UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON 
 
 
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 THE DOC 
 RECREATION 
 
 TOR'S 
 SERIES 
 
 
 CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
 
 General Editor 
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 VOLUME S 
 
 EVEN
 
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 THE N i 
 
 THE PATIENT 
 
 BEFORE THE O. 
 
 fA TION 
 
 THE SAALF 
 NEW YORK
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE INN 
 OF REST 
 
 
 
 
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 RELATIVE TO 
 THE DO CTO R 
 THE NURSE 
 THE PAT I E N T 
 
 Edited *r 
 
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 1905 
 
 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 NEW YORK AKRON, O. CHICAGO 

 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905, 
 
 BY 
 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 *D or 
 
 THE WERNER COMPANY 
 AKRON, OHIO
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Quiet Inn 
 
 Frederick Langbridgo 
 
 The Invalid's World 
 
 A. B. Ward 
 
 The Gibson Play 
 
 Marguerite Merrlngton 
 
 In a Hospital 
 
 Edgar Fawcett 
 
 In a Great Town Hospital - ... , - 
 
 F.P.Verney 
 
 The Voice in the World of Pain - 
 
 Elizabeth G. Jordan 
 
 Nurses a la Mode - 
 
 Eliza Priestley 
 
 Inner Life of a Hospital 
 Nurse Miriam's Call 
 
 Adelaide C. G. Sim 
 
 Half-an-Hour's Chat with a Hospital Nurse - 
 
 The Rev. Algernon C. E. Thorold, M. A. 
 
 The Hospital Mistletoe 
 
 Joseph Hatton 
 
 Pre-Christian Dispensaries and Hospitals 
 Nurse and Doctor 
 
 Anna H. Drury 
 
 Hospital Scenes and Persons 
 
 Walt Whitman 
 
 Nursing as a Profession 
 
 Isabel Hampton Robb 
 
 The Red Cross Nurse - 
 
 J.E.V.Coofci 
 
 The Humors of Hospital Life 
 
 PAGE 
 
 7 
 9 
 
 43 
 
 63 
 
 65 
 
 83 
 
 99 
 
 117 
 
 145 
 
 157 
 
 167 
 
 175 
 
 203 
 
 227 
 
 237 
 
 251 
 
 253
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FAGS 
 
 BEFORE THE OPERATION .... Frontispiece 
 
 LANNEC ,82 
 
 PENEL AT LA SALPETRIERE .... 190 
 PARE 250
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The editor begs to acknowledge many courtesies ex- 
 tended by various trained nurses, physicians, editors, 
 authors, and publishers in his preparation of THE INN OF 
 REST for publication. It has been his aim to make this 
 compilation a worthy companion to the other excellent 
 volumes comprising THE DOCTOR'S RECREATION SERIES. 
 A number of the selections are original in this work. 
 
 Copyright privileges have been extended by the Rev. 
 Frederick Langbridge, A. B. Ward, M. D., The Century 
 Company, Curtis Publishing Company, Life Publishing 
 Company, Marguerite Merrington, Charles Dana Gibson, 
 Edgar Fawcett, Elizabeth G. Jordon, Harper & Brothers, 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, Isabel Hampton Robb. 
 
 PORTER DAVIES, M. D.
 
 THE QUIET INN 
 
 By Fredtrick Langbridg* 
 (Ons of the meanings of the word HOSPITAL is a guest-housa or inn.) 
 
 Where, 'neath its ancient archway, dark and slow, 
 
 Creeps the Canal to the broad river's flow, 
 
 The clank of cranes, the song the ship-boy sings, 
 
 And the bright snow and dazzle of swift wings, 
 
 Back from the busy pavement but a pace, 
 
 Who will may enter a still cloistral place. 
 
 A no-man's land, midway 'twixt life and death, 
 
 Where the world's schemes are blurr'd to misty breath; 
 
 Where the near noises to the heart are far, 
 
 And the clock stands, and all things drowsy are. 
 
 This is the inn that turneth none away, 
 
 Where all are welcome, though but few can pay; 
 
 Where no man rattles dice or calls for ale, 
 
 But the guests' eyes are dull and their cheeks pale; 
 
 Where lamps burn late and all lie long abed; 
 
 Where chamber maids, by sleep unvisited 
 
 Move with so pure a pity in their eyes, 
 
 And stir their hands in so sweet ministries, 
 
 That many a one has fancied in the gloom 
 
 Angels did go about the hushful room. 
 
 This is the inn whence now and then a guest 
 Departs with sealed eyes and hands at rest: 
 A guest whose score is quit, and who now goes 
 To straiter bed but a more wide repose. 
 
 But commonly the caller turns him back 
 
 To the old work and life's familiar track, 
 
 Heal'd of his hurt, and strong and sound and whole, 
 
 Better'd and braced in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah, pray, forget not, by his bed of pain 
 One sat and kneel'd and words his heart did gain, 
 So rich and sweet, that through the dinning day 
 Their perfume clings and *will not so away.
 
 But come on tip-toe prithee, come apart! 
 Come with a tear-bright smile upon your heart. 
 Enter a room where 'neath each coverlid 
 A drooping human blossom lies half-hid; 
 Where by the medicine-bottles' grim array, 
 Quaint toys are ranged upon a little tray; 
 Where bleat mild lambs, miraculously white, 
 And inch-high soldiers charge for King and Right, 
 And rosy dolls, that tiny mothers pet, 
 Make the pale cheeks that press them paler yet. 
 
 Ah, on those boards, what time the watchman calls, 
 
 Soft as a dream, I think, a footstep falls, 
 
 And on the head, its clustering ringlets shorn, 
 
 That tosses, tosses, tosses, night and morn, 
 
 Is laid a touch so magically kind, 
 
 That straight it wins the rest it could not find, 
 
 And the large wistful eyes like daisies close 
 
 In the long lull of beautiful repose. 
 
 And by this cot, where scarce of human strain 
 The shell-slight fingers pick the counterpane, 
 Gently He bends, and straightway o'er the face 
 There grows a holier calm, a tenderer grace, 
 A brooding peace, ineffable and vast;. 
 Rest, rest, the perfect rest, has come at last. 
 Who is it steps so soft? that One who said, 
 Laying His hands upon the baby-head, 
 And smiling down exceeding tenderly 
 "Suffer the little ones to come to Me." 
 
 Ah, friends! while sickness ever lies in wait 
 To scale the wall, or burst the fragile gate; 
 While peril strikes in every random hoof, 
 Pants from each funnel, hangs from every roof, 
 Lives in the summer's dust, the winter's rain, 
 And shifts forever with the shifting vane; 
 While every vital breath may prove a claim 
 To bear not Life's but her dark brother's name 
 While man's frail bloom is to the flowers akin 
 How should we fare without our Quiet Inn?
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 
 
 By A. B. Ward
 
 I. 
 
 THE DOCTOR. 
 
 |HEN I consider what the education of a doc- 
 tor entails, what endless study and investiga- 
 tion, what patient labor; when I reflect upon 
 the continual risks that he must take, the con- 
 tinual self-control that he must have, balanced by con- 
 tinual compassion ; when I remember how he is ever con- 
 tending in a face-to-face and hand-to-hand encounter 
 with disease and death; I think that he should be an in- 
 dustrious and thoughtful, a brave and noble gentleman. 
 To the invalid he is more. He is the master-mechanic of 
 what may be a very troublesome machine. He is the 
 autocrat of the table and of the lodging, of raiment and 
 of exercise. His advent is the event of the day. His ut- 
 terances are oracular, his nod Olympian. His learning is 
 boundless, his wit irresistible, his goodness not to be 
 disputed. He takes the responsibility of living off shoul- 
 ders which tremble beneath it, assumes the battle with 
 pain, and fights the sick man's duel for him. He con- 
 dones the cowardice of shrinking nerves and puts them 
 to sleep. He encourages and stimulates and bolsters the 
 sufferer into shape again. 
 
 There is no relationship on earth like this between 
 doctor and patient. He owns me, owns at least this arm 
 he set when I was a boy, and these lungs whose every 
 wheeze and sputter he recognizes as I do the voice of a 
 familiar acquaintance. The mother who bore me has 
 not so intimate a knowledge of my peculiarities, my pen- 
 chants and antipathies ; no friend, however faithful, is so 
 tolerant of my faults or has such an easy way of curing 
 them. He reconciles me to myself by a quieting powder, 
 and starts me fair with the world once more. He? They,
 
 12 THE INN OF REST 
 
 I should say. There are a score of them, at least, each 
 with, a distinct,, personality of his own but all bearing 
 the' -Stamp of ; the'if genial, wide-awake profession. There 
 is: .G.',; 'Can;: I not , see'; him now, smiling down into his 
 'beard! 1 I uSed tb wonder if the smile lingered and lurked 
 in that long grizzled beard of his after it left his lips. 
 Dear old G., whimsical, kindly, lenient toward sinners 
 and cynical toward saints, performing more than he 
 promised, out of sight before gratitude reached him, do- 
 ing good by stealth and half ashamed when found out! 
 His slow comments, his dry humor, his quaint sugges- 
 tions were better than his pills, and those were good 
 enough. I can see him sitting among his "house-patients," 
 at a table spread with Universal Food, cream toast, Pre- 
 pared Wheat, soft eggs, barley coffee, and I cannot say 
 what other limited and qualified article of diet; yet his 
 smile betokens imperturbable benevolence, and his 
 appetite for his own roast beef is undisturbed. 
 I can see him, listening with the same amused, im- 
 penetrable smile to complaints which would nag an- 
 other to madness. They did me. I sprang up from the 
 table when the Liquid Food bottle began to circulate, but 
 not soon enough to escape the long arm of an Ancient 
 Mariner who asked me solemnly, "Did you ever try pre- 
 pared sea salt for bathing?" 
 
 I glanced over my shoulder at G. He was as much 
 amused by my actions as by those of the rest of the 
 company. To him we were, alike, specimens of the hu- 
 man problem. 
 
 R. would have been ready to slay the humbugs in a 
 week keen, swift, sensitive R., the surgeon. He is as 
 impatient as a thoroughbred that sniffs and paws at de- 
 lay, striding up and down, uttering quick ejaculations, off 
 like a dart as soon as the chance comes. Clean-cut and 
 fine as he is in his skill, brilliant and sure of stroke as 
 the lightning, as impatient of blunders and transgressed 
 commands as he is of delays, but always full of tact, full 
 of refinement, full of tender delicacy, especially toward 
 little children. They tell a pretty story of him at the
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 13 
 
 Children's Hospital. Playing Doctor was the game and 
 impersonating the house-staff its leading feature. "I'll 
 be Doctor R.," one urchin was overheard saying, and he 
 was followed by an indignant chorus, "That's just like 
 you, Johnny Smith ! You always take the best !" 
 
 Alive to the opinion of his patients is R. and giving 
 them an absorbed interest in return for their trust in him, 
 lying awake night after night in worry over a bad case, 
 carrying it about with him under all the wealth of non- 
 sense and speaking fun which makes him a tonic, under 
 all the hopefulness and animation which challenge his pa- 
 tients to show fight and quit themselves like men. I 
 would rather have R. to lead me to a charge in the battle 
 for health than any one I know. 
 
 For a sturdy comrade, working shoulder to shoulder, 
 day in and day out, give me wiry, plucky, generous, 
 steadfast little S., making enthusiasm and mother-wit 
 serve his lack of years, deeming no trouble too great to 
 be taken, no trifling ache small enough to be disregarded, 
 head and heart and willing hand in his work. The chil- 
 dren hail him as a playfellow. We old chronics welcome 
 him as we do daylight after a night of pain. We can un- 
 bosom ourselves completely, be as long and prosy as 
 we please. His appetite for information on our case 
 seems insatiable, and that particular case the most im- 
 portant in his book. 
 
 And what more shall I say? For the time would fail 
 me to tell of "Gideon and Barak, of Samson and Jeph- 
 thah, of David also and Samuel," of the sanguine doc- 
 tor whose prescriptions are "going to fix you all right in 
 no time," of the brusque doctor who takes delight in 
 making savage remarks, the courtly doctor whose ele- 
 gance and suavity fairly divert the patient from his own 
 wretched condition, the entertaining doctor who achieves 
 a like miracle by means of his newsy yarns; of the fa- 
 cetious doctor who tosses his hat on the bed and in- 
 sists that you are shamming, the boisterous doctor who 
 fills the house with an important noise, and the good-na- 
 tured, broad-backed old fellow who is always saying,
 
 14 THE INN OF REST 
 
 "That's it; that's it!" 
 
 This one "tones" up the system with iron or quinine, 
 that one "quiets" it with massage, and still another 
 "feeds" it with malt and cod-liver oil. Here you find one 
 with such a transcendent faith in Nature that he is will- 
 ing to let her "take her course" ; there, another, with cor- 
 responding trust in a "change of scene," who sends you 
 from Dan to Beersheba, from the mountains to the sea- 
 shore and back again. 
 
 But in spite of their hobbies, they're all hearty, whole- 
 souled gentlemen ; and it is a comfort even to have them 
 take your pulse and temperature, they do it so cheerily 
 and as if they were determined to work their best in 
 helping you out of your troubles. Quacks there may be, 
 "going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down 
 in it," but it has never been my fortune or misfortune to 
 meet them. There I cannot testify. 
 
 As for Homeopathy and Allopathy I must confess to a 
 mature, masculine preference for sound, smacking doses. 
 I like to feel that I am using big guns and plenty of pow- 
 der. If I were young and tender perhaps bird-shot 
 would have more effect on me. However, I drink to both 
 sides, impartially, and wish them a long life and a busy 
 one ! "That'll be a-keeping the rest of us down," sighs my 
 friend O'Rourke. "I never knew but one sick man who is 
 well, now. He was too poor to have morelthan one doc- 
 tor and he gave him up. So he got well." I don't want 
 your opinion, O'Rourke. You are not an invalid, and 
 that rules you out of this court. You belong with the 
 Hogarths who nail the doctors on the wall as "Under- 
 takers' Arms"; or with the newspaper wits who whet 
 their tongues now on a mother-in-law, now on a dude, 
 but oftenest on a medical man. We will wait until in- 
 digestion or a sprain humbles you cavillers before we al- 
 low you to cast a vote. It is only during the period of in- 
 validism that doctors are appreciated, not before or after. 
 This fact was noted by the old M. D. counseling his 
 younger brother: "Accipe dum dolet" look out for your 
 fee while he aches. As soon as he is well his understand-
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 15 
 
 ing is darkened and the importance of the doctor, along 
 with that of the empty medicine bottles, is written in the 
 past tense. Don't I think they are grasping? I think 
 they want their money when they have earned it, but 
 that is a failing common to so many of the human family 
 that one ceases to remark it, even in doctors. The par- 
 simony of the three professions, Law, Theology, and 
 Medicine, in selling justice, heaven, and health, is some- 
 thing to be regretted, and is often resented. But until 
 the State takes sufficient interest in her children to en- 
 dow these professions, I fear we shall have to strike a 
 bargain for the care of our souls and our bodies. It may 
 be that living about in hospitals has given me an oppor- 
 tunity to see another side from that which you see, you 
 who paid some hundreds of dollars for a consultation and 
 sank half your fortune in an apothecary's shop; but so 
 much generosity has come to my knowledge, unostenta- 
 tious giving of skill, time, and money on the part of these 
 "grasping" gentlemen, that I cannot agree with you. 
 
 And they are so materialistic ! Granted ; but so far as 
 my experience of them goes, blood and bones and flesh 
 are decidedly materialistic substances, and I don't care 
 to have mine treated spiritually. If I had, I should have 
 gone in for the Faith Cure, or summoned the ghost of 
 my great-grandfather an eminently respectable physi- 
 cian in his day to write one of his yard-long prescrip- 
 tions for me. How it would puzzle the "physician's 
 cooke," as a lists of that time terms the apothecary ! 
 
 Just ask your doctor to .give you a -scientific diagno- 
 sis of your case. The high-sounding, mouth-filling titles 
 will increase immeasurably your respect for your own 
 viscera, notably if there is nothing but a rascally little 
 biliousness to blame and he calls it His Excellency, Gas- 
 tro-duodenal Catarrh. So far from corporeal substance 
 being degraded, it is dignified by proper nomenclature 
 and plain explanations. Ignorance, superstition, distorted 
 ideas run more risk of materialism than science can. 
 
