than Pat Murphy or any other
Irishman could explain!’

‘I had better say at once that there’s no mystery about
this—this—gentleman’s arrival to-night, at least,’ interposed
Gentleman Jack. ‘He is a chance companion and fellow-traveller of mine,
and like myself, he hails from ’Frisco last.’

‘As you seem to be in the humour for telling stories to-night, mates,’
observed the newcomer, ‘perhaps it wouldn’t be amiss if I explained to
my friend here, in your presence, the truth of his strange Halloween
experiences on the night he parted company with me—or I with
him—whichever you prefer.

‘I told you once,’ said he, addressing himself to Old Grizzly, ‘I had
travelled a good deal and spent some years in the East; but I never
told how much I had learned of the manner and customs of the people
I lived with; or that, amongst other diverting knowledge, I acquired
the art of smoking and eating that extract of hemp known in eastern
countries as “hashish;” and no one save those who have been under its
marvellous influence can ever understand the wonderful reality of the
illusions it produces—stronger and more powerful than any opium in
its effect, and less harmful to use. Years ago, the drug was almost
unknown; to-day, there are “hashish” eaters and smokers in most of the
big cities of the States.

‘At the time I’m speaking of, it was little known, and its effects
scarcely understood. I had taken it often enough myself; but some idle
whim prompted me to try the result of a dose on my friend here, that
special and memorable night of which he has just told you something.
Well, I administered a biggish dose in a pill I gave him for an aguish
turn he’d had; and after that, as we rode along I let him have some
tobacco, as his own was smoked out, and this tobacco of mine consisted
almost entirely of the dried hemp, the true “hashish.” We had not
ridden a great way into the Devil’s Panniken, talking, as we rode, of
the bad reputation of the place and the various legends concerning
it, when the drug began to take effect on my old friend here, and he
would have fallen from his horse, if I had not kept close beside him
and supported him with my arm. As matters were then, I decided to
dismount and camp for the night. For myself, I’d never been afraid of
man or demon, and I knew my companion could go no farther; so I easily
persuaded him to stop, though several times he muttered something about
riding on.

‘Well, I wrapped him in his blanket like a babby, lighted him another
pipe, just to compose him, and set to work to make a rousing fire,
for the night was cold, and a keen frosty wind came sweeping down
the ravine. He behaved strangely enough for some time, muttering and
talking, while I watched by him; then by turns singing and laughing,
while he stared at me or the fire. Once or twice he struggled hard
to get up; but by-and-by the hashish overpowered him, and he slept
soundly. I remained by him the whole night, and then tried in the early
dawn to awaken him, as we wanted to push on. But he slept so heavily,
that the idea occurred to me to ride off and leave him to wake alone,
thoroughly mystified between his hashish visions and the loss of me!

‘It was a bad, mad sort of practical joke, but I was full of such
follies in those early days. After I’d left him, I made tracks for the
town we’d determined on visiting together, and waited for him some
days; but he never turned up; and then an uneasy fear that some harm
had befallen my friend through my own folly, got hold of me; and taking
a sudden distaste for a digger’s life, I made my way to the nearest
port, and went on board a ship just starting for Europe, and which,
luckily for me, stood in need of an extra hand.

‘Since then, I’ve led a roving life on sea and shore, till fate landed
me here to-night in time to listen to the account of my mysterious end,
as it appeared to my worthy friend. I am sorry to spoil a good story,
mates; but the pleasure two old chums experience in finding each other
alive and hearty after so strange a parting—twenty years ago—will, I
hope, in some degree compensate for your disappointment in discovering
that the White Witch of the Devil’s Panniken had no hand in my fate
after all!’

‘But,’ interrupted Gentleman Jack, ‘a skeleton with a ring on its
finger was found recently in the cave.’

‘Quite possible,’ returned the new-comer; ‘but I am happy to say it is
not that of Cornelius Vermudyn.’



QUEEN MARGARET COLLEGE.

CORRESPONDENCE CLASSES.


