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. 27.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

HOME-NURSING.

BY A LADY.

FIRST ARTICLE.

Illness in some form is so often amongst us, that it may safely be said there is no occupation of more universal importance than the care of the sick, and there are few women worthy of the name who at some time or other are not called upon to minister to the needs of sufferers by disease or accident.

Much has been done of late years to improve the tone of nursing amongst those who take it up as a profession, so that the ‘Sarey Gamp’ of old times has practically given place to the skilled, conscientious nurse, who has been trained to look upon her work as something more than a mere means of livelihood. But whilst this is true of those who devote their lives to nursing, there still remains a vast amount of ignorance, even of its very elements, amongst those who are only occasionally called upon to bedside-ministration, and it is our object in this series of papers to give our readers such information as may fit them to act on an emergency, if not with the skill of the trained nurse, with at least so much knowledge and intelligence as shall give the patient some chance of comfort and help. Not, of course, that the practical work of nursing can be acquired by any amount of book-knowledge alone; but for those who cannot spare time for regular hospital training, it is of great importance to understand at anyrate what should be aimed at in nursing; and were this more widely understood, it would do much towards mitigating the avoidable sufferings inflicted on unhappy patients who have to be nursed by those who are full of love indeed, but without any idea of the work they are undertaking.

This brings me to a point on which I can hardly be too emphatic. In cases of serious illness, especially where there is much acute pain, secure, if possible, the services of a trained nurse. Apart from her superior knowledge of means for giving relief, the patient will be much more likely to yield to the authority of a stranger, and at the same time the stranger being used to the sight of suffering, will have command over her countenance, and will not show the distress which it is hardly possible for inexperience to conceal. Indeed, patients of self-controlled habits will sometimes put such strain upon themselves to hide their pain from too sympathising friends, as really to increase their sufferings; whilst with a stranger the relief of expression may safely be indulged in. Perhaps such cases of self-repression are rare; but at anyrate the trained nurse will often have resources at command of which the uninitiated know nothing, and will be able to handle and attend to the patient with the steadiness and tact only to be learned in the school of experience. I admit the tender sound of the sentiment which fancies that no hand is like the hand of affection; but, as a practical matter, no love, however great, can supply the place of skill and knowledge.

I remember meeting with the case of a widow, whose only son was attacked with one of the most terrible forms of disease, accompanied with anguish that wrung cries of agony from the strong man’s lips. Unable to help himself, yet restless to a painful degree, his case demanded the utmost watchfulness and attention, in addition to which he was of such an unselfish nature that his sufferings became doubled as he saw their effect upon his mother. She, ignorant as a child, refused to listen to any suggestion of sending for a nurse; and in answer to the remonstrances of friends, exclaimed with indignation: ‘As though any one could do as well for him as his mother.’ Alas! poor fellow, it might almost have been said: ‘As though any one could do _worse_ for him than his mother;’ and none of those who witnessed the pitiable condition he was allowed to get into, felt any surprise at hearing him eagerly welcome death as release from misery. I do not say that the best of nursing would have saved his life, though it might have given him a chance; but beyond a doubt, skilled hands could have ministered to his wants in such a way as to have obviated a large amount of distress and pain.

But apart from such grave cases, there are many forms of illness which may safely be trusted to home-care, provided there is a fair amount of knowledge of those general rules which lie at the root of all degrees of successful nursing. Not that every woman is fitted to undertake the care of a sick-room. A certain, and not small amount of physical strength is absolutely needful, as well as some special qualifications, natural or acquired, which are equally essential. In this connection, there is a popular fallacy which demands notice. What a common thing it is to hear a person described as ‘a born nurse,’ with the implication that therefore she is fitted at any time, and under all circumstances, to take her place in the sick-room with confidence of success. Now, the expression ‘born’ applied to any other special calling will show how much value it possesses. Who in his senses would speak of the ‘born’ painter or musician as thereby exempted from the necessity of further training? And—to take a more homely example—there are few mistresses, I fancy, who would engage a servant on the sole recommendation of being a ‘born cook!’ Yet it may easily be conceived that the rejector of such an aspirant would consider it natural that she should undertake more important and delicate sick-room work, on precisely those grounds which she rightly looks upon as unsatisfactory in the matter of dinners. The truth is, that in every department, those who have special gifts require no small amount of thoughtful care and perseverance for the full development of their natural abilities. In regard to nursing, the low standard of the past has given rise to the erroneous idea of ‘birth’ qualification as supreme; but now that the standard is becoming increasingly high, there is good reason to hope that there will be a better general understanding of how much scope nursing affords for intelligence and skill; with this, too, will come comprehension of the fact that natural taste and ability are valuable only as grounds to work upon.

We will now proceed to the consideration of those qualifications which are essential to the good nurse. In the first place, I would urge every reader to cultivate _self-control_ as a habit of daily life, for without it, there will be little power of helping in a sick-room. Not that it is always possible to help feeling shocked and startled at the sight of suffering, especially sudden suffering, with which there is no familiarity; but a habit of self-control will give power to suppress all expression of alarm, and so to keep one’s presence of mind as to be able to consider what means of relief can be adopted.