 As to the tax of irreverence, bless your heart! You 
 must be a transient! No chronic would pass so super-
 
 16 THE INN OF REST 
 
 ficial a judgment. The absurdities and the nonsense with 
 which acute sufferers and those continually in the pres- 
 ence of acute suffering fortify themselves and each other 
 is well-known to the experienced. It is a sort of harm- 
 less heat-lightning, a letting-off of the accumulation of 
 nervous excitement. The flippant, frivolous talk between 
 surgeon and assistants over an etherized patient would 
 startle and shock the sympathetic friends, to whom the 
 scene is full of solemnity and pathos. But these brave 
 fellows are feeling their way over immeasurable dangers, 
 by slender paths where none but science can walk, with 
 the infinite pains which science is willing to take, buoy- 
 ing up each other's spirits with fun and jest. 
 
 M. came to me the other day vowing vengeance on Dr. 
 N. "He shall wait one while for his pay," he said angrily. 
 "Wasn't the operation performed all right?" "Yes, 
 but" "Was the bill exorbitant?" "No, but, hang 
 it! he whistled all through it," and. the expression on his 
 face showed that some one would have to perform an 
 operation upon lacerated sensibilities before M. would 
 consider himself a whole man. "Little Grandma," the 
 hospital child, measured N. differently. She took a good 
 look at him, turning her wee, wizened face over her 
 crooked shoulder, and crying, "Go easy, mister, go easy !" 
 but she was hushed and reassured the instant she saw 
 how tender and pitiful was the glance that met hers. 
 She trusted him, always, from that time, even when he 
 whistled. 
 
 The doctor who could not laugh and make me laugh 
 I should put down for a half-educated man. It is one of 
 the duties of the profession to hunt for the material of a 
 joke on every corner. Most of them have so esteemed it. 
 Garth, Rabelais, Abernethy, and a hundred or so more 
 too near to be named, what genial, liver-shaking, heart- 
 quickening, wit-waking worthies they were and are ! To 
 the son who loves her best, Nature reveals most of her 
 tricks of workmanship. He knows there is a prize in 
 every package of commonplace and sadness, and he can 
 find it not only the bit of fun shining to the eye of a
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 17 
 
 connoisseur like an unset jewel, but the eccentricity, the 
 resemblance, the revelation, countless signs and tokens 
 of the evanescent, amusing, pathetic creatures we call 
 human. Heartless, grasping, irreverent? The deepest 
 compassion for human ails, the broadest generosity for 
 human needs, the highest respect for all that is strong 
 and pure and holy in human lives, I have seen in the 
 men who come closest to the mystery of Life and the 
 mystery of Death, who read the naked heart when it 
 is too weak or too sorrowful to hide its nakedness, who 
 know Our best and our worst, and are most of them 
 wise enough to strike the balance. If they are cynics 
 it is we who have made them so. We are the books 
 out of which they learn their lessons. We point the 
 argument and furnish circumstantial evidence for or 
 against human frailty and the worth of existence. If 
 they lie to us, or withhold the truth it is we who force 
 them to it, with out appetite for placebos, our demand for 
 large promises and taking titles Sympathetic Powders, 
 Magic Cure-alls, The Elixir of Life and of Perpetual 
 Youth. They are gradually educating us out of the desire 
 for these toys, and gradually, in consequence, growing 
 more honest with us. We are willing to pay more for 
 skill and less for a quart bottle of strong stuff. The 
 "stomach-brush" would never flourish in our day. The 
 old-time cathartic is no longer reckoned part of the 
 household equipment, with the pepper-box and saltcel- 
 lar. Physic is relegated to its proper place, serving the 
 physician and no longer served by him. The practise of 
 medicine is less, but the doctor is more, much more. 
 What medieval miracle eclipses the wonders wrought 
 by surgery? What pretense of ancient quackery is not 
 more than fulfilled by the cunning craft which detects and 
 deals with the subtlest disease? 
 
 They are never satisfied, these zealots. They never 
 limit themselves by what has been, but are ever striving 
 for the yet unattained. Eager workmen that they are, 
 they must be continually planning new tools, new 
 machines, new devices for the comfort and cure of their
 
 18 THE INN OF REST 
 
 patients. As fast as experience finds the need, ingenuity 
 plans the instrument. It puts a cushioned rest under 
 every wounded part, props and sustains and strengthens 
 every weakened part, ministers without delay and in 
 every conceivable fashion. More full of meaning now than 
 when they were written are the words of Jesus, Son 
 of Sirach : "Honor a physician with the honor due unto 
 him, for the uses which ye may have of him.* * * The 
 skill of the physician shall lift up his head, and in the 
 sight of great men he shall be in admiration." 
 
 You don't think so, you outsiders who "take a man for 
 all in all," but ten to one, drop the best part of him. 
 You call this the rhapsody of an invalid, a bit of idealiza- 
 tion though idealization, as every one knows, like all 
 alchemies, depends upon the presence in the dross of 
 the metal it seems to create. I doubt if the picture of 
 these men, as they appear to you, bearded or smooth of 
 chin, well-dressed or careless, republican or democrat, 
 with an open purse or dodging the subscription paper, 
 pewholders or displaying no outward and visible sign 
 of religion, is any truer than their picture as they appear 
 to us, presiding over the Eleusinia of the operating-room, 
 following disease into the very ribs and lungs of a man 
 and cutting out its footprints, by the magic of hidden 
 stitches sewing death out and life in, or turning a crim- 
 inal into a Christian. There is an idea of Dr. Jackson and 
 Dr. Morton cherished by legal records which represents 
 them wrangling over the fame of inventing etherization. 
 It sets one of them before us in an attitude of indolent 
 self-seeking, and shows the other conspicuous for self- 
 seeking of a more energetic sort. The sole thought of 
 these two, for the invalid, is that they gave to agony 
 the priceless gift of unconsciousness. The lips whose 
 quivering ceased before the draught they brought will 
 never open in aught but blessing of them whatever fig- 
 ure they cut in the courts. 
 
 Another chapter might be written upon the ultra-pro- 
 fessional offices of the doctor if it were safe to tell of 
 the ugly sights his courteous eyes see, the ugly sounds
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 19 
 
 to which he turns a deaf ear; of dangerous confidences 
 poured forth in the loquacity of illness and which drop 
 into his attentive soul, like a stone into a pool, and leave 
 no sign ; of his friendly counsels and encouragements, and 
 his management of officious and meddlesome and trou- 
 blemaking relatives; of his shielding the innocent from 
 the guilty and saving the guilty from getting more than 
 their due; of a thousand nameless deeds whose review 
 brings smiles and sighs of grateful remembrance. By 
 these and by the deeds we can more definitely name, let 
 the invalid demand his right to judge the doctor's life at 
 his focus, where energy and ambition are centralized. 
 
 No one cried toadyism when the courtier spread his 
 cloak before the queen, or when the poet had so much 
 to say about the divinity that hedges a king. No one 
 would attempt to argue out of the peasant his reverence 
 for the priest, by which the "cloth" of the latter is a surer 
 protection to him than even chain-armor might be. 
 Something of the allegiance of courtier and poet recog- 
 nizing the sway and charm of the power which protects 
 them, something of the devotee's appreciation of a life 
 given to good works, prompts the applause of the invalid 
 offered to the physician.
 
 20 THE INN OF REST 
 
 II. 
 
 THE NURSE. 
 
 HE Survival of the Fittest means more than 
 length of days; it involves the mastery of the 
 feeble by the forceful while life endures, the 
 absorbing of little personalities by great ones, the 
 supremacy of strength in love and in war. A poor look- 
 out for sick folk were there not an obverse side the par- 
 asitical dependence of weakness upon might. Strength 
 has the right of way. He strikes out bravely with his 
 brawny legs. But cunning Weakness sits astride the 
 neck of the conqueror and rides more safely than he 
 could walk. Rare is the invalid who goes unattended. 
 With blandishments and carefuly composed witticisms, 
 with grateful compliments and coaxing good-humor, 
 many nurses are hired, especially if they are relatives and 
 above regular wages or liberal donations of half-worn 
 coats and dresses. The professional important for 
 knowledge of her art, Cousin Jane solicitous about foot- 
 warmers and the flavor of their broth, and Mrs. O'Fla- 
 herty from a neighboring attic, "tidying up and setting 
 things handy," before she goes to her day's work each 
 has her price in coin of the realm or the heart. It is 
 always possible to pay in one or the other ; and in conse- 
 quence, one nurse at least to every invalid, is ordinarily 
 the proportion. 
 
 The advent of the professional is usually attended with 
 mystery. The patient opens his eyes, after the confusion 
 of delirium or the blank of stupor, and she is there by 
 his bedside, offering a cooling drink or a dose of medicine. 
 Whence she came or how he cannot tell. It seems to 
 him in the first waverings of consciousness that she has 
 always been there, that he is the late arrival. He watches
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 21 
 
 her, gliding about the room, moving chair or table into 
 place, shading the lamp, and smoothing the tossed and 
 tumbled counterpane. "Who are you?" he asks faintly. 
 "I am only the nurse," she answers with a reassuring 
 smile. "You mustn't talk. It's all right." A vague 
 belief that if it isn't she will make it so possesses him. 
 He feels protected and cared for, and drops trustfully off 
 to sleep. When he wakes she is still on guard, but with 
 nothing of the sentinel in her appearance; she is like 
 a gracious hostess. Never questioning her claims, as he 
 might under different conditions, he is content to be a 
 pensioner on his own estates. More and more acquies- 
 cent does he become, subdued by the unaggressive per- 
 sonality which rules the apartment without crowding 
 its inmate. There is no clashing of wills. Before he has 
 named it to himself she has read desire or revulsion on his 
 face and the object is advanced or removed. With a 
 regularity as smooth and even as the swing of a pendu- 
 lum, she airs the room, clears it of dust and disorder, 
 feeds her charge, doses and diverts him. 
 
 Nights and days come and go, he cannot tell how 
 many of them. They stand in his memory as so many 
 alternate black and white lines, uneventful but rather 
 soothing to think of. Suddenly, as suddenly as she 
 came, the nurse takes her leave. The patient feels de- 
 serted, indignant. He is just beginning to realize how 
 very ill he is. It is inhuman to leave him in the lurch. 
 There can be no one who needs her more. He is ready 
 to shoot the doctor for suggesting such a thing. He is 
 convinced that he will have a relapse and is somewhat 
 chagrined when he finds such a back-somersault impos- 
 sible. 
 
 A man who "can do whatever is necessary" takes the 
 vacant place. Enter stolid Carl, rich in vitality and 
 impervious to scolding, mesmeric from superabundance 
 of nerve and muscle. The very grasp of his hugh paw 
 is invigorating. To be near him is like breathing the 
 wholesome odor of kine or putting one's head on the 
 neck of a fine well-groomed' horse. In seasons of greater
 
 22 THE INN OF REST 
 
 debility the tonic would be too powerful. But now- 
 the doctor was right; the time for scientific skill and 
 methodical regularity is past. Flesh and blood stimuli 
 added to ordinary attendance are all that is required. 
 The invalid wants to pull himself up on his feet. Brute 
 strength must be at hand to help him. 
 
 The instinct of self-preservation one may as well call 
 it by a high-sounding name makes a perfect vampire 
 of a sick man. It is not altogether watching, or care, or 
 constant service, or the keen sense of responsibility 
 which exhausts a nurse, nor all of them combined. It 
 is the presence of a patient's famished body, taking in 
 at every pore the nervous energy of whoever is near. 
 The weakling pants for life. Life he must have. Give 
 me your hand, Carl. Send the full charge of your human 
 battery along my veins. That is better than wine, better 
 than the broad, impersonal warmth of the sun. It is 
 the quickening of pulse by pulse, the kindling of life by 
 life. Strange and unaccountable are physical influences, 
 but more potent in this world than men are willing to own. 
 They are unheeded in the hurrying crowd, where electri- 
 city passes constantly with the jostling of elbows. But 
 the sensibilities of the insulated invalid quiver like pith- 
 balls when brought into contact with positive and nega- 
 tive forces. Certain persons give and others take from 
 him the strength which is his carefully hoarded treasure. 
 He rebels against proximity with one, and clings like 
 a frightened child to another. To say that the well and 
 strong are the attractive forces is not enough. Often they 
 repel by those very characteristics. Goodness and virtue 
 have little to do with it, and sympathy is but a moderate 
 factor. The feeling is almost wholly unreasonable, and 
 when examined proves as incapable of analysis as the 
 woman's "I think hi : m so because I think him so." 
 
 I liked Carl and detested Charlie, although the service 
 of the latter was absolutely flawless and the former occa- 
 sionally slept through an entire night undisturbed by a 
 shower of pillows and the contents of the medicine glass. 
 If I were well, either man would be judged "a good fel-
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 23 
 
 low" and passed with indifference. Invalidism has re- 
 adjusted the scales so that mere fancy decides for the one 
 and against the other. When well I could not endure 
 Sambo. Ill, I look upon him as an inexhaustible fund of 
 amusement. The manner in which he says, "Yes, sah," 
 with a sanctimonious roll of his eyes and a minstrel grin, 
 is delightful. It is a toy with a string which I pull as often 
 as I please. The unfailing good humor of these dusky 
 brethren is enormously in their favor as nurses. If ever a 
 man detests the lean, hungry Cassius, it is when he comes 
 to wait by one's bedside. You can forgive the blundering 
 and fibbing and petty larceny, but you cannot forgive the 
 bringing of fogs and damps into your presence. What 
 if Sambo was flourishing around in my best claw-hammer 
 after I was asleep. Awake, I was entertained by the 
 cheeriest companion in the invalid world. Entertained? 
 This is not down on the list of the nurse's obligations. 
 It enters largely into the nurse's habit, however. Is it 
 not so, my brothers ? Have you forgotten Mrs. F.'s quiet 
 joke or "Uncle T.'s" amusing yarns? Don't you remem- 
 ber "Mother C"? jolly bright-cheeked "Mother C," the 
 quondam farmer's wife, carrying her wholesome, home- 
 spun nature and quaint country phrases into her skillful 
 "trained" work? It always seemed when she came in as 
 if she came straight from the orchard or the dairy, and 
 not merely because she would have half-a-dozen apples in 
 her apron or a glass of milk in her hand. She used to 
 act as if illness was a joke between you and her, an 
 excuse for gaining extra goodies and special attention, a 
 chance to laugh and be lazy when awake and to sleep 
 prodigally when so disposed. She has persuaded you 
 into believing it. Ah, you remember. I see your ban- 
 daged heads nod and your drawn lips shorten into a 
 smile, as across the dark background of painful recollec- 
 tions glide the figures of those who brightened an inva- 
 lid's sorry lot, the various types of that potentate, the 
 nurse. "Potentate, indeed ! She acts as if she owned the 
 establishment/' sulks the head of the house. "She 
 needn't come into my kitchen with her airs," wags the
 
 24 THE INN OF REST 
 
 tail of the house. And all the intermediate members look 
 askance at the temporary queen who dares and continues 
 to dare, with utmost serenity, assured of a strong posi- 
 tion flanked by His Highness, the Doctor. 
 
 One of these masterful spirits I knew who had charge 
 of a farmer's wife dying from over-work and need of 
 nutrition. Four small children hung around the house- 
 door, gaunt, hollow-eyed little wretches, following their 
 mother as fast as youth and a naturally vigorous consti- 
 tution permitted. The father, a grim old whiskerando, 
 had always kept the desires of his family under his will 
 and the key to the store-room in his overalls' pocket, 
 doling out scanty rations and scantier pleasures as his 
 whim decreed. The nurse's keen eyes and ready wit 
 comprehended the situation. She planned an attack. 
 "Go you to bed," she said sweetly to the despot. "I am 
 accustomed to watch alone with my patients." And he 
 climbed the attic stairsv As soon as all was still, a ghostly 
 figure traversed the farmhouse and the adjacent build- 
 ings. It peered into closets and corners, hunted from kit- 
 chen to shed, from shed to barn and out-house. Finally, 
 it seemed to find what it sought, a padlocked door. A few 
 dexterous turns of a hatchet and the door broke open, dis- 
 closing row upon row of barrels and boxes. 
 