In _Chambers’s Journal_ for October 25, 1879, we gave an account of
a method of _Education by Post_, which has been the means of drawing
considerable attention to the scheme. The scheme itself seems to be now
in a flourishing condition, and bids fair to place the education of
women on a sounder basis than heretofore. Some information regarding
the progress and prospects of the Glasgow Association for the Higher
Education of Women may not, therefore, be unacceptable.

The Association is now no longer known by its old cumbrous designation.
It has risen to a higher level, is incorporated under the more
euphonious name of Queen Margaret College, and looks forward to more
extended operations than were possible in the first years of its
existence. The munificent gift of a building in every way suited to
the purpose to which it is to be devoted, has given a great impetus
to the efforts to promote every branch of the work which was already
undertaken. Queen Margaret College—the gift of a lady who from the
first manifested a cordial interest in the higher education of her
sex—stands within its own grounds, in a pretty, half-secluded spot
not far from the University, and near enough to one of the great
thoroughfares of Glasgow to be easily accessible to students from all
parts of the city. Some progress has been already made towards the
endowment of lectureships, and no doubt the liberality of the donor of
the building will encourage the friends of education to make an effort
worthily to complete what has been so generously begun. Meantime,
lectures will be delivered by professors and others, tutorial classes
will be held, and new schemes will be organised for the benefit of
girls who have some respect for mental culture, and some aspirations
towards the development of the faculties with which they have been
endowed. As in the days of the ‘Association,’ so now the Correspondence
Classes will take their place as a branch of the work of Queen Margaret
College. There will be no change except in name.

A few years ago, comparatively little was known about Correspondence
Classes, that is, of education conducted between teacher and taught
through the medium of the post-office. The system was on its trial.
There were grave doubts and solemn shakings of the head when the scheme
was suggested as a substitute for oral teaching. It was pronounced
impossible that questions and answers sent to and fro between the
teacher and the taught could produce any satisfactory result, though
it was admitted by some objectors that this interchange might be of
some use where other instruction was not to be had; it was better than
nothing. Another class of objectors spoke deprecatingly of ‘cram’
with its train of evils, and among these were some who would have
judged otherwise, had they only for a moment thought of what they
were familiar with, university examination papers. One of the special
advantages of Correspondence is that the pupils are obliged to study
for themselves as thoroughly as they can any subject they take up. They
receive a plan of the course so divided that they know exactly how much
is expected for the lesson of each fortnight; they know where to look
for information; books of study are prescribed; books of reference
are suggested. Patient, careful, diligent study is the only true
preparation for this kind of work, and the faculties of the pupil are
fully exercised before the tutor steps in with corrections, comments,
and criticism.

Preparation for university examinations was the primary object of
the Correspondence Classes. To girls who had no opportunity of
attending lectures or other classes, a way was opened by which they
might compete for university certificates and prizes; and the high
place taken by Correspondence pupils on the lists of successful
candidates is sufficient proof of the efficiency of the system. But of
incalculably greater, because wider, benefit are these classes to the
ever-increasing number of young men and women who are not content with
the small stock of knowledge acquired, under more or less favourable
circumstances, at a period when the brain itself was still immature.
There are many who thirst for knowledge, but know not how to direct
their steps in the line of self-education. There is much misguided
effort, leading only to disappointment and discouragement; sincere
desire for improvement languishes, and finally passes away, just for
want of guidance and stimulus. It is no wonder, then, that the system
of Correspondence is rapidly growing in favour, and is carried on not
only by Associations in connection with universities, but by private
teachers, working either singly or in combination with others, under
self-imposed regulations which are probably more elastic than those
formed under the shadow of a university.