But there are some people able to meet sudden emergency who yet fail to keep their self-control during the wear and tear of long illness. The patient is irritable, seems unreasonable, and demands constant attention; and the nurse becomes so weary as to allow herself to show by lagging movements or vexed looks, if not by actual rebuke, that her work is a burden she would willingly give up if she had the chance. Need I say that such conduct is incompatible with good nursing? And I cannot too strongly urge the necessity for keeping control over face and tongue, as well as over actions. In home-nursing this is one of the greatest difficulties, especially where the illness is straining resources, and there is the additional anxiety of wondering how both ends may be made to meet. But at any cost a nurse must keep watch over herself, and strive after that _cheerfulness_ which is a second element in good nursing. Perhaps only those who have grieved over recovery retarded by the gloom and depression of attendants, can understand the full force of the stress I would lay upon the duty of keeping a bright face and cheerful voice. No amount of devotion in other respects can atone for their absence. It is possible for a nurse to spend time and strength lavishly in day and night vigils, to be the best of poultice-makers, and the most careful administrator of food and medicine, and yet to fail utterly in helping the patient back to health and strength. Over and over again I have found patients sorrowful, perhaps crying, over the sense of being ‘such a burden;’ this, too, where there has been real affection on the part of nurses, but where the first duties of self-control and cheerfulness have been neither understood nor practised.

Of a kindred nature is the third requisite, _patience_, a virtue which is sure to be largely needed in most forms of illness. Even where a nurse is fortunate enough to have to deal with an amiable, unexacting spirit, the hundred-and-one details of daily nursing are apt to become very wearisome to those unaccustomed to minute and monotonous duties, and the temptation is strong to hurry the patient or to slur over details. I have seen a patient’s languid appetite chased away by his nurse’s evident anxiety to regain possession of cup or plate; and where having the hair brushed is the one pleasure of the day, the admonition to ‘be quick and turn your head’ does not give an added charm to the operation.

But, unhappily, the patience is sometimes tested in a far more trying way. Apart from the helpless tediousness of a long illness, which alone may affect the patient’s temper and cause varying degrees of irritability, there is, with some diseases, an accompanying fretfulness or moodiness most difficult to manage. So marked may this become, that occasionally the patient seems to have changed his character, and the most amiable and unselfish in health may become the most impatient and exacting in illness. The trained nurse, accustomed to watch the effects of disease, will understand and make allowance for such perversion; but in private nursing I have known patients’ friends suffer acutely from manifestations of ill-temper, for which they could only account on moral grounds. To the inexperienced, I would say: remember how closely body and soul are bound together, and believe that the _changed_ temper is only a fresh symptom to be reported to the doctor as faithfully as any alteration in the bodily condition. But even taking this view, it is trying not to be able to do or say the right thing, to have the kindest actions misconstrued, and perhaps to hear of complaints made against you in your absence. Your best help will be to keep constantly in mind the fact that it is your patient’s misfortune, and not his fault, and that it causes him far more discomfort than it does you. So, be very careful not to aggravate him by opposition or by reference to exciting topics; answer quietly, and at once, his most vexing speeches, but as far as possible, do not argue about even the most irrational statements. If you are blessed with tact as well as patience, you may be able to divert attention, and lead to happier channels of thought, always bearing in mind that you can do no greater kindness than to lead your patient away from his misery. This is a point so often overlooked, that it will bear dwelling upon, for the nurse’s own discomfort under such a dispensation is so great, that she is very apt to forget that the patient’s impressions are as real to him as though they were actual facts, and that he fully believes it, when he declares that you are trying your hardest to worry and annoy him, and not to let him get well. Think of the wretchedness of such a belief, and spare no pains to soothe and compose the sufferer.

At the same time, there is such a thing as spoiling a patient, even though he be past the age we generally associate with the word ‘spoil.’ Illness often brings back some of the wayward peevishness of childhood, and you get such things to contend with as positive refusal to take food or medicine, or to comply with some order of the doctor’s. How to meet these special difficulties we will consider later on; but as regards the question of how far to give in to a patient’s whims and fancies, there is no better general rule than this: oppose his wishes only on questions of right and wrong; and when opposition becomes a necessity, use special efforts so to keep your self-control as to avoid all expression of anger or impatience. How far you succeed in steering your patient through such troubled waters will depend greatly upon what measure you possess of that invaluable gift, _sympathy_—in other words, the power of putting yourself in another’s place, seeing from his point of view, and feeling with him in his difficulties. A hard, cold, or even a merely narrow nature cannot be trained into a really good nurse; and indeed, as a broad rule, lack of health and lack of sympathy are the only two absolutely insurmountable obstacles in the way of those who desire to be helpful in the sick-room. For observe that the other qualities I have named—self-control, cheerfulness, and patience—though much easier to some than to others, are within the reach of all who earnestly strive to possess them; and moreover, each and all are capable of being developed and cultivated to an almost unlimited extent. Sympathy, on the other hand, though capable of development by its fortunate possessor, is one of those natural gifts which no amount of training can impart, and which is no more within the reach of all than is that good health without which attempts at nursing cannot but end in failure. Given these two special gifts of health and sympathy, and you have the ‘born nurse,’ needing, indeed, much patient care and training, but one who may confidently count upon success.