 "Humph," sniffed the nurse, "we'll see about this/' 
 
 Back to the kitchen she trudged, and returned 
 with a bucket in either hand. Flour, eggs, butter, and 
 the like comestibles she rapidly transferred frota their 
 hiding-place to the long board table by the kitchen stove, 
 while the farmer still snored peacefully above stairs 
 unconscious that the enemy was in his magazine and all 
 the next quarter's supplies were out at once. Softly but 
 swiftly until dawn put an end to her opportunity, the 
 nurse mixed and rolled out and put into the oven, until 
 the pantry shelves were full and so was the long board 
 table. The mother died, and so did most of the children, 
 but they smacked their thin lips over one generous meal 
 in a life-time of prevalent hunger. 
 
 The invading nurse is no exception. Hers is the cru-
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 25 
 
 sader's zeal. She tilts against disease and death, as do 
 the doctors, but her lance is often a pudding-stick, her 
 armor the kettle and saucepan. How can she leave her 
 juicy meats to be tampered with by an unregenerate 
 cook whose mission is not the healthful but the palatable? 
 How can she intrust her delicate custard, her savory beef- 
 tea to an unappreciative being in whose category they 
 rank as messes? Moreover, if an obstacle intervene her 
 prowess and any dietetic material, she must break down, 
 overthrow, trample upon the obstacle. The doctor does 
 not say '"give your patient chicken-broth if you can get 
 a chicken." The condition is omitted. A chicken she 
 must have, though the hen-roosts in the neighborhood 
 suffer in consequence; and broth it must make if all 
 the regiment of the kitchen are to be bound and removed 
 from the path to the stove, as a preliminary to the boil- 
 ing. So much for the region below stairs. Above stairs 
 it is the duty of the nurse to banish every cause of an- 
 noyance. She must be a policeman driving away from 
 her charge the noisy, the exciting, the disagreeable, 
 even if she separate husband and wife, parent and child. 
 "Hard lines !" sighs the patient, hearing a low utterance 
 of the fiat which excludes some petitioner at the door. 
 But in his inmost soul he is grateful for the shield as he 
 nestles behind it. 
 
 H.'s wife is a treasure in this respect. The doc- 
 tor has only to say, "Keep him quiet," and the 
 angel Gabriel would be wheedled out of his trum- 
 pet if he put it to his lips when she was on duty. Once 
 when H. was down with nervous prostration, some one 
 actually died in the room opposite his without his 
 knowledge. It was an old aunt who stopped on her way 
 to seek medical advice in a neighboring city. She had 
 had one fit and lived in hourly expectation of another. 
 Of course a paroxysm seized her in H.'s house; there 
 is a fatality about such things. Her companion was 
 nearly as helpless as herself, what with fright and the 
 strangeness of the place ; but H.'s plucky wife was, as 
 usual, mistress of the situation. She dragged a mattress
 
 26 THE INN OF REST 
 
 before her husband's door, muffling the sound of the sick 
 woman's groans. Then, with the doctor's commands 
 constantly before her, she watched both patients and 
 guarded this one from that, as only a woman can guard 
 the being she loves. Doctors came in numbers. The 
 woman died horribly. The undertakers prepared her 
 body for burial. It was placed in a coffin and borne from 
 the house. And the nervous, watchful invalid, suspicious 
 of every sound, knew naught of the. guest save that she 
 came and went. Now in one room, now in another, ap- 
 peared the wife, answering H.'s questions, telling him 
 stories, supplying his needs, and again in the midst of 
 the trying death-scene governing and guiding the neces- 
 sary arrangements. Six weeks afterward, when H. was 
 riding out, she told him how it was. He didn't quite 
 relish the bit of finesse, although he appreciated the ten- 
 derness which prompted it. No man enjoys being duped, 
 whatsoever the object. He said nothing, but the next 
 day, when Bridget fell down the back-stairs with a lamp 
 in each hand, he was at the foot almost as soon as she 
 landed. "If any one else dies in this house, I'm going 
 to know it," he said, resolutely. 
 
 It may be that no professional will thus guard a patient. 
 To affirm this is more complimentary to wedlock; and 
 indeed it must be true that loyal affection will find ways 
 and means unknown to common service. But the inva- 
 lids have seen how patience and fidelity can dignify and 
 ennoble common service until it becomes a graceful and 
 gracious performance, if not a grand one. 
 
 The hub of the invalid's wheel of fortune is plainly the 
 doctor. All things center in and revolve about his coun- 
 sel. But the felloe is the all-embracing, all-sustaining 
 influence of the nurse. By her interference the wheel 
 runs smoothly, the outside world keeps its place, and 
 every need of the small inner world is met and covered.
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 27 
 
 III. 
 THE VISITOR. 
 
 |T IS often a source of amusement to the owners of 
 dogs or other pets to note the shallow subterfuges 
 they employ in order to gain sympathy. Illness 
 magnified to win soft words and caresses, a lame 
 leg handled as cleverly as ever the begging impostor in the 
 street handles his these are comTnon enough among the 
 creatures to whom we stand as patrons and benefactors. 
 We laugh at the trick; and yet, in that corner of our 
 hearts where lie the tops and whirligigs of childhood, the 
 rattles and straws once puissant and adorable, rests the 
 machinery for similar maneuvers. The plaintive whim- 
 per of the baby whose fictitious aches were a passport to 
 "mother's bed," the paraded bruise calling for her salve of 
 kisses, the exaggerated cough that appealed for anxious 
 fondling along with the "drops" administered such were 
 the screws and pulleys which the Infantine Inquisition 
 brought to bear upon tender hearts. They fell into 
 disuse when nursery despotism was exchanged for the 
 equal rights of the playground, and remained hidden, 
 almost forgotten, until sickness brought them to light. 
 Out they came somewhere about the time we wished 
 
 Dr. was not so determined to look upon us as a 
 
 "case," and that Nurse would not consider broken 
 
 legs an ordinary affair and sound ones the fortuity. An 
 uncontrollable desire for the punch of human sympathy 
 possessed our soul, a revolt from the matter-of-fact diet of 
 the sick room, an impulse to throw all the old furniture 
 out of the window and call for new. This was about the 
 time we had our first visitor. And how we did enjoy it ! 
 How we posed as "one who has been through a great 
 deal," rehearsing our ails and their remedies in glib
 
 28 THE INN OF REST 
 
 phrases which would have brought a smile to the lips of 
 the M. D. from which we borrowed them, but which were 
 to the appalled listeners a perfect Bugaboo, a Raw-Head- 
 and-Bloody-Bones frightful in the extreme. We slept 
 soundly that night and were ready for more visitors the 
 next day. It was announced that we were "ready to see 
 people," and the announcement was followed by the 
 prophecy that we "would go right along now." We did. 
 It was inevitable. 
 
 To say that the visitor ever takes the place of doctor 
 or nurse is absurd, but there always conies a time when 
 his aid is indispensable. There have been patients, sup- 
 erhuman or subhuman, who look to Mother Nature at the 
 crisis of convalescence, but they were pretty certain to 
 have a relapse. Alas, we fall at her feet as Heinrich 
 Heine did at the feet of Venus de Milo, in agony of long- 
 ing for sympathy ; but our goddess answers as did his, 
 "See I have no arms, I cannot help you." She has only 
 her beautiful body and divine countenance. She cannot 
 so much as lift a finger for the suppliant. It is worth 
 something to gain the aspiration which comes from gaz- 
 ing upon her, from breathing the atmosphere of her 
 goddess presence, strong and serene as she is ; but she is 
 utterly self-contained and devoid of "the fellow-feeling" 
 for which we all, at one time or another, hunger and 
 thirst. 
 
 That other divinity, who masquerades as a sort of mod- 
 ern Judith Holofernes, ready to off with your head at any 
 moment, but who is in reality a soft-hearted dame, filled 
 with the kindliest emotions as soon as she sees the doc- 
 tor's gig at your door I mean the fussy, good-natured old 
 lady, Mrs. Grundy, is sure to give you a lift if you will 
 take it. She has arms though she is not classic. She may 
 do her best to make you uncomfortable while you are 
 well, but once take to your bed and she is your devoted 
 friend. She will tempt your appetite, strengthen your 
 heart, be winsome and chatty and helpful until she can 
 set you up, like a ten-pin, for another knock-over. Pos- 
 sibly. But her goodness is genuine as long as it lasts.
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 29 
 
 Ladies to whom you are merely a name will send delici- 
 ous dishes in to you. Men who shook their fists in your 
 face at the last election will leave kindly messages at 
 your door. Curly-headed children who resented all your 
 advances when you met them in the street are all agog 
 with eagerness to "come and see you." If it is true that 
 all mankind love a lover, it is equally indisputable that 
 all mankind feel in duty bound to nurse an invalid. 
 
 His desire to obtain sympathy is no stronger than 
 their desire to offer it ; and sympathy is not the only boon 
 obtained from the visitor. There is a horrible resem- 
 blance between the inhabitants of a beleaguered city and 
 the thoughts and feelings of a man who has been shut 
 up to feed upon himself for days and weeks and months 
 of unavoidable imprisonment. Let the newcomer send 
 a fresh breeze blowing through the fever-filled apart- 
 ment ! Let him bring a feast and the appetite for it ! Let 
 him raise the cruel siege! It is an insufficient proverb 
 which names variety "life's spice." Science defends the 
 definition which makes it no less than the life itself. In 
 weakness, more than in strength, the change must come 
 from without. Inertia holds the sick man like a clod to 
 his place. Monotony flaunts before him her grinding rep- 
 etitions. It was an invalid, of course, who longed to die 
 because he was tired of having his shoes put off and on, 
 Yet another invalid and of the same sensitive French 
 nation, delighted in being dressed to the end of his days 
 and lived merrily among his friends. 
 
 More than sympathy and more than variety must my 
 visitor yield. He must unite me with the world again. 
 If there is only one of me I am a feeble, insignificant 
 thing. If there are some twenty millions of creatures of 
 whom I am one, I am part of a powerful body which 
 rules, conquers, invents, philosophizes, and deports 
 itself as the flower of creation should. My visitor is to re- 
 mind me that I belong to this soul-satisfying majority and 
 not to the sad, weak minority I had fancied as I sat alone 
 in my easy-chair and forgot my fellows. For my solitary, 
 sanitary lines of thought he substitutes the political out-
 
 30 THE INN OF REST 
 
 look, the question of Home-rule, or Eastern affairs. We 
 discuss an improved engine or a torpedo boat. And he 
 tells a neat epigram which J. got off the other day. I 
 become proud of my connection with such a bright and 
 forward race. 
 
 Opinions of my own sprout and grow. The strain which 
 threatened to snap my self-possession relaxes. Emotions 
 and ideas throw off the dust which clogged them. To 
 sympathize is an instinct with those to whom it 
 belongs ; diversity of entertainment is a talent educated ; 
 but to lift a fellow-being out of the slough of self and to 
 set him upon the firm ground of common interests and 
 endeavors is a stroke of genius. Whoever can do this 
 should be a professional visitor. He should follow in the 
 wake of doctor and nurse, an equal member of the trade, 
 licensed by the royal law of expediency to take his place 
 and fill it as no one else can. 
 
 Nature? She is as much at fault here as in the 
 bestowal of sympathy. She can soothe, but she cannot 
 electrify. In order to get hope and courage and good 
 advice out of her, one has first to read them 
 into her as with music. But these independ- 
 ent creatures walking past us and over us if 
 we get in the way have something about them 
 which we did not put in, something which is not our- 
 selves, and is therefore much more refreshing than the 
 increase of an already abnormally developed ego. When 
 they offer hope and courage and good advice, there is 
 an actual plus and no differentiation. 
 
 But there are visitors and visitors, not alone the divert- 
 ing, amusing allies, but those who add their burdens or 
 the weight of a non-giving, absorbing vitality to the sick 
 man's load. These talk in high, excited voices of what 
 interests them solely, or tell of ails "a great deal worse 
 than yours," and give elaborate descriptions of the case 
 of X. or Y. a provoking instance of carrying coals to 
 Newcastle. They ask their thousand questions about 
 your condition and follow you as closely as if you were 
 a sworn witness for the defense and they the prosecut-
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 31 
 
 ing attorney. They insist with forceful argument and 
 friendly zeal on cramming some diabolical patent medi- 
 cine down your throat, will you, nill you. These are the 
 sympathizers whose offering is a knife and a halter to 
 the victimized patient. But any one of them is prefer- 
 able to the mournful visitor who advances with 
 the subdued air and looks into the face of the re- 
 cumbent with the same expression which he, poor 
 fellow, has seen her wear when she was per- 
 forming her special duties at a funeral and look- 
 ing into an open coffin. Whenever I see a certain 
 one of these visitors coming, I know that I am considered 
 a possible object, for she makes it her business to visit 
 the afflicted, and her self-appointed mission is no secret. 
 She has a smooth, placid face, and her voice is modu- 
 lated by nature to utter words of condolence. But when 
 she turns her eyes piously upward, "thanking her Heav- 
 enly Father" for what he has bestowed upon her, there 
 is an unpleasant suggestion of the complacent old party 
 in the New Testament who did the same, and, sinner that 
 I am, I prefer to remain "afar off." No, no, fellow-crea- 
 tures, give me what you can of spontaneous good-will 
 but rid me of this barrel-organ of perfunctory pity ! John, 
 if that woman calls again, I'm out I'm dead I never 
 was born! But the condoler has one virtue, quietness; 
 and this is lacking in the pugnacious visitor, who informs 
 you briskly, that your doctor is a fool and your nurse 
 what she shouldn't be, that you'll never get well in this 
 world if you don't turn them both out of doors and get 
 a new outfit. An argument is useless. You might as 
 well attempt to out-talk a March tempest. Even if you 
 say nothing you are left in a sore and disheartened state, 
 feeling very much as if you had had a "round" with a pro- 
 fessional pugilist. 
 
 Satisfactory as any visitors are the children. They are 
 apt entertainers and they can be sent home or told not 
 to handle things. The minister's little girls, Martha and 
 Mary, aged four and three, come in to see me once a 
 week, and they always say a good thing or two before
 
 32 THE INN OF REST 
 
 they leave. Martha, true to her name, is "troubled about 
 many things," and especially about Mary, whom she 
 takes every opportunity to educate and discipline. 
 "That," she said to her charge to-day, pointing to the 
 Orphanage opposite my window, and her mien would 
 adorn the Lady Principal of a Female Seminary, "that is 
 where the little Orphans live. Mr. and Mrs. Orphan are 
 dead." 
 
 "Yes," she replies to 'my inquiry if Mary is not a 
 great care, "she has my crib, now, with me." "But where 
 do you sleep?" I pursue, with a glance at Mary's ample 
 little figure. "Oh," with a sigh which speaks volumes, "I 
 sleep where Mary don't." 
 
 More lively are the interviews with young Augustus 
 Caesar from over-the-way, sent in by his mother to "talk 
 to poor Mr. Ward, who hasn't any little boys and is all 
 sick." Full of his errand he takes his stand directly in 
 front of me, assuming an oratorical attitude, his legs far 
 apart. Then he begins in a loud voice : "We've got 'leven 
 little roosters over to our house." "That so?" "M-m-m" 
 the prolonged aspirate serving for an affirmative "and 
 they're all crowin'. My farver set twelve eggs and 'leven 
 hatched and they're 'nuff growed up to crow. It's aw- 
 fully funny." Here the gravity of the occasion is power- 
 less to longer rein in the dimples of the orator. The au- 
 dience laughs, too, in hearty appreciation. There are oc- 
 casions when Church and State may flourish or fall with- 
 out exciting a throb of interest in the palsied heart of the 
 invalid, when the efforts of our brightest and best be- 
 loved are but a sorry defense against the blues ; but the 
 picture of " 'leven little roosters, crowin'," is irresistibly 
 picturesque and exhilarating. It is like the sniff of a vin- 
 aigrette. I am no longer bored or indifferent. 
 
 Another visitor who never misses a welcome is the 
 bringer of eatables. The article may be inferior to scxme- 
 thing scorned by the invalid appetite when prepared at 
 home, but home talent never was appreciated in pro- 
 phecies or puddings. The delicacy gets eaten, and a 
 value is put upon it as a commodity by those who dis-
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 33 
 
 like to go to a sick-room empty-handed. Nowhere is 
 the practise of "carrying something" to the invalid more 
 general than in the country. But as to that, nowhere 
 does visiting arrive at such perfection as in the one- 
 streeted villages where the list of inhabitants is not too 
 long nor their duties too varied to admit of frequent 
 "dropping in" and "running over," particularly if there is 
 a sufferer to be "set with." 
 