The scheme of Queen Margaret College combines the advantages of
both, inasmuch as it offers instruction not only in the subjects
prescribed for all the Glasgow University examinations which are open
to women, but also in a number of subjects outside the University
programme. In order to exhibit more clearly the nature and scope of
the scheme, a brief review of the branches of study will be useful.
They are classified in five grades. There are first, the preliminary
or common subjects—English, history, geography, arithmetic,
Scripture, and Latin. Next to these are what are termed the junior
subjects—Composition, literature, history and geography, Scripture
history, Latin, Greek, French, German, Italian, mathematics, astronomy,
chemistry, botany, zoology, physiology, and physiography. The senior
course includes, besides the subjects of the junior grade carried
further, classes in political economy and logic. In the higher course
the subjects are divided into five departments: (1) English, including
the history of the language and literature; (2) foreign languages,
with reference in each case to the history of the literature; (3)
mathematical sciences; (4) logic, metaphysics, moral philosophy,
political economy, and history; (5) chemistry, botany, geology,
zoology, and physiology. The fifth course is intended to prepare
candidates for the examinations in degree subjects. These subjects
include all that are required for the M.A. and B.Sc. degrees.

In this large and comprehensive scheme there is provision made for
a great variety of students, and it need scarcely be said that it
attracts pupils at home and abroad, differing in age, capacity, and
attainment. By means of the elementary classes, children are educated
at home; and girls in the novitiate of their intelligence, who have
come to the end of their school-days, find in them the means of
culture. The literature of England, France, and Germany is open to
them; studies in history and language, in science and philosophy,
invite to further progress in what will enrich their minds, and
save them from the vacuity that too often ensues when the routine
of school-life is ended. Young men in business, ladies engaged in
teaching, and ladies, too, with plenty of leisure for the pursuit of
a favourite study, are among the most eager students; and not the
least interesting are foreigners, whose papers call forth the hearty
commendation of their tutors, not only for great painstaking and
vigorous thinking, but also for a style of English which reflects great
credit upon their powers of acquisition. These and many others find in
the Correspondence Classes an aid and stimulus to study, and a medium
of intercourse with men abreast of the age, taking a fresh and living
interest in the subjects which they teach, and sparing no pains to
direct and encourage their students to honest, thorough, diligent, and
therefore productive study.

It is scarcely possible to touch on a subject like this without
endeavouring to enlist the active co-operation of the young people of
the present day. Within the last few years many educational forces
have been set in motion. By degrees the charge of flimsiness will be
withdrawn from the education of girls; but it must always be kept
in mind that anything worthy of the name of education is not to be
got save at the cost of thorough systematic effort on the part of
the student. Work begets the love of work, and what at first may be
regarded as a drudgery, begins to be estimated at its true value,
not only as a means to an end, but as in itself a pleasure. Subjects
which educate thought and reflection are suggested to the pupil; the
prospect widens; higher attainments are seen to be within reach; and
an end is put to that easy contentment which is satisfied with a few
showy accomplishments and a too slender knowledge of what is best worth
knowing.

Detailed information relating to the Correspondence Classes may be
had from the Honorary Secretary, Miss Jane S. Macarthur, 4 Buckingham
Street, Hillhead, Glasgow.



THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ARTS.


The late terrible railway accident at Penistone—caused primarily by
the breaking of the locomotive crank axle—has called attention to the
fact that such breakage is by no means a rare occurrence, although it
is seldom accompanied by fatal results. Some slight flaw in the metal,
quite invisible on the outer surface, grows by constant vibration
into a crack, and this crack eventually is the place of fracture.
Although the accident has brought forth an unusual amount of comment
by skilled engineers and others, we have seen no reference to a method
of detecting flaws in metal which was discovered some years ago by Mr
Saxton. He pointed out that a magnetic needle passed along such a bar
would be deflected upon coming to a flaw. The method was experimented
upon at the royal dockyards, and was found to give most certain results
so far as bars of iron were concerned. Whether the system is applicable
or not to railway axles, we do not know; but we call attention to
the matter, as a possibly useful contribution to the subject under
discussion. It is the opinion of many competent men that the above
accident would not have been so disastrous if the train had been fitted
with an automatic brake. It had what is called a continuous vacuum
brake, which is effective enough so long as the coaches do not become
separated. When such separation occurs, the wheels are no longer held
in check. With the automatic brake, on the other hand, which is adopted
by many of the leading railway Companies, the wheels are immediately
acted upon, if by any means the coupling between the carriages should
be broken. In the accident referred to, the train would with such a
brake have been brought to a stand-still before it reached the point
where it ran over the embankment.