Various other qualities and habits, such as humility, gentleness, firmness, order, and accuracy, are useful in nursing, and to these we shall refer in giving more specific details of a nurse’s work. There are also various gifts, as good hearing and sight, cleverness of fingers, and natural quickness of apprehension and of movement, which, though very desirable, are not absolutely indispensable, and on these it is not necessary to dwell. Those who have them may rejoice; and those who have not, need not be disheartened, as they can very well be dispensed with, provided there is thorough, conscientious effort made to acquire those more necessary things which are to be had for the trying.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.

CHAPTER XXXVI.—IS IT TOO LATE?

‘There was nobody in the house, Mr Culver; but I knew you would be here, and so came on.—Where is Pansy?’

Thus Madge, as she entered the vine-house, where Sam, the Scotch gardener, standing on steps, was busy amongst rich clusters of grapes.

‘Oh, it’s you, Missy. Good-day to you,’ he answered, looking over his shoulder with that serious contraction of the muscles of his thin face which friends accepted as a smile. ‘This is washing-day; and if Pansy is no in the house, she’ll be on the green wi’ the clothes.’

‘I shall find her; but I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking to you first. Can you spare five minutes?’

‘Ten, or more, if it be to pleasure you, Missy,’ answered the gardener, with as near an approach to gallantry as he had ever made. He came down from the steps, and dusted them carefully with his apron. ‘I have no chair to offer you; but you can take a rest here, if you’re no owre proud.’

‘You will not think that of me,’ she said, smiling, ‘although I prefer to stand.’

‘Please yoursel’, Missy, just please yoursel’, and you’ll no dee in the pet. That’s what I aye say to onybody that maun hae their ain way.’

‘And what do you say to those who cannot have their own way?’

‘Oh, I say to them, you’ll just hae to do as you are bidden.’

‘Is that what you would say to Pansy, if she wanted very much to have her own way about something?’

‘That would depend on what was the way she wanted,’ was the cautious reply.

‘Well, Mr Culver, I am going to do what will offend you’——

‘That’s no possible.’

‘Or what you will take as a proof of my liking for Pansy, according to the light in which you regard it. At anyrate, I hope you won’t be annoyed with me.’

‘No a bit, no a bit, whatever it be.—But what is’t?’

‘Pansy does not know that I am going to speak to you about it, so you must not be displeased with her, whatever you may think of me. Philip says there can be no harm in speaking to you, and wishes me to do it.’

‘Guid-sake!—is there onything wrang?’

‘No, no; _we_ think everything is right, and that they will be a very happy couple. Have you never considered that Pansy will want to marry some day?’

Sam was relieved. Although Madge had been speaking with a smile on her face all the time, he had been a little puzzled, and for a second vaguely alarmed on his daughter’s account. When he heard this question from her, he began to understand.

‘Ay, whiles the notion has come into my head—she’s a bonnie lass and a guid lass, and it’s natural for women-folk to think about marriage. But it appeared to me that there was time enough to fash about thae things, and I just let the notion gang by.’

‘But you will have to consider it seriously—and soon. Suppose the man she wanted did not please you: would you say that she must do as she is bid, and refuse him?’

Sam took up the dead stem of a fern, and whilst he was breaking it into small pieces, considered very wisely.

‘Wha is the man?’ he asked abruptly, comprehending what Madge was hesitating to explain, and coming to the point at once.

‘He had the misfortune to offend some people who did not understand him, but I hope you are not one of them: I am sure you will not be when you know him. It is Caleb Kersey.’

Sam looked stolidly at the ground; no surprise, pleasure, or displeasure expressed on his features. Madge observing him closely, was busy collecting her arguments in favour of Caleb.

‘Now, that’s very queer,’ he began slowly. ‘When he was coming about the house at first, I suspected that he was hankering after my lassie, and I’m obliged to own that it wasna exactly the kind o’ match that I would have liked her to make; but when she was spoken to, she just said nothing. Syne, thinking that there was nae harm in his coming, and seeing what fine work he was making of the harvest, I took a notion o’ the lad because he was fond o’ flowers— especially geraaniums. Do ye know, daft-like as it was, I thought it was the geraaniums he had a fancy for.’

There was a comic pathos in the air of dejection and disappointment with which he made this confession, whilst he rubbed his soft cap slowly over his head, as if he would rub out the stupidity which had caused him to make such a mistake.