 The visitor enters easily by the unlocked front door, 
 making a way, with occasional raps, into the family ar- 
 cana. There is no resisting the lever of a question then. 
 Can you refuse any piece of information to one who has 
 learned your morning habits or your fondness for old 
 shoes? He has your cloak, he may as well take your 
 coat also. And he will. Are you a new arrival, diligent 
 search is made for all available facts bearing upon your 
 condition, spiritual and secular, th'e utmost pains being 
 taken until you are sorted and arranged. If soime move- 
 ment of your own or Fate's shake you out of position, 
 with the same eagerness the busy folk will rearrange you. 
 It is not an ill-natured performance. It is gone through 
 with as one goes through an avocation, a duty. Gossip is 
 dragged before the eyes of men, not from diseased de- 
 light in it, but as sun and wind uncover and light upon 
 carrion, simply and naively and as a matter of course. 
 It is needless to state there is no demand for detectives 
 in a region of this sort. To ask and to answer is the 
 habit of all. A railing accusation brought against one 
 young lady by an elder of the same sex was that in what 
 was deemed an important affair she never told what she 
 knew. If one can recover from a slight tingling sensa- 
 tion when being examined by the neighbors there is 
 something pleasant and patriarchal in living near to each 
 other's joys and sorrows. I do not know how it is now, 
 but when I was a boy less than half a century ago, it 
 was deemed a breach of etiquette not to wait upon the 
 infant in its earliest stage of blush and wrinkle, to wish 
 it luck or note its resemblance to its parents. The con- 
 trary extreme of life was equally well attended. When
 
 34 THE INN OF REST 
 
 any one went through the ceremony of dying, the neigh- 
 bors were invited in and stood about the bed while the 
 last breaths were drawn; very much as if they would 
 "see" some one "off" on a journey. 
 
 This bestowal of interest and benevolence has its cor- 
 relate in the ingenious demand for them. Ask a drink of 
 a rustic and he will give you his family history while 
 he is letting down the bucket. To withhold sympathy 
 and to neglect to ask for it are social sins. Not to 
 have a story to tell is to fail in an important particular. 
 To tell it with all the mysteriousness attendant upon 
 tragic recital is to shine as a visitor. "I knew she'd 
 never get well," says Aunt Susan in a husky whisper and 
 bending forward to shake a lean fore-finger in the face 
 of the patient whom she is entertaining. "She was bet- 
 ter on the Sabbath. Needn't tell me o' Sunday better- 
 ments." Cold tremors run up and down the spine of the 
 sick woman who listens, but she would never think of re- 
 fusing to hear the old-wife tales. They are part of the vis- 
 iting program. 
 
 Under the auspices of Science, where visits are 
 weighed and measured as carefully as 'medicines, as spar- 
 ingly as smelts, Aunt Susan would have small chance to 
 distinguish herself. And when the patient is able to 
 make his own choice it may be that he will have neither 
 Aaron nor Hur to hold up his feeble arms, will shut the 
 door on the loquacious and noisy, the exciting and 
 curious, as well as on their betters, and will invite the 
 visitors who come silently, in forms which never startle, 
 uttering no platitudes, but ever cheering, changing, in- 
 spiring, amusing I mean the books. Therein the wisest 
 and the wittiest, the traveler, the man of the world, and 
 the scholar come and go as we will, utter as much or as 
 little as we decree, and of their best. 
 
 But these are for the advanced convalescent. Until 
 he can reach out his hand to take them there is ever to 
 be found the visitor-in-the-flesh, often a better though 
 humbler aid than the distilling of heart and brain sealed 
 in written words. The native fruit found on its woody
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 35 
 
 stem, warm from the lips, the hand with the heart's 
 blood pulsing to its finger-tips ; these are better digesters 
 of discomfort and ennui than sage sayings a hundred years 
 old or a tale told in cold blood to a writing-desk.
 
 36 THE INN OF REST 
 
 IV. 
 
 HOSPITALS. 
 
 JLREADY, before Christmas, hearts are kindling 
 with the Christmas spirit, and the season set 
 apart especially by Englishmen to deeds of hos- 
 pitality, is declaring itself to most of us with a 
 rich loving kindness, redundantly kind. What more 
 seasonable topic can there be, therefore, just now, than 
 hospitals, their name and purpose being, in the truest 
 sense, a part of hospitality? 
 
 Better still for the Christmas application of the word, 
 they are essentially a part of hospitality as it has been in- 
 terpreted by Christians. We have the word from ancient 
 Rome. The hospes are guests, and whether of a private 
 person or of a temple or of the whole state had a sacred 
 character; Jupiter Hospitalis was their patron, and 
 avenged their wrongs. The hospitale was the name of the 
 guest-chamber in a Roman's house; that was the first 
 idea of a hospital. The stranger introduced to his host 
 by the reco'mmendation of a third person, was safe within 
 the gates of his protector, who was not necessarily his 
 entertainer; for, after one dinner with the family, the 
 stranger generally dined in the hospitale, and paid for his 
 food. Among the early Greeks these customs of hos- 
 pitality were kept alive by the religious notion that any 
 unknown person might prove to be a god come in dis- 
 guise. The guest of the Greeks, too, had Zeus for his pe- 
 culiar friend. Besides social and political uses, there was 
 mutual advantage to be had by Greeks and Romans out 
 of their own customs of hospitality. The nursing of the 
 sick poor formed no part of them with either people. 
 
 The crowd of sick people lying in the open air round 
 about the temple of ^Esculapius at Epidaurus, formed the
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 37 
 
 first rough sketch of a hospital for the sick in ancient 
 times. Antoninus Pius caused a building to be furnished 
 for the patients. Before that time, children were born 
 there, and diseased people perished on the ground under 
 the open sky as temple-keepers told Pausanias with sor- 
 row. The buildings attached to the temple of JEscu\&- 
 pius at Rome, on the island in the Tiber, formed also 
 a receptacle for the sick. That the place had some re- 
 semblance to a modern hospital is evident from the de- 
 cree of the Emperor Claudius, that slaves who had been 
 sent thither for healing by their masters, should receive 
 their freedom on recovering. The bridges Fabricius and 
 Cestius connected the island of ^Esculapius with, the 
 town. There are no other traces of a public care taken 
 by Romans for the sick. But these foundations differ 
 altogether in spirit from the hospitals for the sick which 
 exist now by thousands throughout Christendom. The 
 temple of the God of Healing was a place of resort for per- 
 sons suffering under disease, who journeyed thither as 
 men now journey to Bath or Leamington ; but, in a more 
 serious mood, for they went not only to spend money 
 but to pray. Buildings erected for their use bore, there- 
 fore, quite as much an analogy to a pump-room and 
 lodgings at a spa as to a set of modern hospital wards. 
 This is nearly the case, too, with the only trace of a sick 
 hospital found among the ancient Jews, the House of 
 Mercy at Jerusalem, built beside the healing springs of 
 Bethesda, probably by Herod the Great, that patients 
 might await in it the movement of the water. The an- 
 cient world, in fact, was out of sympathy with the funda- 
 mental notion of a hospital, and would probably, if ques- 
 tioned on the subject, have given the answer of Shah 
 Abbas of Persia; who, being asked why he had no hos- 
 pitals in his domains, replied that they would be a shame 
 to him, for where the government was good there could 
 be no poor, no sick. 
 
 In truer sympathy with the realities by which they 
 were surrounded the Christian apostles began the new 
 system of hospitality by urging constantly that contribu- 
 
 O/l O
 
 38 THE INN OF REST 
 
 tions be collected for poor brethren. To memorable 
 words of the Great Founder of our Faith, the modern 
 hospitals owe their beginning, and the earliest of the 
 bishops were most zealous to get money for the poor, 
 the sick, the wayfarer, the orphan. Economy first dic- 
 tated the collection of these objects of care in large 
 buildings appropriated to their use; in such associa- 
 tion many might be served by few attendants, and the 
 means of help might be enlarged when cost was saved 
 in food and lodging as well as in attendance. Already 
 in the year 325, the Council of Nice had, among other 
 business, to define the qualities and duties of hospital- 
 master. Thirty-five years later Gregory of Nazienzen is 
 found urging Julian the Apostate to imitate, by the build- 
 ing of hospitals and travelers' rests, the Christians whom 
 he ridiculed. And, at nearly the same time, Basil the 
 Great speaks of the early Christians as having developed 
 the hospital system into completeness, and regards it 
 as an institution quite peculiar to themselves. 
 
 This Basil, Metropolitan of Cappadocia, himself 
 founded, about the year 380, a general hospital, called 
 the Basiliad ; which was, among the hospitals of its day 
 and all time before it, what Saltaire is in our time to the 
 English factories. Its situation was before the gates of 
 its founder's especial seat, Cjesarea. The Basiliad was 
 richly endowed by the Emperor Valens ; and others arose 
 on its pattern in the Morea, and in other districts of 
 the Eastern Church. Twenty years after the comple- 
 tion of the Basiliad, John Chrysostom erected a great 
 general hospital in Constantinople, spending upon it and 
 other smaller hospitals a part of his own substance, as 
 well as the superfluous riches of the Church. It is at 
 about the same time in the year 401 that we first 
 read of lunatic asylums, which were then founded by 
 monks, in the wilderness of Bithynia. 
 
 Many of the earliest hospitals were intended princi- 
 pally for the exercise of hospitality towards poor travel- 
 ers after the meaning of our St. Cross, or Sutton's 
 Charity, at Rochester. Some were for rich travelers, who
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 39 
 
 also needed solace on the road. Towards the close of 
 the sixth century, Bishop Bertichramnus built a hospital 
 for poor nobles, and another for both rich and poor 
 when on their travels. Another bishop, Aldricus, built 
 a hospital for traveling bishops, counts, and abbots and 
 another for the poor, sick, blind, and lame. In the 
 eighth century we find laymen at work. In Lucca alone 
 there were then three hospitals founded by bur- 
 ghers, and the German residents there were estab- 
 lishing, for their countrymen, a fourth. 
 
 The earliest known foundling hospital was established 
 in the year 787, at Milan. The first approach to a hos- 
 pital for crippled soldiers was that made in one of the 
 most famous early hospitals, the great orphan asylum of 
 the Greek Emperor, Alexis Comnenus, founded in the 
 year 1090. Of this his learned daughter, Anna Porphy- 
 rogenita, testifies that it equalled a small town in size, 
 and that the enormous host of poor cherished therein did 
 not consist wholly of orphans; the place being also a 
 refuge open to others who required support, especially 
 the blind, the dumb, the lame. It was also, in express 
 terms, open to decrepit soldiers noble foreboding of our 
 Invalides and Chelsea! 
 
 The bishops were at first the managers of hospital 
 affairs; but, as the sphere of episcopal duties and ambi- 
 tions widened, they devolved this care upon the deacons, 
 who became hospital-masters ; so that at last, says Thom- 
 assinus writing on Church discipline, diaconate and hos- 
 pital became almost synonymous. The early popes dis- 
 tinguished themselves by founding many such charitable 
 diaconates. In the time of Anastasius Bibliothecarius 
 (the ninth century), there were twenty-four of them in 
 Rome. The cardinals afterward got these and fattened 
 on their funds. During a long period, fourteen cardinal 
 deacons, named from chapels on the site of the abolished 
 hospitals, Santa Maria in Via Lata, Santo Giorgio in 
 Velabro, et cetera, have had the opportunity of pocket- 
 ing the money of the poor. 
 
 Isolated divines first held office as hospital-masters in
 
 40 THE INN OF REST 
 
 the provinces; but as the monastic systetai grew, it, by 
 degrees, absorbed the hospitals into itself. The vows of 
 poverty, the religious functions, the knowledge, the 
 abundance of leisure, and the numbers of monks gathered 
 under one roof, made it appear both wise and natural to 
 entrust them with the nursing of the sick and the atten- 
 dance upon poor afflicted people in the hospitals. There 
 even arose orders of monks and nuns hospital brothers 
 and sisters vowed especially to hospital attendance. 
 
 The Crusaders brought into Europe the leprosy of the 
 East, and gave rise to the building of leper afterwards 
 pest houses. By the beginning of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury they had fallen into disuse, but the number of or- 
 dinary hospitals had increased largely. According to 
 their nature they had learned names, dating generally 
 from the time of Justinian, and from the names we know 
 how various in nature they had always been: the alms- 
 houses were ptochotrophia ; if asylums for the old, ger- 
 ontocomia; for children or orphans, orphanotrophia ; for 
 foundlings, brephotrophia ; if they entertained and lodged 
 strangers or pilgrims they were xenodochia ; if for the lodg- 
 ment of the sick, nosocomia. Plague houses had the mili- 
 tary name of Lazarettos from the hospital of St. Lazarus, 
 in which the outcast lepers, called Lazari, were received 
 and tended by brothers of the order of St. Lazarus of 
 Jerusalem. There were even medical and surgical, and 
 lying-in and lunatic hospitals; long since there existed 
 also hospitals for curables or incurables, and for special 
 complaints, as diseases of the chest or smallpox. 
 
 We have cared only to speak of the birth of the Hos- 
 pital System. Its modern growth may be traced in the 
 familiar histories of such foundations as the Hotel Dieu 
 at Paris, or of Saint Bartholomew's and Thomas's in Lon- 
 don. Saint Bartholomew's dates from about the close of 
 the period to which we have been now referring. In the 
 year 1102 it was founded as a sick hospital in connection 
 with the priory of the Dominicans of Saint Bartholomew. 
 Saint Thomas's, was, in the first instance, a hospital for 
 converts and poor children, founded as the Almonry by
 
 THE INVALID'S WORLD 41 
 
 Richard, a Norman prior of Bermondsey. Peter de Rupi- 
 bus, Bishop of Winchester, soon afterward converted it 
 into a priory, and endowed it handsomely. In the time 
 of Henry the Eighth (who had enlarged and aided Saint 
 Bartholomew's) it fell to the crown, and Edward the 
 Sixth, with the help of the citizens, founded it as it now 
 stands, and dedicated it to Saint Thomas the Apostle vice 
 Saint Thomas a Becket. Such was the transition of sick 
 hospitals in this country from monastic into purely medi- 
 cal control. The story of the Hotel Dieu in Paris is the 
 story of the development of the Hospital system in coun- 
 tries that have remained under the discipline of the 
 Roman Church. Founded in very remote times as early 
 as the year 660, by Landry, Bishop of Paris, endowed and 
 enriched by successive generations of kings and citizens, 
 it now owns whole streets of Paris, and is probably 
 the wealthiest foundation of its kind in Europe. It is 
 also, as everybody knows, one of the very best sick hos- 
 pitals existing. Of such history we say no more. It has 
 been enough for us to show how intimately the birth 
 of the Hospital System is connected with the great event 
 we celebrate at Christmas. They exist, indeed, literally 
 and perfectly as a part of Christmas hospitality. 
 
 We have none heartier. No institutions in this coun- 
 try, maintained by public funds, are managed with a 
 stricter reference to the end proposed in their founda- 
 tion, than the hospitals for the sick in London, Edin- 
 burgh, Dublin, and the chief provincial towns. Not very 
 many of them are endowed. Most of them, overwhelmed 
 by applications from unhappy creatures who beg for 
 relief when in the sorest need, strain to the utmost their 
 powers of usefulness, and even spend by anticipation the 
 increased help which the public will be asked to give. 
 The English public very rarely fails to meet such bills 
 drawn, not dishonestly, on its benevolence. Let us be 
 just enough, before we pass further, to say that the main- 
 stay of the European hospital system as it now exists 
 no longer in charge of the monks is the right-minded 
 liberality of the medical profession. Hospitals for the
 
 42 THE INN OF REST 
 
 sick are practically entrusted altogether to the control 
 of this body of men ; which might have mismanaged its 
 trust, but has not done so. It has foregone every mean 
 advantage and seized only a noble one. Using the 
 masses of disease brought together in these great es- 
 tablishments as means of study, for the sake of experience 
 that can be acquired in them by skilled men, and of the 
 practical knowledge that can be imparted to the stu- 
 dent, the profession undertakes, gratuitously, to supply 
 them with the best attendance that its ranks can fur- 
 nish, to watch over them jealously, and to protect them 
 with all its might against the black spirit of jobbing. 
 There are many littlenesses manifested in the medi- 
 cal profession ; but this is a greatness. The relation in 
 which it stands to the hospital system throughout Eu- 
 rope, forms indeed one of the best features of modern 
 civilized society. 
 
