Chapter I: Part 1

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.