‘I have no doubt that the geraniums had something to do with bringing him here,’ was the consolatory comment of Madge. ‘You may be certain that Caleb would never say he liked anything if he did not. His outspoken ways are the causes of the ill-favour he has fallen into amongst the farmers. You know as well as I do that he is a good worker; he is steady; and Philip bids me assure you that he is now in a position which he is exactly fitted for, and he will be able to earn a good wage. I believe that Pansy likes him, and that they are both held back from speaking because they are afraid of you.’

‘Feared for me! How can that be? I never did anything to scare them; and I’m sure I have ta’en mair pains in letting him into a’ the secrets of the culture of geraaniums than I ever did wi’ onybody afore. Maybe I should have tried him wi’ the pansies.’

‘He has found out that secret for himself,’ said Madge merrily as Sam chuckled at his own little joke. ‘Then I may tell them that you will not be cruel—that you will not interfere with them?’

‘Oh, if the young folk have settled the matter for themsel’s, there would be no use of me interfering; and if they ha’ena, there’ll be no need.’

‘I cannot tell you how much pleasure you have given me, Mr Culver; and Philip will be delighted, for he began to think that poor Caleb was going to be ruined by his anxiety about this matter. I must go and find Pansy now.’

‘But there is no need to be in haste about it,’ said the gardener, and there was evidently some anxiety underneath his dry manner: ‘she is a young thing yet, and I’m no sure that I could get on without her.’

‘Perhaps you would not require to be separated from her; but all that can be arranged by-and-by.’

As Madge quitted the vine-house, she was aware that Sam was meditatively rubbing his head with his cap, and she heard him muttering: ‘Ay, ay, it wasna the geraaniums after a’. Weel, weel, weel; I daursay it’s natural.’ He always returned to his native dialect when speaking familiarly, or when under the influence of emotion whether of affection or rage.

The washing-house was a small erection jutting out from the back of the cottage, and thither Madge hastened with the agreeable news, which she believed was to make two young people ‘happy ever after.’ The door stood wide open as she approached, but a mist of steam hid everything within, and boiling water running over the floor prevented her from entering. A figure appeared in the mist—stooped—groped for something—and presently darted out, stumbling against Madge.

‘Why, Pansy, what in the world is the matter?’

The girl was flushed and panting with excitement.

‘I am so stupid to-day.—I hope I did not hurt you,’ she gasped. ‘The tap of the boiler—I forgot to turn it off; and the place was full of steam in a minute, and I’ve upset the tub on the floor, and dirtied all the clothes. O dear!’

‘Never mind about the clothes. You might have been suffocated or scalded to death. Are you burned?’

‘I don’t know. I think my hand was a little, when I turned off the tap just now.... O dear! I am so stupid to-day.’

The left hand was already puffed up with a white swelling, which looked more dangerous than it was in reality. Madge hurried her into the cottage, and poured oil over the scalded hand into a bowl. When the bowl was half-full of oil, she bade the girl keep her hand in it. Pansy submitted with a patience that was akin to indifference; but as she continued at intervals to utter little cries of distress, it was some time before Madge became aware that they had nothing to do with the injury the girl had sustained. She did not look at her hand at all, but stared at the window, as if she saw something outside that made her unhappy.

‘I suppose you have not got any lint in the house. Well, you must find a bit of soft rag; and when we have steeped it in the oil, I will fasten it on your hand until we get Dr Joy to dress it properly. You can walk down to the village with me.’

‘It’s no use—it doesn’t matter. I must finish the washing.... O dear!’

‘Is it paining you very much?’

‘O yes.—He looked so bad, that it scared me to see him; and I ran away, and I don’t know what I was doing.’

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Madge, alarmed lest the girl’s fright was to have more serious consequences than she had anticipated.

‘About _him_—Caleb.’

Her eyes were still fixed on the window; and observing this, Madge also glanced in that direction, half expecting to see the lover outside. Seeing no one, she became more and more uneasy about Pansy’s odd behaviour.

‘He will come soon,’ she said cheeringly; ‘and I have great news for you and for him. You would never guess what it is.’

‘No; I never would guess. I am not able to try.’

‘Ah, well, you will have all the more pleasure in the surprise. I always knew your father was a sensible and just man, who would never allow any prejudice to affect his judgment of others; but he did surprise me when I spoke to him about you and Caleb. He gave me leave to tell you that he will not interfere between you. Now, is not that great news!’

Madge expected to see her flush with joy and rouse from the dazed state into which she had fallen. Instead of that, Pansy started to her feet, pale, and all consciousness of the scalded hand had evidently vanished.

‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘Sorry!... Why?’

‘Because I am not going to have him,’ was the half-petulant, half-sobbing answer.

‘O Pansy, what is this?’ exclaimed Madge astonished, puzzled and regretful. ‘When we last spoke about him, you made me believe that you liked him very much, and that you only hesitated because you were afraid your father would not be pleased.’

‘And I do like him—like him so much, that it upsets me to put him out or trouble him. But I’m not going to have him, and I’ve told him so. He was asking me just before you came, and—and I told him.’