 There are also many phrases cherished by the nation 
 and inscribed by it on flags of triumph, which are not 
 so generally glorious as the inscription commonly 
 seen running across the walls of a great hos- 
 pital Supported by Voluntary Contributions. How 
 large a mass of quiet charity, exerted year by 
 year, keeps every such establishment in action!
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 
 
 Marguerite Merrington 
 
 Author of Mr. E. H. Sothern's Play, "Captain Lettarblair " ; 
 "The 'Crawford' Play," etc. 
 
 A Two-Act Comedy Based Upon Mr. Charles Dana Gib- 
 son's Series of Pictures of "A Widow and Her 
 Friends," Published in Life, Made with the 
 Full Permission of Mr. Gibson.
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 45 
 
 PEOPLE OP THE PLAY. 
 
 THE WIDOW, ELINOR GARY, a Gibson Girl. 
 
 THE AUTHORESS, ARABELLA BABBLES, tOO StOUt tO be a Gib- 
 
 son Girl. 
 
 THE SUITORS, MR. SLOCUM, M. VALLONVILLE, MR. POOR, MR. 
 ASHBURTON. 
 
 THE LAWYER, KATE HOOD, another Gibson Girl. 
 
 THE DOCTOR, DOCTOR BOTTLES. 
 
 THE MAID, ROSINE. 
 
 THE LOVER, FREDDIE MARSHALL. 
 
 Time, the present. 
 Costumes, the latest mode. 
 
 THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 (Discovered, ROSINE, at table, opening florist's boxes.) 
 
 ROSINE: Carnations, lilies, violets, and roses as 
 usual ! And as usual Madam orders them to be sent to hos- 
 pitals. This perpetual mourning is grating on my nerves. 
 If Mrs. Gary doesn't soon begin to take notice I shall give 
 warning. It injures one's self-respect to stay in a place 
 where the drawing-room furnishes no material whatever for 
 conversation in the kitchen. (Ring at front door.) There's 
 carnations now! And I've got to tell the poor dear man 
 that Mrs. Gary is not at home. What if I dare I ? yes ; I 
 will ! (Hastily turns man's portrait face down on table and 
 places carnations in vase by woman's portrait.) There! 
 (Ring repeated.) Coming, coming! (Takes salver and 
 goes to door.) It's for your own good I'm keeping you. 
 (Opens door.) 
 
 MR. SLOCUM (at door): Mrs. Cary ? 
 
 ROSINE: Not at home, sir! (Receives card.) But, 
 of course, you know that that is mere fiction. 
 
 MR. SLOCUM (amased) : Eh? (Enters.) What!
 
 46 THE INN OF REST 
 
 Gary's photograph turned down, and my flowers beside 
 hers! 
 
 ROSINE (closes door behind him) : As you say, Mr. 
 Slocum, it is significant ! 
 
 MR. SLOCUM: Significant 1 I should say so! (Ar- 
 ranges flowers.) I wish I'd sent her the full dozen ! (Takes 
 rose from a box and adds to carnations.) There, that fills 
 them out! Tell her I'm here! Yes, yes (as ROSINE hesi- 
 tates), I'll as future master of the house take the respon- 
 sibility. 
 
 ROSINE: Very well, sir. (Ring.) 
 
 MR. SLOCUM (ay ROSINE goes toward door) : Wait ! 
 Get rid of the other fellow, first! It might create envy! 
 (Tiptoes into library singing Wedding March.) 
 
 ROSINE (alone) : Envy! ha, ha, ha! (Ring repeated in 
 nervous jerks.) Now for lilies. (Substitutes lilies-of-the- 
 valley for carnations.) Don't do that! (as rings are re- 
 peated.) You make me nervous! (Opens door.) 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE (at door) : Madame ze Vidow 
 Gary ? ( Gives card. ) 
 
 ROSINE : Not receiving, sir which is only an English 
 idiom. 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE (amazed) : Mais certainment ! (En- 
 ters. ) Quoi done ! My leelies ! 
 
 ROSINE : Monsieur, you are quite right ; it is marked ! 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE: She notice zem at last my leelies, 
 so pure, and so expenseef ! (Adding rose to lilies.) An- 
 nounce me to Madame ! Yes, I absolve you ; as head of the 
 household I absolve you. (Ring.) Vait! A rival! I con- 
 ceal myself, lest I kill him! (Skips into library singing 
 Wedding March.) 
 
 ROSINE: Ha, ha, ha! Now violets, it's your turn! 
 (Changing flowers.) If you do that (as ring is repeated in 
 couplets) I'll send you to the hospital! (Opens door.) 
 
 MR. POOR (at door, giving card) : Mrs. Gary con- 
 tinues to see no one, I suppose? 
 
 ROSINE: True, sir! But you mustn't infer that she 
 has lost her sense of sight.
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 47 
 
 MR. POOR (puts on glasses amazed} : Bless my soull 
 (Enters.) Eh, what's this! 
 
 ROSINE : You're as modest as your violets, Mr. Poor, 
 if you don't call it pointed pointed ! 
 
 MR. POOR (adds rose to violets) : Take my card! Yes, 
 yes, I suppose no one has a better right 1 (Ring. MR. POOR 
 signs silence to ROSINE and waddles off into the library 
 singing Wedding March.) 
 
 ROSINE (alone): Ha, ha, ha! And now for roses! 
 (Changes flowers; puts one rose in vase. Ring continues 
 without pause.) Coming, coming, coming! (Opens door. 
 MR. ASHBURTON at door gives card and turns to go.) 
 
 ROSINE : Mrs. Gary begs to be excused, sir ! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON : Quite so ! 
 
 ROSINE : Pardon, sir, it is not quite so ! I am sick of 
 these social metaphors. 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON (puts monocle into eye) : How 
 quaint. (Entering.) What do I see there! Yes, it is my 
 roses, or more truly, it is my rose. 
 
 ROSINE: Conspicuous, indeed, Mr. Ashburton! It's 
 not my place to supply Madam's callers with adjectives,* but 
 in a witness-box I should swear that it is conspicuous. 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON : Tell her I'm here. (Sits at piano.) 
 
 ROSINE (removes rose from vase) : At your own risk ! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON : Of course ; every man marries at his 
 own risk. (Picks out Wedding March on piano. The other 
 SUITORS enter from library and look at him inquiringly.) 
 
 ROSINE (with four cards on salver) : Gentlemen, I 
 may have to keep you waiting. Doctor Bottles is with 
 Madam; also the famous authoress, Miss Babbles, is read- 
 ing to her. 
 
 SUITORS signify assent; ROSINE exit, screen. A pause 
 follows, during which SUITORS assume proprietary attitudes, 
 each glaring angrily at the others. MR. ASHBURTON strums 
 Wedding March, MR. POOR hums it, MR. SLOCUM whistles 
 it, and M. VALLONVILLE tattoos it on hat with cane. 
 
 ROSINE (entering, screen) : I am very sorry, gentle- 
 men! There is some misunderstanding! Mrs. Gary
 
 48 THE INN OF REST 
 
 SUITORS (together) : I understand! (They prepare 
 to go. Imperative ring; the SUITORS pause, while 
 ROSINE opens door. FREDDIE MARSHALL enters.) 
 
 ROSINE (preventing him) : Pardon, Mr. Marshall, but 
 Mrs. Gary 
 
 MR. SLOCUM : Is not at home ! 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE: Does not receive! 
 
 MR. POOR: Sees no one! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON : Begs to be excused ! 
 
 FREDDIE glares at them angrily, strides into library. 
 SUITORS exclaim amazed. 
 
 MR. POOR (oratorically) : The time has come to speak! 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE : But we have not been introduced ! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON: Hang ceremony! We have met 
 here daily for three months, ever since that memorable night 
 we spent on yonder doorstep, each waiting to be first to 
 offer condolences to the widow. 
 
 All bow, hand on heart, repeating, "The Widow !" 
 
 MR. POOR: The errand of each is the same the 
 Widow! (All repeat, "The Widow!") When, lo! enter, 
 with masterful air, a stranger! (Shakes finger toward 
 library.) We must combine against this stranger! We 
 must form a syndicate a Widow Trust! 
 
 ALL : Excellent ! A Widow Trust ! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON : But she can't marry all four of us, 
 you know. 
 
 MR. POOR : She shall choose from among us ! 
 
 MR. SLOCUM : But how can we read her inclinations 
 when she always is not at home? 
 
 MR. POOR: Gentlemen, it is evident we need an ac- 
 complice. The maid seems exceptionally bright. 
 
 ROSINE (advancing) : Well, sir, you see I was born 
 in Boston though I call myself Rosine, like a toilet prepar- 
 ation, else no lady would trust me with her hair. Gentle- 
 men, leave it to me! When Madam takes her daily drive 
 you can learn the state of her inclinations according as she 
 wears carnations, lilies, violets t or roses. 
 
 SUITORS: Superb idea! Hurrah!
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 49 
 
 They join hands and dance around table, singing the 
 Wedding March in different keys. FREDDIE MARSHALL ut- 
 ters angry exclamation and overturns chair in library. 
 SUITORS steal off by front door, singing under breath. 
 
 FREDDIE (comes from library, and watches them from 
 window) : Fools ! I suppose they want to marry her ! And 
 no doubt she encourages them, as she did me, and will break 
 their hearts, as she has broken mine. (Sighs.) 
 
 KATE HOOD (in lawyer's cap and gown, coming down 
 stairs) : I wonder if I can't help mend that broken heart 
 Mr. Marshall! 
 
 FREDDIE (turns) : Miss Hood! (They shake hands.) 
 
 KATE: I asked you to call on a business matter con- 
 nected with Mrs. Gary's estate. (Sits at table.) Well are 
 you in such a desperate hurry to get back to South Africa ? 
 
 FREDDIE (moving about restlessly) : Yes ! 
 
 KATE: Ah, then you still love her! 
 
 FREDDIE: What has that to do with this business mat- 
 ter? 
 
 KATE: Everything! The estate you are to inherit on 
 your thirtieth birthday has a claim against Elinor's inheri- 
 tance, which, if pressed, may impoverish her. 
 
 FREDDIE (indignantly) : Then it sha'n't be pressed ! 
 
 KATE: But you have no power to prevent it! How- 
 ever, I see my way to a compromise, if there were a reason- 
 able chance that the two estates would ultimately be fused. 
 Mr. Marshall, you love Nellie why don't you marry her ? 
 
 FREDDIE : Miss Hood ! Surely you forget 
 
 KATE: I forget nothing! 
 
 FREDDIE: She flirted with me outrageously 
 
 KATE : And you ran away ! 
 
 FREDDIE: She married Gary 
 
 KATE: Let him rest in peace! 
 
 FREDDIE: She doesn't love me 
 
 KATE: How do you know? 
 
 FREDDIE: If I dared hope but, no! Make any ar- 
 rangement in my name, Miss Hood, but please understand 
 that I never, voluntarily, will look upon her face or hear her 
 voice again! (Walks with decision toward front door.)
 
 50 THE INN OF REST 
 
 WIDOW (in alcove, calls) : Rosine ! 
 
 FREDDIE (pauses at door) : Her voice 1 
 
 WIDOW : Draw the curtains, Rosine 1 
 
 ROSINE : Yes, Madam ! 
 
 Draws portieres, disclosing WIDOW on couch, DOCTOR 
 BOTTLES and Miss BABBLES sitting beside her. 
 
 FREDDIE (aside): Elinor! More beautiful than ever! 
 (Sits, unseen from alcove; KATE retreats toward arch.) 
 
 ARABELLA (reading) : "And the moral of it is, Tis bet- 
 ter to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." 
 
 WIDOW : Thank you, dear ! 
 
 ARABELLA : I'm not tired, dear. Shall I go on ? 
 
 DOCTOR BOTTLES: Another time! It is too exciting 
 for our dear patient here! (Feels WIDOW'S pulse.) 
 
 ARABELLA: The next chapter is quite soothing al- 
 most commonplace. You see they're married. 
 
 WIDOW: Married! (Handkerchief to eyes.) 
 
 ARABELLA: Or I could skip to the sensational part 
 where she's free and the old lover comes back. 
 
 WIDOW (shudders') : Oh, no not that! 
 
 DOCTOR : Another day, Miss Babbles. One must never 
 overdo a dose I mean a treat. (Assists WIDOW to rise; 
 leads her forward.) Then it's settled you'll come to me 
 for a little quiet dinner to-night? 
 
 WIDOW: Oh, doctor, I should love to if you don't 
 think it seems unmindful ! (Handkerchief to eyes.) 
 
 DOCTOR: My dear soul, not at all! Constancy is all 
 very well; constancy is beautiful, but it can be combined 
 with other emotions in the same prescription. (Looks about. 
 ROSINE is busy arranging cushions; KATE and FREDDIE are 
 unseen; ARABELLA is listening.) Miss Babbles, won't you 
 honor me with your distinguished autograph? You'll find 
 pen and ink in the library. (Rushing her toward arch.) 
 
 ARABELLA: Oh, but Doctor, I always carry a number 
 in my pocket! (Produces package.) 
 
 DOCTOR: But I want one written especially for me 
 with an original sentiment (Pushing her) in the library. 
 
 ARABELLA : Oh, but I have a fountain pen in my pocket 
 in case of inspirations. (Writes.)
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 51 
 
 DOCTOR : Mrs. Gary Elinor I can't keep it from you 
 any longer! (Takes her hands.) My home wants a head! 
 
 WIDOW (innocently) : A head? 
 
 FREDDIE (disgusted, aside) : I should say it did. He 
 has none! (Knocks over chair.) 
 
 WIDOW and DOCTOR (start apart) : What's that! 
 
 KATE (steps forward) : Only a demurrer ! I looked 
 in on my way from court to settle some business with Mrs. 
 Gary, if you'll excuse her, Doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR: Bother! I mean, with pleasure, Miss Hood! 
 I'll be back for you ladies in half an hour. (Exit hastily.) 
 
 ARABELLA (pursuing him) : Doctor my autograph! 
 All right! (Spitefully.) I'll change the sentiment ! 
 
 WIDOW: Well, Kate, what is it? I'll sign anything 
 you please, only don't expect me to understand it. 
 
 KATE : My dear Nellie, I know your present horror of 
 men, but it is necessary to this matter that you should con- 
 fer with a specimen. (Leads FREDDIE forward.) Permit 
 me to introduce to you the party of the second part. 
 
 WIDOW (bows, eyes on ground) : Mr. Party ! 
 
 KATE: This gentleman's estate has a claim against 
 your estate which can be amicably adjusted in a few min- 
 utes, with your consent. 
 
 WIDOW (eyes still lowered) : It's very kind of him! I 
 consent to anything! 
 
 FREDDIE (hands outstretched) : Nellie! I mean, Mrs. 
 Gary! 
 
 WIDOW (looks up) : Freddie! I mean, Mr. Marshall! 
 
 ARABELLA: How romantic! 
 
 WIDOW : I consider this a very unmanly trick ! 
 
 KATE : Naturally, it is unmanly, since it emanates from 
 me ! But you two have not met for so long shall we leave 
 you to renew your acquaintance? 
 
 WIDOW: Certainly not! I wish you all to remain so 
 that every one may know that nothing is said which would 
 not be said if no one were present. I wish it understood 
 that Mr. Marshall is nothing to me ! 
 
 FREDDIE: I wish it understood that Mrs. Gary is less 
 than nothing to me several degrees below zero!
 
 52 
 
 WIDOW: You all hear that! His old disagreeable 
 way! 
 
 FREDDIE: Nellie darling! I wish it understood that 
 when I say "Nellie darling," it is merely from force of 
 habit an old, bad habit. 
 
 WIDOW : If Mr. Marshall has any compromise to offer 
 I refuse to accept it ! 
 
 FREDDIE : I refuse to accept Mrs. Gary's refusal to ac- 
 cept my compromise. 
 