An influential Committee has been formed with the endeavour to found a
fund for the conservation of London antiquities. It seems that during
recent building operations in the City, the discovery was made of
some massive foundations evidently belonging to an important building
of the Roman period. Several of the stones used were fragments of
sculpture. These have now been preserved; but they ran a narrow escape
of being again buried where they were found. Similar discoveries in the
metropolis are by no means rare, and the preservation of such relics
should be provided for. The treasurer for the fund is Sir John Lubbock,
M.P.

There is a certain region in the United States, reaching from the
oil-wells of Pennsylvania to West Virginia, which has become known as
the ‘Gas Belt;’ for wherever a well is sunk to a certain depth, the
borer is rewarded for his pains by a liberal supply of natural gas,
which can be utilised in heating, lighting, and other purposes. It
seems that it is only of late years that the commercial importance of
this phenomenon has been recognised. The Penn Fuel Company has been
formed to bring the consumption of this gas into wider employment.
There seems to be but two drawbacks to its use, one being unsteadiness
of pressure, and the other a fear as to permanence of supply. The first
difficulty might surely be obviated by mechanical means; and the second
is hardly worth consideration, seeing that the yield of gas has been
constant for many years, and as yet shows no sign of diminution.

A curious experiment dealing with another natural product has lately
been made at Acqui by the proprietor of some baths there. This
gentleman has at his disposal an inexhaustible supply of hot water
from a natural spring, the temperature being a hundred and sixty-seven
degrees Fahrenheit. The surplus not required for the baths has been
diverted so as to flow through pipes to a garden on the outskirts of
the town. Here the warm liquid flows beneath a number of forcing-frames
containing melons, tomatoes, asparagus, and other garden produce. The
result is that a supply of these delicacies is ready for market at a
very early period of the year, and when, therefore, they fetch high
prices. Surely this system could be extended with profitable results.
Even in this country, far away from active volcanoes, we have hot
springs where the experiment could be tried.

It is no new thing to get benefit from volcanic products; indeed, some
of these products are of great commercial value. At Vulcano, one of the
Lipari Islands on the north coast of Sicily, there is a small factory
which was started some years ago by a Scotch firm, where a number of
men are engaged in collecting materials deposited continually round the
various vents. These products consist chiefly of sulphur, ammonia, and
boracic acid.

The introduction of real Chinese birds’-nest soup to Londoners, to
which we adverted last month, may raise the question as to what
material such nests can be made of. An English naturalist living at
Yokohama has lately published a very interesting account of a visit
which he paid to Gormanton Caves, which are situated amid the tropical
forests of North Borneo. From these caves come the bulk of the nests of
which the soup is made, and they are the only place in the world where
they can be obtained in any quantity. The caves are of immense extent,
and are several hundred feet in height. They are covered with nests,
which are built by swallows and bats; the material being a soft fungoid
growth, which incrusts the limestone in which the caves are formed. The
yearly value of the nests taken is between five and six thousand pounds
on the spot. The value when they reach China is of course very much
more. It is perhaps as well, considering the expensive nature of the
luxury and its scarcity, that the consumption is not likely to increase
from its introduction into Britain. To our barbarian palates it is
decidedly insipid.