There was real distress in voice and look; but there was an under-current of sulky defiance, as if being conscious that she had not behaved well to the man, she was eager to defend herself, and finding no ready way of doing it, was angry with herself whilst ready to anticipate blame.

Madge’s expression of astonishment changed to one of grave concern, although Pansy’s confession of anxiety to spare Caleb suggested that there was nothing worse to apprehend than some misunderstanding between the lovers, which would be put right as soon as the girl got over her excitement. So she proceeded quietly to bandage the injured hand, without speaking for several minutes. Pansy was evidently unhappy; the silence of her friend was a more severe rebuke than any words of blame could have been. She could endure it no longer.

‘Oh, what shall I do?’ she burst out; ‘_you_ are vexed with me now, like him.’

‘You must not think that, Pansy. I am very much grieved to see you in such a state as this; but I am sure it only needs a little forbearance on your part to put everything right again. There is nothing uncommon in a little tiff between lovers, and you will soon get over it. I will answer for Caleb that he will be ready to make it up as soon as you speak a kind word to him.’

‘But I can’t speak the word he wants, for I am not to have him.’

That was sufficiently decisive. Then Madge examined her closely, and became very anxious, for she perceived that Pansy’s distress had a deeper source than ‘a little tiff.’

‘You do not mean to say that Caleb is not the one you care most for?’

There was sullen silence.

Now, of all the feminine frailties which nature and training had taught Madge to shun, coquetry stood foremost. An acted falsehood!—What could be more abominable? A falsehood which, by inspiring baseless hopes, may cause an honest heart long days and nights of pain, when the truth becomes known? Can there be pleasure in seeing another suffer? There are women who consider coquetting with any decent-looking fellow a legitimate form of amusement, and avail themselves of it without a suspicion of immodesty or a single pang of conscience; yet the same women would scream at a mouse or at sight of a bleeding scratch. Demure glances, soft tones, a confiding touch on the arm—meaning nothing more than to gratify a mania for admiration at any cost—have played the mischief in high and low life many a time.

If anybody might claim a privilege to coquet, Pansy might, for she had been praised and flattered by everybody, whilst she had been guarded by her father as if she had been a flower almost too precious for the common eye. Hitherto, she had shown few symptoms of the weakness which too often makes such a position dangerous. Although there were many lads in the district who would fain have been suitors, not one dare say that she had deceived him by word or look. Caleb Kersey could say it now.

‘Come and sit down, Pansy, and let us talk about this; you will feel better when you have told me all about it. Besides, it will do you good to have a little rest before we start for the doctor’s.’

There was really no need to hurry to the doctor, as the wound had been dressed so cleverly. Madge drew her gently down on the chair and, holding her hand sympathetically, waited. Like a glow of sunlight breaking through a rain-cloud, the sullen gloom was dispersed with a sob and a burst of tears. Pansy’s head rested on her friend’s shoulder, whilst she clutched her hand, as if seeking courage and support in the assurance of her presence. The time for words had not come yet.

By-and-by, the girl lifted her head and wiped her eyes with a corner of the big white apron which covered her from the neck to the ankle.

‘I’m right ashamed at myself for taking on this way—that I am,’ she said bashfully; ‘and there ain’t no reason in it either, barring that I’m vexed for vexing him, and that he’ll feel worse when he finds there’s no help for it.’

‘Why have you not answered my question, Pansy?’

‘There ain’t no answer.’

‘Somebody else has spoken to you before Caleb, and has been luckier than he.’

‘Nobody else has spoken to me—if you mean in the way of asking me.’

This cleared away a simoom of disagreeable speculations which had been whirling through Madge’s brain. Caleb’s happiness was not wrecked yet.

‘And there is nobody you expect to ask you?’

‘Oh, I don’t say that—I don’t know. Who can tell what may happen? But there’s no use speaking about that. I wish things hadn’t gone so far with Caleb.’

Madge agreed that there was no use speaking any more at present; but although she did not feel quite so assured as she had done a moment before of Caleb’s speedy restoration to favour, she was hopeful that he would be in the end, since no one else had spoken. At the same time, she was satisfied that there was another who had contrived to catch the wayward fancy of the girl by touching some hidden spring of vanity. Worst of all, there was the unpleasant probability that this ‘other’ who disturbed the peace of two honest folk was one whose position was so different from her own that the girl was afraid or ashamed to confess her folly at once. But this would be transient, and Pansy would come back to her senses in good time. Clearly, whatever silly notions possessed her for the moment, it was Caleb she loved, or she would never have been so much worried on his account.

Having, however, some conception of the headstrong nature of the man, Madge was aware of the importance of promptitude in clearing up the misunderstanding between the lovers, and she did not see how that could be done unless Caleb remained steady and patient. She and Philip must persuade him to be so. For the present, nothing more could be said to Pansy with advantage.