 WIDOW: I refuse to accept his refusal of my refusal 
 to accept his compromise. 
 
 KATE : My dear, be reasonable ! What if the alterna- 
 tive were destitution ! 
 
 WIDOW : I'm not afraid of poverty. 
 
 ARABELLA: You've never tried it. You're not an 
 authoress ! ( Sadly. ) 
 
 ROSINE: Oh, Madam! No more Paris frocks! 
 
 WIDOW : One plain black dress will last me for the re- 
 mainder of my days. Rosine can alter the sleeves as the 
 fashions change. 
 
 KATE : But, Nellie, you won't be able to afford a maid. 
 
 WIDOW : Oh, I couldn't do without Rosine ! Besides I 
 can earn money. I can sell cake to the Woman's Exchange. 
 Cook can show me how to make it. We need discuss it no 
 further. Rosine, bring my bonnet and wraps; it's almost 
 time for the Doctor. ( ROSINE brings bonnets and wraps to 
 WIDOW and ARABELLA.) 
 
 KATE : There is one aspect we have not considered. If 
 we contest this case successfully we may have the pleasure 
 of ruining Mr. Marshall. 
 
 WIDOW: Oh, Kate! How mean of you to think I 
 should find that a pleasure. I'd sooner give in ! 
 
 FREDDIE : I absolutely refuse to accept any concessions 
 from Mrs. Gary. I prefer to let her ruin me. 
 
 WIDOW : I refuse to ruin you ! Not because it's you ; 
 but just as I should refuse to ruin a beggar in the street ! 
 
 KATE: Then you shall have to meet each other half 
 way! (Has written on paper.) Here is an agreement that 
 will solve the difficulty. Please look over it.
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 53 
 
 WIDOW (tying bonnet) : I shouldn't understand it if 
 I did. 
 
 FREDDIE (reads) : But it gives all the advantage to me ! 
 
 WIDOW : I prefer it so. My gloves, Rosine ! 
 
 FREDDIE: Really, Mrs. Gary, I can't accept the sacri- 
 fice! 
 
 WIDOW : Sign it ! Sign it ! He always did want the 
 last word! (Freddie signs.) 
 
 KATE : Now, Elinor, please read it before you sign ! 
 
 WIDOW (takes pen) : No need to! I'm more than sat- 
 isfied if I have annoyed Mr. Marshall by putting him under 
 obligations to me ! (Signs.) 
 
 Ring. ROSINE admits DOCTOR BOTTLES. SUITORS ap- 
 pear, looking in at window which they open stealthily. 
 
 DOCTOR : Are you ready, my my dear ? 
 
 WIDOW : Quite ready, Doctor ! We have just disposed 
 of some tiresome business. Bring me some flowers, Rosine ! 
 ( ROSINE brings carnations, lilies, violets, and roses, and pins 
 them on WIDOW.) 
 
 MR. SLOCUM : My carnations ! 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE: My leelies! 
 
 MR. POOR: My violets! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON: My roses! 
 
 They leap in at window and fall on their knees before 
 WIDOW, proposing to her all at the same time. 
 
 DOCTOR (advancing) : Gentlemen, this lady is under 
 my protection ! 
 
 FREDDIE (rushes forward with paper) : Mrs. Gary is 
 under my protection ! 
 
 ALL : Yours ! 
 
 FREDDIE : Over her own signature for the next three 
 months Mrs. Gary is engaged to me! (Waves paper.) 
 
 WIDOW (shrieks) : Freddie ! 
 
 Faints in arms of KATE and ROSINE. ARABELLA faints 
 in arms of DOCTOR BOTTLES, who puts her in chair. SUITORS 
 groan. 
 
 End of First Act.
 
 54 THE INN OF REST 
 
 THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 Discovered: WIDOW, ARABELLA, DOCTOR, removing 
 wraps. ROSINE kneeling by open trunk. Bicycle, golf out' 
 fit, fishing-rods, easel, stacked in corners. 
 
 DOCTOR: An ideal spot! All scenery and solitude! 
 
 ROSINE (aside, disgusted} : Solitude ! 
 
 ARABELLA (at window) : Ah, the dear scenery where 
 every prospect pleases and there are no men to offend ! 
 
 WIDOW (anxiously) : You are sure there are no men! 
 
 DOCTOR : Not a sign of one. I ascertained that before 
 we came. 
 
 ROSINE: What dress will Madam wear to-night? 
 
 WIDOW : Oh anything ! Since there's no one to see I 
 might wear out that unbecoming black. ( ROSINE unpacks 
 dress, exit R. i.) 
 
 WIDOW : You don't think any one could find us here ? 
 
 DOCTOR: My dear, impossible! We came by such a 
 roundabout way and we left no address! 
 
 Enter ROSINE with florist's boxes. 
 
 ROSINE: Madam here is a surprise! (Shows flow- 
 ers.) 
 
 WIDOW: Why how mysterious! 
 
 ROSINE: Mysterious, indeed! (Aside.) They must 
 have received my postal cards ! 
 
 ARABELLA: Highly improper since you are engaged! 
 
 WIDOW: You forget my engagement ends to-day! 
 
 ARABELLA : Still, since you are renouncing men, don't 
 you think you should return them? 
 
 WIDOW: Oh, no! Rosine can give them to the 
 patients ! 
 
 ROSINE: What patients, Madam? 
 
 WIDOW : Don't you know that this is a sanatorium ? 
 
 DOCTOR: My dear, I forgot to mention the landlady 
 says the place is so healthy that the last batch of invalids 
 went home cured. 
 
 WIDOW: Why, Doctor! How, without invalids, can 
 I study nursing? 
 
 DOCTOR (takes WIDOW'S hand) : Theory comes before
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY, 55 
 
 practice. I shall instruct you daily from the manual, and 
 then (aside) I shall fall ill myself. 
 
 WIDOW : Let's begin ! I'll put on my nurse's uniform, 
 to get into the atmosphere! 
 
 ROSINE unpacks uniform. 
 
 ARABELLA (at window) : Gracious four men coming 
 up the road. (Sensation.) I wonder who they are! 
 
 ROSINE (aside): My postal cards! Carnations, vio- 
 lets, lilies, and roses! 
 
 WIDOW: Probably they are invalids! 
 
 ARABELLA: Invalids! Golf, fishing-rod, tandem and 
 easel ! 
 
 DOCTOR (looking through field-glass) : Invalids ! They 
 are tourists ! I'll bribe the landlady not to let them in. 
 
 WIDOW (detains him) : Oh, no! with golf and wheels 
 there may be accidents and invalids. Besides I must get 
 accustomed to the sight of men in groups! (Exit R. I, 
 followed by ROSINE with uniform.) 
 
 DOCTOR: I'll bribe the landlady to board them at the 
 second table, and lodge them in the barn ! (Exit R. 2.) 
 
 ARABELLA: If they attempt to make our acquaintance 
 I'll talk to them! (Exit R. 2.) 
 
 Enter L. i. SUITORS. Each one carries a traveling-case 
 and rifle; MR. SLOCUM also has rod; M. VALLONVILLE 
 pushes tandem; MR. POOR carries golf outfit; MR. ASH- 
 BURTON has easel, artist's umbrella and camp stool. They 
 pant, exhausted. 
 
 MR. SLOCUM : Here we are at last ! 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE (points to flowers) : We are here 
 already ! 
 
 MR. POOR (indicates WIDOW'S hat) : Here she is ! 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON (indicates ARABELLA'S and DOCTOR'S 
 'hats) : Here they are ! 
 
 Enter ROSINE. 
 
 SUITORS: And here's Rosine! 
 
 ROSINE (exclaims): What a surprise! (All laugh. 
 SUITORS set down burdens. ) 
 
 ROSINE (nervous) : But those guns ! Mrs. Gary is 
 terribly afraid of firearms.
 
 56 THE INN OF REST 
 
 SUITORS: So are we! They are only loaded with 
 harmless cartridges. 
 
 WIDOW'S voice within, calling ROSINE. 
 
 ALL SUITORS: The Widow! (bow; hand on heart.} 
 
 ROSINE: Gentlemen, a hint! This is a sanatorium. 
 (Points to screen.) 
 
 SUITORS : A sanatorium ! 
 
 ROSINE: And Mrs. Gary is head nurse! 
 
 SUITORS: Head nurse Mrs. Gary! 
 
 ROSINE: What a pity that you gentlemen enjoy such 
 robust health! (Exit R. I. carrying dresses.) 
 
 MR. POOR: I move that we are all very ill! 
 
 SUITORS: Carried! We are all very ill! 
 
 Join hands and dance around table, singing Wedding 
 March. DOCTOR is heard speaking to ARABELLA. SUITORS 
 make signs, and steal on tiptoe behind screen. 
 
 (Enter R. 2. DOCTOR and ARABELLA. Enter R. i. 
 ROSINE carrying hot-water bags on tray. Enter L. i. KATE 
 and FREDDIE, who draw back into shadows of curtains. En- 
 ter R. i. WIDOW in nurse's uniform. SUITORS' heads seen 
 above screen.) 
 
 DOCTOR: Now, we will begin with a few simple rules. 
 (Takes WIDOW'S hand. Looks around.) Miss Babbles, 
 have you admired the scenery? (Pushes her toward win- 
 dow.) Count the mountains! (Returns to WIDOW.) 
 
 ARABELLA: But, Doctor there's only one! 
 
 DOCTOR (pushing her back) : Well count it, count it! 
 And then count the pines ! Now, I am the patient ! (Pulls 
 armchair to centre.) I sit here! But the nurse must not 
 fatigue herself! (Pulls up small chair.) You sit by me! 
 Now, let me feel your pulse ! 
 
 WIDOW: I thought you were the patient! 
 
 DOCTOR : To be sure ! Feel my pulse ! Keep on feel- 
 ing it while Miss Babbles slowly counts a hundred pines! 
 (SUITORS show jealousy.) Excellent! Do that frequently. 
 (Draws manual from pocket.) To this manual I have 
 added a few directions for the particular kind of nurse I 
 want you to be. Begin with the chapter headed Sympathy. 
 
 WIDOW (reads) : "Show a tender interest in your
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 57 
 
 patient's welfare. Love your patient." (DOCTOR smiles 
 complacently, and the SUITORS show jealousy.) 
 
 DOCTOR: Now I'll slip into bed that you may prac- 
 tice soothing an anguished brow! (Goes behind screen. 
 SUITORS' heads disappear over screen. They groan. ) 
 
 WIDOW : What's that ! 
 
 ROSINE : The patients, Madam ! Four gentlemen have 
 just arrived in a terrible state of nervous protestation, com- 
 plicated with disorder of the heart! (Draws screen aside, 
 disclosing roiv of cot beds, containing SUITORS and DOCTOR, 
 fully dressed. SUITORS duck under bedclothes.) 
 
 WIDOW (claps hands): Oh, some real, live invalids! 
 Let's see. (Opens manual.) Sympathy! I sympathize 
 with you all! Let me feel your pulses! (Goes to each, 
 feeling pulse, smoothing pillow, etc.) 
 
 DOCTOR : Mrs. Gary, you are forgetting my anguished 
 brow! 
 
 WIDOW: Oh, but Doctor, you are only make-believe 
 ill, while these poor souls just listen to them! (Suitors 
 groan.) Here are some blossoms! (Distributes flowers.) 
 I take the tenderest interest in your welfare. 
 
 DOCTOR: That is not necessary, Mrs. Gary! 
 
 WIDOW: The manual says so. (Reads.) "I love you!" 
 (SUITORS chuckle.) 
 
 DOCTOR : Hot-water bags would be better ! 
 
 WIDOW: What, on the anguished brow? (Puts hot- 
 water bag on Doctor's head; he yells with pain; SUITORS 
 roar with laughter.) 
 
 DOCTOR (rising) : That will do, Mrs. Gary! We will 
 leave Miss Babbles in charge while I take you for a drive. 
 
 MR. SLOCUM (sits up) : I object! 
 
 (Sensation.) 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON (sits up) ; Oh, how-de-do, Mrs. Gary! 
 
 MR. POOR (sits up) : Circumstances prevent my ris- 
 ing to explain, but 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE (sits up) : Ze buggee and ze horse, 
 we will hire him forevair! 
 
 DOCTOR: You gentlemen are far too ill to drive. Be-
 
 58 THE INN OF REST 
 
 sides, the Doctor takes precedence of the patients! Come, 
 my dear! 
 
 FREDDIE (bursts in) : Pardon, sir! I have just bought 
 the horse and buggy! (Sensation.) Mrs. Gary Elinor 
 our engagement lasts just three minutes longer! Let me 
 drive you to the minister's. (Sensation.) 
 
 WIDOW : Three minutes ! 
 
 FREDDIE: Yes, dearest. Come! 
 
 DOCTOR (watch out) : Only two now! 
 
 WIDOW: Will Doctor count a hundred and twenty 
 pines! (Doctor does so.) 
 
 SUITORS : Time's up ! She's free ! 
 
 WIDOW: Mr. Marshall, your present conduct is on a 
 par with all your conduct! 
 
 SUITORS : Hurrah ! 
 
 WIDOW : Silence ! You are not worth my anger ! 
 (SUITORS duck beneath bedclothes. DOCTOR chuckles.) You, 
 too (to DOCTOR). You have not always been sincere with 
 me! (DOCTOR subsides) though your intentions have been 
 kind. But as for Mr. Marshall No, Kate (to KATE, who 
 steps forward), you need not defend him! You, too, have 
 treated me as a mere puppet a paper doll ! Oh I know you 
 will say it was to save my fortune, but do you think I would 
 knowingly have saved it at such a price? Now, Mr. Mar- 
 shall, we will say farewell, please! I trust you will meet 
 with some nice, sensible girl, who will make you a kind, 
 forbearing wife. No, don't pretend that you care for me! 
 (as FREDDIE is about to step forward). And don't ever de- 
 ceive yourself with the idea that I ever have cared for you ! 
 I I never wish to look upon the face of man again. 
 (Exit in burst of tears R. I. followed by ROSINE. SUITORS 
 and DOCTOR groan.) 
 
 (Supper bell is rung loud, off rear.) 
 
 SUITORS : Supper ! 
 
 DOCTOR: The patients cannot take solid food. Till 
 further orders the patients need not eat. (They groan. 
 Exit R. ^.) 
 
 (Loud groans from SUITORS, who are seen skipping 
 off R. 2, pursued by ARABELLA.)
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY 59 
 
 KATE (hand on Freddie's arm} : Come! 
 
 FREDDIE : I'm not hungry ! I've been a perfect brute I 
 And she will never forgive me ! She oughtn't to. 
 
 KATE: Perhaps if she thinks she oughtn't to she will! 
 Well, thank Heaven, I'm not in love ! I'm hungry ! (Exit 
 
 R.2.) 
 
 FREDDIE (goes to door R. I. kneels and kisses keyhole) : 
 Good-by! (Exit L. i.) 
 
 Enter R. 2. DOCTOR with traveling case, etc. He takes 
 hat, etc., shakes hands mournfully, and exit L. i. 
 
 (Enter R. 2, SUITORS. They collect baggage.) 
 
 MR. POOR: It's the only thing to do. I never advised 
 our coming. 
 
 MR. SLOCUM : The train doesn't start till midnight. 
 Well, we can wait in the station. 
 
 (Enter R. i. ROSINE.) 
 
 ROSINE: What, gentlemen! Going? 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE: Going and no blood shed! (Re- 
 gretfully.) 
 
 MR. ASHBURTON: Our adieus to the Widow! (All 
 repeat, "The Widow.") 
 
 M. VALLONVILLE: Why not one serenade? I sing ze 
 refrain ; you all ze chorus. 
 
 ( SUITORS quarrel, and all talk at same time.) 
 
 ROSINE: Gentlemen, suppose we agree on this: If 
 Madam mentions any one of you with regret between now 
 and midnight I will throw his flower out of the window as 
 a signal for him to sing. 
 
 SUITORS : Agreed ! (Exit L. i. mournfully humming 
 Wedding March.) 
 
 FREDDIE (entering L. 2.) : Train doesn't start till mid- 
 night. Might as well wait here! 
 
 (Sits in arm chair behind screen, and yawns.) 
 
 (Enter R. i. WIDOW in fine evening dress, followed by 
 ARABELLA and KATE.) 
 