For three centuries, Britain has been able to boast that her
adventurous sons have penetrated farther towards the frozen north
than the sailors of any other nation. She must now yield the palm to
America. The interesting story of the rescue of the six survivors of
the Greely Expedition—who at the moment of their discovery were
listening to prayers for the dying read by one of their number—is only
second in interest to the story of Sir John Franklin, whose fate was
for so long hidden in mystery. It seems to be a general feeling that
no more expeditions to the frozen regions should be attempted. The
barren honour of having arrived at a place so inaccessible that nobody
has been there before you, is hardly worth the risk of being slowly
starved to death. The Greely Expedition originally numbered twenty-five
persons, so that nineteen have perished. This is a heavy price to pay
for geographical knowledge however valuable; but of the scientific
value of the expedition few details are as yet published.

Lieutenant Brown of the United States’ navy has compiled a long
official Report for his government on the progress of the Panama Canal,
which is not quite so hopeful as the subscribers would desire. He
considers that a great portion of the work accomplished is theoretical
rather than practical, and that what has been done has been too costly.
He thinks it evident that the scheme cannot be accomplished within the
estimated cost nor within the stipulated time. Two leading problems are
likely to baffle the engineers—one is, how to dispose of the sixty
million cubic mètres of earth which must be cut from the hilly part of
the isthmus; and the other is the difficulty of dealing with the river
Chagres, which was to form part of the channel. In the dry season,
this river is a sluggish stream; but after the rains, it is a foaming
torrent carrying everything before it. There is also a probability of
an epidemic of yellow fever, which is generally of a fatal type in the
district.

In the course of two lectures lately delivered at the Health
Exhibition by Dr Cobbold upon the subject of Parasites in Food, some
very interesting facts came to light. With regard to parasites, he
tells us that the dreaded trichinæ, about which so much alarm was
created some years ago in connection with the consumption of foreign
pork, cannot live after being subjected to a heat of one hundred and
twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit, which temperature is of course far
below that to which meat is subjected in ordinary cooking. Referring
to the late mackerel scare, the lecturer said that the entozoa of this
fish were perfectly innocuous to mankind whether they were swallowed
alive or dead. There are altogether no fewer than fourteen different
kinds of parasites which find their home in the mackerel. Speaking of
vegetarianism, he said that it was a mistake to suppose that those who
eschewed flesh-foods had any consequent immunity from diseases provoked
by parasites; on the contrary, the most common parasite known in this
country was a vegetable feeder which could easily be received into the
system by carelessly washed salads, &c.

A Java correspondent of our contemporary, _Nature_, relates a curious
instance of cannibalism among snakes which came under his notice. He
had killed close to his house a snake of very deadly character. Upon
examining it some time later he found, protruding from its mouth, the
tail of another snake, which eventually turned out to be of the same
species and only a few inches shorter than its host. The natives of
the place gave it as their opinion that the two creatures had been
fighting, and that the victor had swallowed the vanquished. Another
correspondent of the same journal tells of a similar case which he saw
in India.

It deserves to be placed on record that the University of London have
for the first time conferred the high degree of D.Sc. upon a lady. Mrs
Sophia Bryant, by whom this honour has been achieved, is the daughter
of the Rev. Dr Willock, late rector of Cleenish, Enniskillen, and
Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. Mrs Bryant has for some time held
the position of mathematical mistress at the North London Collegiate
School for Girls.

An interesting article upon a very curious subject is contributed
by M. C. E. Brown-Sequard to the French journal _La Nature_. This
article takes for its title ‘Attitudes after Death,’ and deals
with the numerous instances, on the field of battle and in other
situations, where dead bodies have been found—sitting on horseback
in one instance, raising a cup to the lips in another, transfixed in
the position last assumed when sudden death came upon them. One case
is very remarkable. A brakesman on an American railway was shot by
a guerrilla, who lay in ambush in a forest through which the train
passed. As he was shot, the unfortunate man was in the act of putting
on the brake. His body remained fixed, his arms and hands stiff on the
brake-wheel, whilst the pipe he was smoking remained between his teeth.
It was extremely difficult to make the corpse let go its hold. The
writer of the paper points out that this fixture of the body is quite
different from the ordinary rigidity of death; and he believes that it
depends upon the production of a persistent muscular action, like the
fixed spasm often seen in hysterical or paralytic subjects. It is an
act of life, but the last one.