The girl was glad of the excuse to go to the doctor’s, as it afforded her time to recover self-possession before she came under the keen eyes of her father. On their way through the forest, no further reference was made to Caleb, although Madge talked about Philip’s work, and the happy future which they believed was in store for every man who laboured under him. Of course she intended her companion to understand that Caleb would share largely in that brilliant future. Whether it was this suggestion or the brisk exercise which had the effect, Pansy looked sufficiently composed on their arrival in the village not to attract the particular attention of passing acquaintances.

The injured hand was attended to, and Dr Joy complimented Madge on her skill as a dresser.

‘There will be no need to ask you to come to my lecture on the art of dressing ordinary wounds,’ said the little doctor gallantly; ‘but I hope you will come, for I shall then feel that there will be at least two people in the room who have some idea of the subject—you and the lecturer. Meanwhile, you are not to go away without seeing Mrs Joy. She has one of her patients with her—a poor woman who has got into a dreadful muddle with her domestic economies. What a pity that we cannot get the simple rule driven into their heads, that a penny saved is a penny gained.—That’s her going now. Come this way; and you’ll excuse me—I have a couple of patients to see immediately.—My dear, here is Miss Heathcote with Pansy Culver.’

The doctor hurried away as Mrs Joy advanced with both hands extended to Madge.

‘I am so delighted to see you, dear; I have’—— She interrupted herself, and without releasing Madge’s hands, said in parenthesis: ‘How do you do, Pansy; and how is your father? Please sit down.’ Without waiting for a reply, she proceeded with what she had been about to say to Madge. ‘I have such an interesting case to report to you. Of course you remember Edwin’s lecture last year called “Penny wise and Pound saved”—that is his playful way of dealing with that wicked saying of “penny wise and pound foolish,” which has done incalculable harm to poor people—and rich people too, I am sure. You remember it?’

‘I am sorry to have to own that I missed the lecture.’

‘What a pity! However, there was a poor labourer present—Wolden is his name—and he was so deeply impressed by what he heard, that he determined to lay by one penny regularly every week. That is a most gratifying proof of the benefit of real practical counsel: but what is most gratifying is that the man actually carried out his good resolution. Think of that! He has fourteen shillings a week, and out of each payment he regularly put by one penny in a hole above the fireplace, which was only known to himself and his wife. Well, he kept to his good resolution in spite of many temptations, and he only wanted three weeks to make out a complete year of that noble self-denial. Think!—what a glorious proof of the value of the lessons which Edwin and I have been teaching. This man, who never before had a shilling he could call his own, had actually stored away in the course of forty-nine weeks four shillings and one penny!... It is so delightfully marvellous to observe how atoms grow and multiply into mountains!’

Mrs Joy was so much pleased with the idea which the last words conveyed to herself, that she paused to repeat and admire them with a view to their future use when she should offer herself as a candidate for the local School-board.

‘The doctor and you must be greatly pleased,’ said Madge, cordially appreciating the effect of Dr Joy’s wise admonitions.

‘We are—we were; but’—here Mrs Joy shook her head with a smiling regretfulness at being obliged to own the existence of human weakness—‘but to-day there came to him a friend who required him to take a parcel into London—a parcel for a friend of yours, Mr Philip Hadleigh. His fare there and back was to be paid, and half-a-crown for the service. Wolden had often thought, if he were in London, he would buy something useful with his savings. Here was the opportunity. He ran home for his savings; and what did he find? The hole in the wall was empty; and his wife was obliged to own that she had used the money for a pair of boots for one of the children. Think!’

Madge did think; but it was not about the doctor’s lecture or the misfortune of his convert—it was about the person who had been suddenly employed to carry a parcel to Philip. Pansy’s thoughts jumped in the same direction.

‘How unfortunate,’ said Madge; ‘the poor man’s disappointment must have been awful. But who gave him the parcel for—Mr Hadleigh?’

‘Most unfortunate—terribly disappointing,’ proceeded Mrs Joy, apparently unconscious of the question which had been asked. ‘The man became so wild, that the poor woman ran out of the house and came to me for advice and assistance. I scolded her, I can tell you—scolded her roundly for having deceived her husband in such a way. She was very penitent. I always scold, and they are always penitent. She promised never to do anything of the kind again; and I gave her the money, in order that she might start on her new course with a clear conscience. You should have seen how grateful she was, dear; and it is most delicious to feel that one can save a household from destruction by such simple means—good advice and four shillings and a penny!’

Mrs Joy was so lost in contemplation of the small expense at which morals and domestic economy could be instilled into the minds of the people, that she did not observe the anxious expression of Madge, or the frightened look of Pansy.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Joy, but I have a reason for again asking you who was the sender of the parcel to Mr Hadleigh?’ said Madge.

‘Oh, how ridiculous of me to forget. It was Caleb Kersey.—It seems that he has some idea of emigration; and this poor fellow Wolden caught up the notion, and threatened to leave his wife and family to the parish. That was what put the woman in such a state; but he will stay at home now that he has got back his four shillings and a penny.’

‘Caleb Kersey going to emigrate!’

‘That was what she said.’