 WIDOW : Where are the gentlemen ? 
 
 ROSINE: Gone, Madam! 
 
 WIDOW: Oh! and the Doctor? 
 
 ROSINE: Gone, Madam!
 
 60 THE INN OF REST 
 
 WIDOW (blankly) : Oh! Of course, Mr. Marshall has 
 gone! 
 
 ROSINE: Oh, of course, Madam! (Exit R. 2. FRED- 
 DIE, unseen, peeps from screen, yawns and withdraws.) 
 
 WIDOW : How nice ! Now we shall have a lovely time 
 by ourselves. 
 
 KATE: Four women alone in a desert! Yes, isn't it 
 nice! (Pause.) 
 
 WIDOW : I suppose we can hire a boy to bait our fish- 
 hooks and scare away the cows when we are sketching! 
 
 KATE: Oh, no! Boys remind one so unpleasantly of 
 men! 
 
 WIDOW: True! (Yawns.) Why (looks at clock) 
 it's eight o'clock ! I shall go to bed ! 
 
 ARABELLA : There are none but women in the house 
 the landlady and her daughter both are women, you know ! 
 Do you think it is safe? (All shudder.) 
 
 WIDOW (jauntily): Oh, of course, it's safe! The 
 prospectus said no mosquitoes, mice, malaria, nor burglars. 
 
 ARABELLA: I don't know which I dread most! Provi- 
 dence sent burglars into this world to reconcile women to 
 men. 
 
 Enter R. 2. ROSINE with mail. KATE, ARABELLA and 
 WIDOW shriek nervously. 
 
 ROSINE : It's only I with the mail ! (Lays mail down 
 on table.) 
 
 WIDOW (yawns) : Only papers! (Rises.) Well, good- 
 night ! 
 
 ARABELLA (with paper) : Oh, Nellie, the meanest thing 
 about you! See! (Gives paper.) 
 
 WIDOW (reading) : The idea ! I didn't ! 
 
 ARABELLA : You did, a little, dear ! 
 
 KATE (looks over paper) : Well, there are no laws 
 against flirting. 
 
 WIDOW : But I didn't ! You know I'm incapable of it. 
 (Pause.) You are all very unsympathetic but that's only 
 what one may expect from one's women friends! (A 
 pause.) Rosine, you can sell my clothes. I intend to be a 
 deaconess.
 
 THE GIBSON PLAY, 1 
 
 ROSINE: Oh, yes, Madam! The little bonnets are so 
 becoming. (A pause.) 
 
 WIDOW (begins to cry quietly, then louder) : It's truel 
 I am a shameless flirt ! 
 
 KATE (comforting her) : Why, Nellie ! 
 
 ARABELLA: My dear! (Comforting her.) 
 
 ROSINE: Madam! (Comforting her.) 
 
 WIDOW: No, don't excuse me to myself! I deserve 
 that no one should love me ! but I intend to be different ! 
 (Runs to window, throws out flowers.) 
 
 ROSINE: Oh, she has given the signal! 
 
 (Singing of SUITORS is heard approaching. WIDOW 
 and ARABELLA and KATE shriek with fright. KATE puts 
 fingers in ears.) 
 
 WIDOW : Burglars ! It's my fault there are no men to 
 protect you ! But I will save you ! (Seises one of the rifles 
 left by SUITORS and fires. Shouts heard outside; WIDOW 
 throws herself moaning into chair and covers face. DOCTOR 
 and SUITORS enter by window and door L. I. General agi- 
 tation.) 
 
 WIDOW: (rises solemnly) : Where is he? 
 
 ALL: Who? 
 
 WIDOW: The man I shot! (Sees FREDDIE in chair 
 asleep; shrieks.) Freddie! Freddie! I didn't mean to, 
 Freddie! Do you hear me, Freddie! (FREDDIE opens eyes.) 
 
 WIDOW: Oh, my darling, tell me you forgive me! 
 There, I'll put my lips to your ear ! hush ! He's trying to 
 say something ! 
 
 FREDDIE: Is this a dream? 
 
 WIDOW: He's wandering! No, my darling, my only 
 love, it is no dream; it is the fatal truth. 
 
 FREDDIE (rising) : I'm sorry I should have liked tc 
 dream again! 
 
 WIDOW (realising her mistake): FREDDIE! (They 
 join hands. ARABELLA faints in DOCTOR'S arms.) Tableau.
 
 IN A HOSPITAL 
 
 Edgar Fawcett 
 
 I cannot move among these mournful halls 
 Where many a white-lipped sufferer has Iain, 
 Where life is one stern monotone of pain, 
 
 Jarred only by death's ghastlier intervals, 
 
 But some new gradual sense my soul enthralls 
 And bids me hold the ironical disdain 
 Born of the pessimist as wildly vain, 
 
 Like a rash curse that recks not how it falls. 
 
 For though the old baffling question fronts me here 
 Of why such piteous woes at all should be, 
 
 Of why fate's bitter laws thus bruise and ban, 
 Ah, still one realization, fair and clear, 
 Towers up in monumental sanctity 
 The ennobling sympathy of man for man.
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 
 
 P.P. Verney
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL. 
 
 |HERE is something in the monotonous 
 regularity of the rows of tidy little white 
 beds in a hospital, with their neat white 
 coverlets and the load of misery upon each, 
 which at first sight is very depressing. It is the wonder- 
 ful variety, however, both of the characters of the in- 
 mates and of the ailments treated, that is their most 
 striking characteristic as they become better known; 
 while the insight there to be gained as to the "manner 
 and customs" of the classes for whose dwellings we are 
 now trying to legislate, is only too significant of the 
 houses (miscalled "homes," indeed) from which they 
 come. The strange phases of human nature, and human 
 suffering in unimaginable forms, the manner in which 
 science is utilized to remedy that suffering, and the care 
 and kindness that strive to alleviate it, make a large hos- 
 pital a 'most interesting study of the best kind of help. 
 It is often here that any civilizing influence is first 
 brought to bear on the sufferers, that they first experi- 
 ence gentle treatment and kindness, and come in contact 
 with larger ideals. 
 
 Here are a few experiences during a few months in 
 a few beds of a great town hospital. 
 
 No. 73 (each occupant is known by his number alone) 
 was a tall, strong Irishman, a dock laborer, brought in 
 violently drunk, wet through, and with a very bad scalp 
 wound. He had been helping to unload a vessel with 
 casks of spirits, and has been "sucking the monkey" a 
 favorite dodge when a hole is pierced in a cask, when 
 it can be done unobserved, and the raw spirits are 
 sucked out with a straw. In this case the not unnatural 
 result had been that the man had fallen into the river. 
 The nurses began to wash and prepare the wound for the
 
 68 THE INN OF REST 
 
 doctors, but he was so drunk that he would scarcely let 
 them touch him, and complained bitterly of their unkind- 
 ness. When the doctors arrived they began by playing 
 on the wound with carbolic spray, used to prevent it from 
 growing cold, but the patient said that it spurted into 
 his face, he became violent, and declared that he would 
 not have anything done to him, for they were using 
 him cruelly. 
 
 The doctor grew angry, and sent for the porter to 
 help, telling the man that he must either have his wound 
 properly dressed or leave the hospital ; the threat would 
 have been difficult to carry out, however, for the wet 
 clothes could not be put on him, and there were no 
 others to be had. The house-surgeon and three students 
 were now standing two on each side the bed, when sud- 
 denly the patient hit out with his powerful arms in their 
 drunken strength, threw down the four doctors who 
 being utterly unprepared for the assault, went over like 
 ninepins jumped out of bed, and ran across theward into 
 the next in his hospital shirt. The doctor came in at 
 this moment and stopped him. 
 
 "Pretty fellows you are !" said the doctor. "Why you've 
 been so long in coming that the patient might have flung 
 himself out of the window." 
 
 "I fling myself out of the window! I am not such a 
 fool. I am not going to hurt myself to please any of 
 you," laughed the man. 
 
 He was then got back into bed, and the doctor sternly 
 ordered him to lie still. Perhaps the run had quieted him 
 to a certain degree, and he submitted at last. The spray, 
 which is rather fragrant and refreshing, was used again, 
 and again he complained angrily. 
 
 "If he is such a coward as to 'mind that, cover his 
 face with a handkerchief," said the doctor contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 At length the dressing was over, and he went to sleep. 
 The next morning when the spirits were out and the wits 
 were in, he was thoroughly ashamed of his conduct, of 
 which he could only recollect a small portion, but was
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 69 
 
 kindly reminded of the rest by the occupants of the beds 
 on both sides. He became one of the best behaved pa- 
 tients in the ward tried to be helpful to the nurses, and 
 was considered "very good company" by his neighbors, 
 for whose delectation and his own he used to dance jigs 
 and hornpipes as he grew better. After he left the hos- 
 pital one of the nurses was startled one day by an un- 
 recognizably dirty man rushing out of a group of other 
 workmen like himself to pour out his thanks in vehe- 
 ment terms. 
 
 I pass over the details concerning the next, which was 
 a horrible case of suicide a Spaniard who had attempted 
 to blow out his brains in bed and had only partly suc- 
 ceeded. He lived five or six dreadful hours after he was 
 brought in. 
 
 The next occupant of the No. 73 bed was a very re- 
 spectable, well-looking young man who had gone to the 
 Alexandra Palace with a friend for a day's pleasure. "We 
 went about and about, and we took a little of the Irish 
 here, and a little of the Irish there, till we had too much 
 of the Irish, and we went on till the latest train had left." 
 He then walked back to London to a little street in the 
 West End. It was four o'clock in the morning, and the 
 lodging-house refused to admit him, so he sat down on 
 the step in a half drunken sleep, on a bitter spring night, 
 to wait till the door was opened. He was suffering from 
 a cold, and the spirits and the chill together brought on 
 violent inflammation of both lungs (which is uncommon). 
 A few days after his arrival he became delirious, and 
 the only person who could manage him was a nurse 
 whom he took for some friend of his called "Minnie." 
 "Thank God, I have got one friend here !" he kept on re- 
 peating. He set his heart on their taking an expedition 
 together. "Now promise me that you will go to the 
 Alexandra Palace with me, Minnie, next week." And as 
 all contradiction enraged him, she was obliged to an- 
 swer, "If you're well enough on Monday, I promise to 
 go," which could be safely done. Whenever she was 
 away he became extremely violent, and on one occasion
 
 70 THE INN OF REST 
 
 rushed off trying to escape from the ward, pursued by 
 eight men and several of the nurses. At last he was se- 
 cured and carried to the padded room where delirious 
 patients are kept. He gave an account of what had 
 taken place to "Minnie," and correctly so far, ending, 
 however, with "One man held a revolver and the other 
 a knife over me; one said, 'Let us blow his brains out,' 
 and the other, 'No, let us cut his throat.' " 
 
 He was so heated by the strait-waistcoat that the 
 nurse, when she came, undid it, with the doctor's per- 
 mission "If you think you can manage him." The bed 
 is on the floor, and no chair is allowed in the padded 
 room lest it should be used for aggressive purposes, so 
 that she had to kneel when putting on jacket poultices 
 and feeding him. The friend who had led him into mis- 
 chief came to see him, and was asked to bring some jelly 
 to the patient. "It is not the least use," said he, "the 
 nurses will take it all away that is what they are here 
 for!" The nurse, who had been extremely kind to him, 
 was pained crazy as she knew him to be and showed 
 it. When his visitor was gone he looked at her. "Min- 
 nie, why do you look so scared? Did you think I was 
 going to tell ? No, no ; I am a bad one, but not so bad as 
 that!" He was thankful for the quiet of the padded 
 room, but it was very close, though the door is always 
 left open that the nurse may summon assistance. "Oh, 
 for a breath of fresh air!" sighed the poor patient who 
 was a Devonshire man, and he was transferred to a 
 small ward, the nurse undertaking to keep the peace. 
 
 The chaplain attempted to come to his help, but the 
 sight of a strange man made the patient ungovernable, 
 and the few texts and "good words" which the nurse 
 could slip into the poor wandering mind was all that 
 could be done for him. "If I ever get over this I'll lead 
 a new life. I'll not live as I have done/' he repeated. He 
 grew worse and worse, and one evening when she was 
 going off duty he said, "Shake hands, Minnie, I'll never 
 forget you good-night. Why will you leave me?" Her 
 duty, however, required her to go, and she promised to
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 71 
 
 return to him in the morning. "I'll try and live till you 
 come back," he sighed; but he never saw her again, he 
 died within an hour or two afterwards. He was so much 
 above the usual level of the inmates of the wards that 
 his death made quite a sensation among the patients, who 
 are generally very indifferent to the fate of their com- 
 rades. 
 
 Another case of suicide cahme in at this time; a poor 
 woman whose husband had been earning from four to five 
 guineas a week, was suddenly left a widow, with six chil- 
 dren, one of them a baby. After striving a little time to 
 support them, she lost heart, said she could not see them 
 starve, and drank a horrible mixture, like vitriol, used 
 for cleaning lamps, to poison herself. It burnt the throat 
 and stomach in a fearful manner, but she was carried into 
 the hospital immediately, so that measures were taken 
 to prevent her death. It seemed strange that with so 
 many painless modes of dismissal she should have taken 
 one entailing such frightful suffering; but she was evi- 
 dently completely beside herself ; and it was very pathetic 
 how she had rushed upon her release without bestowing 
 a thought upon the pain of the means, "Anywhere, any- 
 where, out of the world." "Shall I get over it?" she said 
 in a depressed tone when she was beginning to improve 
 it was evidently not to her a wished-for ending. Having 
 been better off she could not bear the idea of coming 
 down to being a pauper. Friends, however, turned up 
 when it was almost too late, and helped with the children. 
 A policeman was waiting for her to take her before a 
 magistrate when she left the hospital, but the nurses con- 
 nived at her going out at an hour when he was not there. 
 And here the story ends, how she faced her life struggle 
 again and with what results remains forever unknown, 
 sunk in the deep tide of misery to be found in our great 
 towns. , 
 
 No. 47 was a boy of fifteen, with dreadful fits; he 
 foamed at the mouth, he twisted and twirled, and some- 
 times threw his legs into the air, almost standing on his 
 head. At the end of a week, however, nurses and doc-
 
 7* THE INN OF REST 
 
 tors began to have their doubts, the attacks never came 
 on when the doctors were by, and the dead faints never 
 took place until he was within safe distance of the bed 
 to fall upon. A little "spine boy" in the bed opposite 
 early suspected him, and used to call out, "Go it, No. 47, 
 you do it grand ; I could not come the thing half so well 
 myself!" The doctors are extremely cautious in declar- 
 ing that a patient is shamming, by which they may get 
 the hospital into bad odor, and the boy was allowed to 
 go on for some little time. At last the doctor called for 
 a wet towel, and gave him a sharpish flick on the cheek, 
 in the fit, when the "insensible" patient winced, and the 
 next day when, by the doctor's orders, the nurse gave him 
 a smart cut with the same wet towel in his "dead faint," 
 he howled and called out about her cruelty. He was sen- 
 tenced to be turned out, and his mother was sent for ; she 
 arrived in a perfect state of fury at the slur cast upon 
 her son, declaring that she would appeal to the directors, 
 the trustees, the police, and the world at large but go 
 he did. It was found out that he had been apprenticed, 
 and not liking work, he had retired on the hospital as a 
 pleasant retreat. He must have been a clever boy to 
 imitate the symptoms of a fit so as to deceive both doc- 
 tors and nurses for even so long. 
 
 Drunkenness is the cause of two-thirds of the acci- 
 dents, and a great portion of the illnesses that come into 
 hospitals. No. 46 was a man who came in drunk, with 
 a broken leg, after an accident. A kind friend, drunk 
 like himself, took him on his back to carry him to the 
 hospital. He could not, however, walk straight, and fell 
 with his burden and upon him, seriously injuring the 
 broken limb. The drinking begins before breakfast, and 
 the patients say to each other, "I say, old boy, don't yer 
 miss the half-pint" (beer understood) "and the pen'orth ?" 
 (gin, understood). 
 
 A shoemaker, with a good shop and a good business, 
 was found dead drunk in the gutter, so full of spirits 
 that he was dying of suffocation. He was brought into 
 the ward, and the students, seeing what was the matter,
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 73 
 
 and thoroughly disgusted, put a screen around him and 
 set to work pumping upon him with all their hearts, till 
 he was completely wet through. He remained two days, 
 till his clothes were dry, calling out for his wife, who 
 came to see him with a beautiful baby in her arms, and 
 took him away; the future which probably lay before 
 her and her children was a dismal one indeed. 
 