For a long time, and more particularly since telephones have come
into common use, it has been seen that our telegraphic methods are
open to very great improvement. At present, each letter of every word
transmitted requires one or more distinct signals, either by right or
left deflections of a needle, or, as in the Morse method, by dots and
dashes. In Signor Michela’s steno-telegraph, which bids fair to come
into very extended use, this difficulty is obviated. It works on the
phonetic system; that is to say, the various sounds which go to make
up speech—be the language that common to any European country—are
grouped into series and represented by certain signs, each word being,
as it were, dissected into sound-values. The system is, in fact, that
of a telegraphic shorthand. The transmitting instrument consists of
two keyboards, each having ten keys, each key communicating with a
style on the receiving instrument, which prints a sign representing
a particular sound. With such an apparatus, a skilled operator can
telegraph words as they fall from the lips of a speaker as readily as
a shorthand reporter can write them down. The system has for some time
been in use in the Italian Senate, and is now on an experimental trial
in Paris. Whether it prove to be the telegraph of the future or not, it
most certainly is constructed on a correct basis. We propose shortly to
notice it more fully.

An invention which is said to be largely used in America has lately
formed the subject of some interesting and successful experiments in
London. Introduced by Messrs G. H. Gardner & Co., Southwark Bridge
Road, London, it is known as the Harden Hand Grenade Fire-extinguisher,
and consists of a glass flask containing a chemical liquid, which,
when the flask is broken, emits a copious supply of that enemy to
combustion, carbonic acid gas. The experiments were of the usual
type—miniature conflagrations being put out readily when a grenade was
thrown upon them. The extreme simplicity of the system is one of its
chief recommendations; for the flasks, ornamental in appearance, can be
disposed throughout a house, and are then ready for immediate use, in
case an incipient fire should break out. They therefore take the place
of the cumbrous fire-bucket, which is too often, when wanted, found to
be empty.

So much has been published relative to smoke abatement in our large
towns, and so little has been actually accomplished towards the
solution of the problem, that many are beginning to despair, and to
believe that the evil must be allowed to continue. Factories, which
are the chief offenders, have been to some extent dealt with by law,
and are now supposed to consume their own smoke; but the private
householder, who contributes no small share of the carbon sent into the
atmosphere, has, even if he had the will, been almost powerless in the
matter. A stove has just been invented which, it may be hoped, will
put a different complexion on the subject. At the back of the grate is
a receptacle for the coals, which, by the action of a loose vertical
iron plate, are forced forward to be consumed, so that the fuel is
partly coked before it reaches the front of the fire. By an ingenious
arrangement, the products of combustion are not carried direct to the
chimney, but are delivered beneath the grate. This perfect combustion
stove is the invention of Mr H. Thompson, of 29 Marquess Road,
Canonbury, London.

Most people will be glad to hear that the guardians of our national
picture-galleries have at last consented to allow their art treasures
to be copied by photography. Why this permission has been delayed so
long is strange, for nearly every continental gallery has long ago
distributed fac-similes of its contents to willing purchasers. There is
one advantage gained in the delay, for by modern processes every touch
of the artist’s brush may be faithfully portrayed in the copy, and,
moreover, that copy is of a permanent nature. In front of the National
Gallery, London, a temporary structure has been erected into which the
pictures can be carried to be operated upon in a good light. By this
means, a far more satisfactory result can be obtained than by carrying
the camera to the pictures as they hang upon the walls.

We some months ago recorded the fact that a prize of five hundred
pounds had been offered by Mr Ellis Lever for a new Safety-lamp,
which must fulfil certain stringent conditions. The adjudicators—all
well-known scientific men—have just reported upon the one hundred and
eight lamps which were sent in for competition. Of these, four were
electric lamps, no one of which approached fulfilment of the conditions
of the award; the rest being oil-lamps. All those which fulfilled
the preliminary requirements were experimented upon; and very few
indeed remained when the more extreme tests were reached. But none of
the lamps really embraced the whole of the conditions enumerated, so
the adjudicators felt themselves unable to make the award to any. At
the same time, they highly commend two which nearly fulfilled those
conditions. One of them is called the Marsaut Lamp; and the other is
the contrivance of Mr William Morgan of Pontypridd, which they say
presents several good features of marked originality.