Madge looked at Pansy. Her face was white and lips quivering.

‘Will you excuse us, Mrs Joy? We must go now.’

SOME LEGAL DECISIONS.

Theoretically, every one is supposed to be familiar with the law of the land he lives in, and to know exactly what he may do unto others, and what others may do unto him. Practically, lawyers themselves have too often to acquire that knowledge at the expense of a client, the burden of whose song might be, ‘From court to court they hurry me,’ if Law were not much too dignified a dame to hurry herself or those having dealings with her.

It was not until the matter had been disputed for a couple of centuries, that it was settled that ‘from the date’ and ‘on and from the date’ were synonymous phrases. But for the perseverance of a stubborn gentleman, who was not satisfied by being beaten in two courts out of three, we should not now know wherever the words ‘value’ or ‘annual value’ are used in a statute that they mean ‘net,’ not ‘gross’ value. It took the Canadian Court of Queen’s Bench half a year to decide whether ‘Old Tom’ came under the definition of ‘spirits.’ A majority of experts were of opinion that it did not, being only a compound of spirits, sugar, and flavouring matter; but the Court ultimately decreed that Old Tom belonged to the family of spirits, and that to hold otherwise would be a mere trifling with words.

The courts of the United States have found it more difficult to settle what is and is not a ‘saloon.’ In Michigan, it may be a place for the sale of liquors, or it may be a place for the sale of general refreshments. In Texas, a saloon may be a room for the reception of company, or one set apart for the exhibition of works of art. The legal luminaries of Connecticut hold that neither an inclosed park nor an uninclosed platform, where lager beer is retailed, can be considered to be a saloon, house, or building, within the meaning of the statute forbidding the sale of intoxicating liquors upon Sunday; while in Massachusetts it has been declared that a cellar is a house, when used for that purpose. In New Hampshire, ‘spirituous liquors’ are not to be confounded with ‘fermented liquors.’ In Indiana, the mere opinion of a witness that brewer’s beer is intoxicating is no sufficient proof that it is so, unless that opinion is founded on personal experience of its effects; but in Massachusetts, the evidence of a man who had merely smelt some ale was accepted as proof of its overcoming quality. In Iowa, wine is not an intoxicating drink if made from grapes, currants, or other fruits grown within the state; while in Maine, wine and cider of native growth are intoxicating liquors—if a jury chooses to think them so.

What is a date? Certain would-be voters for Marylebone sent in their claims, properly filled up and signed, but dated merely ‘August 1883.’ After a week’s cogitation, the revising barrister came to the conclusion that that was a sufficient date, as it showed that the claims were made between the first and the twenty-fifth of August, as required by the Act; the fact of their being in the hands of the overseers proving delivery on or before the twenty-fifth day of the month. What is a vacant and what an unoccupied house, were two questions submitted to a court in the United States, under rather peculiar circumstances. A gentleman owning a house in which he and his family lived from May to November, left it for the rest of the year to be looked after by a farmer living near, visiting it occasionally himself to see that all was right. This house he insured under two separate policies. It was burned down; and when called upon to pay, the insurers repudiated all liability. By the terms of one policy they undertook to make good the value of the house, if burned, ‘unless it should become vacant _or_ unoccupied;’ by the terms of the other, their liability ceased if the house ‘became vacant _and_ unoccupied.’ The court determined that no claim could arise on the first policy, since, to be occupied, a house must have human beings in it, using it as their customary abode; but the Company was liable under the second policy, as, although the house was unoccupied, it was not vacant, so long as the furniture and cooking-utensils were in it.

A very nice question was raised by an English Accident Insurance Company, anxious to escape paying a thousand pounds to the representatives of a policy-holder who was drowned in a river near Edgbaston. It was contended that the unfortunate man fell into the shallow stream, and was suffocated through being unable to raise his head above the water from exhaustion caused by a fit; and that the Company was not liable for any injury consequent upon natural disease or exhaustion, while one of the conditions of the policy specified that no claim should arise ‘for any injury from any accident, unless such accident shall be caused by some outward and visible means.’ The court held that the insured died from drowning in a brook while in an epileptic fit, and drowning had been decided to be an injury caused by an accident from outward and visible means. The death did not come within the words ‘natural disease or exhaustion,’ but resulted from an accident, which was drowning, and the Company must pay.

Thief-catching is best left to the police, amateurs may so easily overreach themselves. Hearing a noise outside their house, after they had gone to rest, a worthy couple arose, and ascertaining that a man was prowling around, came to the conclusion he was bent upon robbery; so they unbolted the outer door, and waited. Sure enough, the man entered, was promptly seized, handed over to the police, and committed for trial at the Manchester assizes; but the grand-jury, under the judge’s instructions, threw out the bill—the accused could not be charged with breaking into a house which he had entered by merely raising the latch. As lucky a let-off awaited the American actor Frayne, when arraigned for the manslaughter of Miss Behren, by shooting her upon the stage, in performing a modern version of Tell’s feat. The defence was, that Frayne did not point his rifle at the actress, but at an apple a few inches above her head; and the court holding that the gun being pointed at an object, and not at the person, there could be no charge of manslaughter, the prisoner must be discharged.

Some recent decisions of the courts of the United States are notable for their common-sense. In a lawsuit against a Railway Company, in which the relatives of a young man who had been run down by a train, sought to recover ten thousand dollars by way of compensation for their loss, Judge Love gave judgment in favour of the Company, saying, the young man had no business walking on other people’s property, while the Company did have business running its trains there; a railway is not a public highway, but private property, and people must not trespass. In another court it was decided that a Telegraph Company could not limit its liability by printing on its forms a notice disclaiming responsibility for mistakes unless the message was repeated—of course, at the customer’s cost. Any rule or regulation seeking to relieve the Company from performing its duty with integrity, skill, and diligence, was in contravention of public policy; and if it were necessary, in order to secure correctness, to repeat a message, the duty of repeating it devolved upon the Company. Per contra, a Company’s customers must use their rights with discretion. A subscriber to the telephone in Cincinnati was deprived of his privilege by the Company because of his using a word—which is too frequently in the mouths of Englishmen—in his communications. He sued to be reinstated. One judge said the obnoxious word was not profane according either to the decalogue, the dictionary, common law, or statute law; but the majority of the court were of a different way of thinking, and declared the word to be coarse, unbecoming, and profane, or if not profane, improper. The rule prohibiting improper language was a reasonable one. The telephone reached into all classes of society, and into many family circles. It is possible for a communication intended for one individual to reach another. Moreover, the operators are in many cases refined ladies, and even beyond this, all operators are to be protected from insult. The inventors, too, have a right to be protected, and to have the instrument placed in a respectable light before the world, otherwise it might go out of use. For all which reasons they concurred in non-suiting the profane plaintiff.

TERRIBLY FULFILLED.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

‘I can’t stand it any longer, and I won’t! It isn’t so much that he jeers at me and ill-treats me; perhaps I could manage to put up with that, if he gave me a kind word now and then, and didn’t leave me so much alone. But he is away sometimes for days and nights together; and where he goes to I don’t know, though of course I can guess pretty well; and he will never tell me anything except to mind my own business. And when he _is_ at home, he never speaks except to taunt and sneer at me because I’m not a lady, as he says. He hates me, and I’ve come to hate him, and I’m afraid of my life with him. You can’t imagine what he’s like when he’s in a temper. I cannot, indeed, bring myself to tell you of all the shame and the infamy he puts upon me.’ And the Honourable Mrs Ferrard buried her face in her hands and sobbed despairingly.

Mr Cross, auctioneer, rested his great square chin on his hands, and gazed across his library table at the flushed and weeping figure before him. ‘So it has come to this at last, Amy?’ he said. ‘You deceived and disobeyed your old father, that loved you, and deserted him, and pretty well broke his heart, all for the sake of this grand husband of yours; and now you have to come to me to help you against him. Well, well; I’m not a bit surprised, my girl. I’ve been expecting you. I wasn’t coming to you, you know; I knew you would have to come to me, sooner or later. Now, sit still and quiet yourself, while I think a bit.’

He continued to gaze across his writing-table, but with eyes that saw nothing. This was his only child, all that was left to him of her dead mother; and he had loved her, and still loved her, with an intensity which her insignificant little intelligence was far from comprehending. It had been his study from her childhood to gratify every fancy which entered her shallow pate; all that money could buy had been lavished upon her—except the training and education of a lady. ‘I’m not going to have my girl,’ said he, ‘brought up so that she’ll be ashamed of her father and her father’s friends. No; let her learn to play the piano, if she cares to—I always liked a good tune—and to draw and paint and talk French, so that it don’t worry her. But none of your fine finishing schools for me, where she’ll mix with a lot of stuck-up fools and get all sorts of notions into her head.’

So Amy Cross went to a very respectable establishment in North London, where she acquired, to a limited extent, all the above accomplishments; and was sent back to her home very pretty, vain, and vulgar, very proud of her piano and her French, and without a single useful or graceful idea in her head.

This being so, it was not perhaps to be wondered at that Miss Amy Cross should fall an easy victim to the wiles of Lord Englethorpe’s youngest son, the Honourable James Ferrard. That gentleman was at Canterbury, attending the races at Barham Downs with a kindred spirit of his former regiment (then quartered in that city); his commission in which he had been permitted—and only just permitted—to resign; and it had occurred to him that it would be amusing to run over to Margate and contend for a time with humbler Don Juans for the smiles of the Cockney beauties of the place. It so happened that Amy was just then staying there with some relations; and the two met on the jetty, and were mutually attracted by one another’s good looks. The gallant captain found no difficulty in introducing himself both to the girl and her friends; on all of whom his appearance and manner—so different from those of the gentlemen of _their_ society—made a most favourable impression. They met frequently; and he soon succeeded in captivating the heart of poor Amy.