The success of the Royal Tapestry Works at Windsor, where so much
excellent work is turned out every year, has stimulated others to
endeavour to produce a material similar in appearance, without all the
costly processes which makes the woven fabric so expensive. In London
recently, an Exhibition has been opened of the works of English artists
upon a material known as Gobelins tissue. The work is executed with
the brush like an ordinary picture on canvas, but with an intention to
imitate the work of the loom.

A rare phenomenon in these latitudes, a waterspout, was recently
witnessed at Southwold. The wind at the time was changeable, and
attention was directed to the strange manner in which certain dark
clouds seemed to be driven first in one direction and then in another.
At length these clouds united, and their mass formed a clearly defined
edge some distance above the horizon. From this edge there suddenly
shot down a narrow tongue of cloud, which seemed to strike the sea
above five miles from the shore. Swayed from side to side by the wind
at first, it gradually grew into an enormous column of water, estimated
to be nearly one hundred and fifty yards in diameter, the mass of foam
at its base indicating the enormous velocity with which water was
being poured from it into the sea. The waterspout remained for twenty
minutes, when it disappeared as quickly as it came. It was fortunate
that there were at the time no ships in the neighbourhood.

An exhibition of what is called ‘sanitary and insanitary houses’ has
been opened at the Health Exhibition. The idea seems to be to arrange
two houses, the one as it ought to be, and the other as it ought not
to be, and thus to exhibit the two in strong contrast the one to the
other, by which an opportunity will be given to visitors, and those
who choose to take the trouble to exercise their wits, of gaining
instruction upon a point which has never before been brought forward
in this manner. The houses are so placed that visitors enter by the
ground-floor of the insanitary house, and pass through its various
rooms, where all its defects are carefully and plainly set forth; then,
on reaching the top-floor, the visitor crosses over to the sanitary
house and descends through it.



OCCASIONAL NOTES.


THE FRENCH CROWN JEWELS.

According to a contemporary, we learn that the French crown jewels
when valued just after the Revolution of 1789 were estimated at eight
hundred and forty thousand pounds, and they consisted of seven thousand
four hundred and eighty-two diamonds, five hundred and six pearls,
two hundred and thirty rubies, one hundred and fifty emeralds, one
hundred and thirty-four sapphires, seventy-one topazes, eight garnets,
and three amethysts. They were stolen from the Treasury, in which
they had been deposited, and only a very small portion recovered;
but the purchases made by Napoleon and the Bourbon kings brought the
total of the crown jewels up to nine hundred thousand pounds when they
were valued in 1832. When a fresh inventory was taken in 1875, it was
found that the crown jewels consisted of seventy-seven thousand four
hundred and eighty-six stones, weighing over nineteen thousand carats,
and a part of these will shortly be sold. It is a mistake, however,
to suppose that at the impending sale all the objects of historical
interest will be reserved, for many of the jewels which belonged to the
Duchess Anne of Brittany, and became an appanage of the French Crown
when she married Charles VIII., are to be disposed of, as also several
articles bequeathed by Cardinal Richelieu.


TREATMENT OF DIARRHŒA AND CHOLERA.

The following instructions, issued to local authorities in Scotland
by the Board of Supervision, and certified by Dr Littlejohn, Medical
Officer of the city of Edinburgh, may be useful in the event of cholera
occurring in this country:

Local authorities, where there are either no medical men, or only a few
scattered over the country, should provide themselves with a supply of
suitable remedies. Among these may be mentioned—(1) elixir of vitriol;
(2) the lead and opium pill; (3) the aromatic powder of chalk and
opium; (4) ordinary mustard.

It is, however, not only of importance that an attack of cholera should
be properly treated before medical assistance is procured, but also
that the diarrhœa which may be present for days before the serious
symptoms present themselves, should be checked at once. This may
generally be effectually accomplished by causing persons so affected,
and who are usually very thirsty, to drink freely of cold water to
which elixir of vitriol has been added in the proportion of half a
teaspoonful of elixir to the tumbler of water. Should the diarrhœa,
in spite of the above treatment, continue for, say, two hours, a
lead and opium pill should be given, and the dose should be repeated
every time after the patient has been affected by the diarrhœa. If
the patient, from weakness, be unable to follow his usual employment,
he should be put to bed—care being taken that the limbs are kept
warm, and that the bed is kept dry by means of a sheet of oilcloth,
gutta-percha, or mackintosh between the sheet and the mattress.
Should the discharge present the appearance of rice-water, and should
there be urgent vomiting, cramps of the limbs, together with general
sinking or collapse, the case should be regarded as most serious; and
in the absence of a medical man, mustard poultices should be applied
to the stomach and chest for half an hour at a time, and should be
followed either by fomentations with warm water, or by bran or porridge
poultices on the same parts of the body. These mustard and soft
poultices should be alternated from time to time. Meanwhile the limbs
should be well rubbed with warm cloths, and the lead and opium pills
regularly administered, as directed above.

This treatment may be advantageously employed for all persons above
fifteen years of age. From ten to fifteen years, the only change
recommended in the treatment is that half a lead and opium pill,
instead of an entire pill, should be given as a dose. Below ten years
of age, the aromatic powder of chalk and opium should be substituted
for the pill, and may be administered in doses of one grain for each
year of life. Thus, an infant of one year should have one grain for
a dose; and under one year, half a grain; while a child of six years
should have six grains. The treatment otherwise is the same—care,
however, being taken in the case of children not to allow the mustard
to remain _beyond ten minutes_ in contact with the skin.

Should there be no hospital at the disposal of the local authority, and
should the house of the patient consist of one or two apartments, the
other members of the household should be at once removed. The room in
which the sick person is lying should as far as possible be cleared of
furniture; and the other apartment, if any, should be devoted to the
preparation of articles of food and to the residence of the attendants,
limited in number to a day and a night nurse.



GRANTON MARINE STATION.—We have to acknowledge receipt of the
following sum in behalf of the Granton Marine Station:

                              £ _s._ _d._
    Aug. 4. A Friend,         1  0    0



EN PASSANT.


    A sidelong glance like April sunlight shining
      Through drifting clouds, a moment rent apart—
    A glance which reads with swift, occult divining
      Fond thoughts deep hidden in the inmost heart.

    A sudden flash of love-born radiance gleaming
      From two dark melting orbs of liquid light,
    Whose haunting beauty sets the fond soul dreaming
      Of far-off, unattainable delight.

    A passing word of greeting, sweetly spoken
      By two sweet lips whose lightest word is dear;
    A moment more, and lo! the spell is broken
      While yet its charm is ling’ring on the ear.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Ten years ago, I watched a sunbeam falling
      Athwart the shadows of a sombre way;
    Now, ’mid the after-glooms its charm recalling,
      I bless the spot whereon its brightness lay.

            G. C. J.


       *       *       *       *       *

The Conductor of CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL begs to direct the attention of
CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice:

_1st._ All communications should be addressed to the ‘Editor, 339
    High Street, Edinburgh.’

_2d._ For its return in case of ineligibility, postage-stamps
    should accompany every manuscript.

_3d._ MANUSCRIPTS should bear the author’s full _Christian_ name,
    Surname, and Address, legibly written; and should be written on
    white (not blue) paper, and on one side of the leaf only.

_4th._ Offerings of Verse should invariably be accompanied by a
    stamped and directed envelope.

_If the above rules are complied with, the Editor will do his best to
insure the safe return of ineligible papers._

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 35, Vol. I, August 30, 1884" ***

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