 "Patients' friends" are generally a sad nuisance, and 
 do much harm. Two or three Irish women will come and 
 howl and shriek over a dying compatriot so as to dis- 
 turb the whole ward, before they can be stopped. A ten- 
 der mother will slip apples and oranges into the bed of 
 a child suffering from bad stomach disorders, or a wife 
 insinuate a cooked sausage under the coverlet of a man 
 in the worst stage of dysentery. Whiskey is the cure 
 for all ailments, and a number of bottles are not seldom 
 detected. The eatables are put in the ward fire in public, 
 that it may not be supposed that nurses profit by their 
 confiscation; the whiskey is poured out of the window, 
 and the owners are afmost in tears at the "sinful waste" 
 of the "beautiful" stuff thus recklessly sacrificed! 
 
 The next case was a man brought in with throat cut 
 nearly from ear to ear. The surgeon asked, "Is this sui- 
 cide or murder?" "No, sir, not suicide," said one of the 
 students, standing by, "it was one of his friends did it 
 for him," at which there was a laugh all round the bed 
 except from the poor sufferer. He was a dock laborer 
 who had taken a job at a lower rate than a fellow-work- 
 man; his rival met him in the street by daylight, and 
 drew a razor across his throat. The victim fell bathed 
 with blood, but his enemy, not feeling sure he had ac- 
 complished his object sufficiently, gave him a second cut 
 even deeper than before. The patient could not swallow, 
 and could only be fed by a tube inserted in the throat. 
 He was suffering already from a bad attack of bronchitis, 
 and the doctors had hardly any hope of getting him 
 through. With the care and the skilled nursing he re- 
 covered, however, "but I shall never be my own man 
 again," he said. Policemen were watching him day and
 
 74 THE INN OF REST 
 
 night, because if he died the case would be one of hang- 
 ing for his assailant, who had been arrested immediately. 
 As soon as the patient was able to stand he was taken in 
 a carriage to give his evidence, when the aggressor was 
 condemned to a long term of penal-rservitude. 
 
 To No. 57 there came a great burly Irishman, with an 
 enormous lump on his forehead, his eye shut up, and a 
 blow at the back of his head which it was feared might 
 prove serious. He said that he had fallen from a scaf- 
 folding, but the doctors felt quite sure that the blows had 
 been received in fighting. He had a scowling, bad ex- 
 pression, and came in swearing, dirty as the ground, his 
 clothes torn, and his shoes dropping off his feet. The 
 porter put him into a bath, but even then he was hardly 
 fit to touch. He began at once making difficulties; he 
 was not used, he said, to lie down during the day. It was 
 with great trouble that he was got into bed, where his 
 huge bulk lay "like a hippopotamus." He used to get 
 rid of the sheets and wrap himself up in the bedclothes 
 in a bundle like an animal. His language was abomin- 
 able, and he sang wicked songs. He would jump out of 
 bed, and shut the windows of the small ward in which he 
 lay, and when he got the nurses into trouble about the 
 want of ventilation, he always denied that he had touched 
 the window. 
 
 "Why don't you help us with our singing, as they do 
 in the other wards ?" said one of the patients to the nurse. 
 "Because," she said, "you can't expect me to sing such 
 things as you are singing," whereupon he struck up the 
 Te Deum, and she helped him to the best of her power. 
 That afternoon they had none but proper songs. The 
 next day, however, the Irishman complained bitterly that 
 "the nurses would sing yesterday all that was wanted, 
 and if I begin there's nothing but looks as black as 
 thoonder." 
 
 There is a placard in each room forbidding all swear- 
 ing, and the nurses tried to check his oaths by saying that 
 they should report him to the authorities. "Yes," he 
 said, "there you go on, all of you, reporting and report-
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 75 
 
 ing! We're not children. You'll find yourselves in the 
 wrong box some of these days. What will you say when 
 you get a crack on the back of the neck some day as 
 you're passing round the corner of the street?" He was 
 utterly unmanageable, and the doctors were extremely 
 anxious to get him out of the hospital, where he did 
 harm to all in the ward who followed his lead ; and at the 
 end of three weeks, to his great disgust, he was sent away, 
 his wounds being very much better. He had complained 
 of everything of the food, of the dressings, which were 
 not at all painful. But the sorest grievance of all was 
 being turned out sooner than the rest. "Thankful!" he 
 said; "what should I be thankful for? This hospital be- 
 longs to the poor, and you nurses are our paid servants. 
 We are not going to be thankful to you; you get your 
 training on us." 
 
 There were some very bad cases of skin-disease at this 
 time ("I wonder whether Job was suffering from ec- 
 zema," said an expert). One of elephantiasis, which, 
 being rare, was very interesting to the doctors, and of 
 which the possessor was exceedingly proud, the leg hav- 
 ing swelled so that he required a trouser almost like a 
 petticoat. 
 
 The uncommon cases receive most attention (not care) 
 from the doctors; accordingly the fortunate object takes 
 great pride in himself. "I am an interesting case," he 
 says to his neighbor, perhaps "a compound fracture," 
 whose suffering may be far greater, if more common- 
 place, and who sighs and looks on him with envy. 
 
 "A compound fracture," however, became a public 
 character about this time. After trying to save the pa- 
 tient's leg the doctors told him that it must be ampu- 
 tated. He was fed up and prepared with great care, and 
 was supposed to be in very good condition for the opera- 
 tion. His wife was warned that it was to take place, and 
 she came to see him just before he was carried to the 
 theatre, when she was left sitting by his bed to await his 
 return. Chloroform was administered, but before a 
 knife had even touched him the man was dead. There
 
 76 THE INN OF REST 
 
 was a terrible "upset" among the doctors ; the ward-sis- 
 ter and the nurses were crying as if their hearts would 
 break. "You must tell her," said the sister. "I never 
 can do it," sobbed the nurse. At last the sister had to 
 go up to the watching woman, widowed within the last 
 few minutes, and sitting all unconscious beside the empty 
 bed, to break the news. 
 
 The effects of chloroform are strangely varied. In 
 general the sickness brought on by it produces great de- 
 pression, but in one case a man was brought out of the 
 operation theatre singing at the top of his voice with ex- 
 citement. When he reached the ward he cried out, 
 "Chorus, gentlemen, chorus !" and every one took up the 
 singing as they were told, supposing only that he rejoiced 
 that the probation time was over. 
 
 The things which alarm some of these great strong 
 men are very curious. "Just look at that there window- 
 curtain blowing! the draught's enough to kill a man." 
 A bath is looked upon as very dangerous ; they will do 
 anything to avoid it. "Why, it'll just be the death of me 
 to be wet all over !" or, "I had a bath last night, I needn't 
 go in!" entreats a man who has apparently never been 
 washed since he was a child. The thermometer for tak- 
 ing the "temperature" of a patient is looked upon with 
 awe. "Will it hurt me very much, nurse?" said a great 
 heavy dock laborer, looking anxiously at the mysterious 
 little instrument. 
 
 Two frightful cases of hydrophobia, which came in at 
 not long intervals, illustrated the terrible side which must 
 always be in a hospital. The madness which accompanied 
 the disease was so violent that it was too much for the 
 nurses to manage, and both had to be looked after by 
 the porter both died. 
 
 The wide catholicity of the help which hospitals afford 
 is shown by the number of strange nationalities to be 
 found there at different times black men, yellow men, 
 dusky men, pale-faced men, Spaniards, Norwegians, East 
 Indians, and men of the West, etc., etc. A full-blooded 
 negro sailor, who came in fresh from Africa, used to strip
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 77 
 
 off his shirt and tie a handkerchief round his waist as 
 soon as nurses and doctors turned their backs, and even 
 rush across the ward in this condition ; he was not used 
 to clothes ; washing was detestable to him, but he saved 
 up his butter to oil himself all over with. If he was 
 thwarted, he looked as if he would put a knife into the 
 offender. He was suffering from dysentery, and could 
 not endure the starvation from solid food which the 
 treatment required, and ran away. He was sent back by 
 the ship's doctor, however, and when asked for the rea- 
 son of his flight, said "Abdallah's small boy dead"; but 
 as the sad event took place in Africa it hardly seemed 
 relevant to his escape. 
 
 A Chinaman was so conscfous that he was well 
 off that when he was ordered to be taken to the Union 
 he absolutely refused to go, and adhered so firmly though 
 quietly to the floor of the padded room that he was only 
 got off with great difficulty. He was like a surly dog. 
 
 Another Chinaman, suffering from bronchitis, was per- 
 suaded one day, as he sat on the side of his bed, to un- 
 plait his tail, and laughed heartily at the surprise of the 
 earnest onlookers, to find that it, and indeed all other 
 tails (he said) were largely composed of false hair and 
 silk, to make them look big and important. 
 
 The number of negroes, chiefly sailors, to be found 
 in hospital, is great, and points to the growing difficulty 
 in obtaining a sufficient supply of English seamen. It 
 shows that the whole nominal strength of our merchant 
 service is not to be relied on as a reserve for the navy 
 in time of war, on which we sometimes seem to count. 
 
 A surreptitious addition was made to the black popu- 
 lation in hospital one day. A woman (white) had been 
 admitted for some complaint, and her further condition 
 was not found out till so late that the authorities did not 
 like to send her away. The child, when it arrived, turned 
 out a full negro, woolly hair, thick lips, color, etc., all 
 complete. It was a jolly little babe, however, and the sis- 
 ter, who was most angry at the clandestine mode of its
 
 78 THE INN OF REST 
 
 arrival, was so proud of it that she often carried it about 
 the wards to be admired. 
 
 Even the hurts from wild beasts are not unrepresented. 
 A man working in a menagerie was bitten severely by a 
 bear in cleaning out his den, having omitted to drive him 
 into the inner cell. His hand was hardly human to look 
 at, but as soon as he could get out he went back "to stir 
 up the bear with a pole," and he ended by declaring 
 that he "would be even with him still." So that as the 
 bear probably had his own views on the subject, the pros- 
 pects of peace were not great in the den. 
 
 The sufferings of children are always very pathetic to 
 witness. No. 73 was a poor little boy of seven years old ; 
 his father, in a drunken fit, was beating his wife violently, 
 when the child rushed in and tried to protect her; the 
 father seized him by the legs and threw him over his 
 shoulders on to the stone floor behind. His head was 
 frightfully injured, and he was carried into the hospital, 
 where he lay moaning in delirium for days and days. Af- 
 ter that he recovered a little, so as to be conscious, and 
 was a great pet in the ward. The dressings were very 
 painful, and the men in the beds round him, who did not 
 care much for each other's sufferings, were all extremely 
 interested and pitiful. 
 
 "Don't yer mind, chappie, it'll soon be over, and you'll 
 be so comfortable afterwards; take heart, little un, and 
 then you shall sing to us." 
 
 The child's songs were very popular, particularly one 
 about Jacko, the negro boy. "There is no fun when 
 Jacko is not there," was the chorus; then all sorts of 
 misfortunes happened, "the fiddler's fingers won't go 
 straight; he'll go and bust his bow!" 
 
 The father and mother came to see him, to the great 
 indignation of the company. The men cried out when 
 they were gone, "He ought to have twenty years" (penal 
 servitude understood). That he should beat his wife was 
 natural, and probably served her right, but that he should 
 so injure his boy was quite outside the laws of the 
 game in their eyes.
 
 79 
 
 The child had not the smallest feeling against his 
 father, but he quite agreed with this view, and added, 
 "Yes, he ought to be in a cook-shop for a month, with 
 nothing to eat but the steam he can lick off the win- 
 dows." He had evidently served his apprenticeship to 
 the sight of pleasures without the possibility of enjoy- 
 ing them. As he grew better he became a little restless, 
 and used to run about, in his small hospital dressing- 
 gown, sometimes with the temperature thermometer 
 tucked under his arm, in and out among the beds ; it was 
 against orders, but neither nurses nor doctors chose to 
 see him; the men sometimes interceded for him "Let 
 him run, miss, it'll do him a lot of good, poor little chap." 
 
 He was kept as long as possible, and was very sorry to 
 go to the dismal home which he was to return to, al- 
 though the mother seemed to be a tolerably respectable, 
 quiet woman. His health was permanently injured, and 
 he never could hope to be a strong man. 
 
 Another little thing of six years old, and looking even 
 younger, was brought in, terribly burnt from sitting up 
 in bed smoking "pretence" cigarettes of paper. The dress- 
 ing of the wounds was so painful that he often tried to 
 bite and scratch the nurses; but at other times he was 
 a sweet little boy, of whom they were all extremely 
 fond; and one of the nurses used to carry him about in 
 her arms like a baby to visit the different beds, where he 
 sang his little songs, which were very popular "The 
 girl I did court, and the ring I did bought," etc. 
 
 On one occasion a mere baby was brought in with a 
 burn. It had been taken first among the children, but 
 was suspected of measles, and the doctor ordered it into 
 the men's ward, as a matter of precaution. 
 
 "I do not believe it is measles," said the nurse. 
 
 "What else can it be?" answered the doctor. 
 
 "Flea-bites," replied she. She was right as it turned 
 out. 
 
 The marks literally touched each other. It gives some 
 little idea of the dirt of the places from which some of the 
 patients come. The men who could walk were always
 
 80 THE INN OF REST 
 
 fussing about the little cot, giving the baby her bottle, 
 etc., etc., and those who were bedridden talked about it. 
 
 The presence of child patients in the ward is extremely 
 beneficial ; the men scruple at using bad words or swear- 
 ing before them, and it brings out the best and kindest 
 part of their nature. In the wards where they are to be 
 found, the men are always more civilized and better con- 
 ducted. 
 
 There is an open time after tea, when the patients are 
 allowed to do what they please. Music is the great dis- 
 traction. When a nurse is there and can persuade one 
 performer to sing at a time, and the rest to join in the 
 chorus, the effect is very tolerable; but when each man 
 sings his own words, to his own tune, and when the tri- 
 angle, the penny whistle, and the Jews-harp the only 
 instruments allowed all take their own lines, the uproar 
 is tremendous; the pleasure in mere noise is evidently 
 great after the enforced quiet of so many hours, and it 
 must be remembered that many of the patients are lads 
 under twenty. There are, however, more sedate pas- 
 times drafts, dominoes, and illustrated papers. 
 
 These are a few cases only among the thousands of 
 sufferers. The manner in which the human atoms rise 
 into the full light of hospital publicity, and are helped in 
 all the ways that skill and kindness can suggest, and then 
 disappear forever in the great seething ocean of life, into 
 an oblivion as complete as that of death itself, is, how- 
 ever, very sad; not one in four or five hundred is ever 
 heard from again. A few return on the visiting days to 
 see their friends and thank the nurse or doctor, but the 
 population inside and outside the hospital changes so 
 rapidly that their visits soon cease. 
 
 The hospital, itself, however, is anything but a sad 
 place. On the women's side those who are married han- 
 ker after their children and their wretched homes, but 
 the men are less troubled by sentimental regrets, and 
 are extremely "jolly." They are mostly better off than 
 they have ever been in their lives in material comforts; 
 they have what is to them very agreeable society and a
 
 IN A GREAT TOWN HOSPITAL 81 
 
 good deal of amusement; the nurses are cheerful, and 
 low spirits are not the distinguishing feature of young 
 doctors. 
 
 The immense change which a greater knowledge of 
 the human frame has brought about in medical treat- 
 ment has entirely altered the status of nurses ; they must 
 be sufficiently trained to carry out the orders of the 
 doctors now, when the mere swallowing of drugs has 
 become a small part of the cure. External applications 
 have taken the place of the old practise; bleeding and 
 blistering are almost unknown. The use of the micro- 
 scope, of the stethoscope, the taking of the temperature, 
 are all discoveries of the last score of years. The idea 
 of assisting nature to restore health has taken the field, 
 conservative surgery has become the rule, and the value 
 of good nursing has accordingly risen in proportion. 
 "This is a case for the nurse," says the doctor continu- 
 ally, especially in medical cases, after giving his orders, 
 which only an intelligent person on the spot, trained 
 for the purpose to understand what is before her eyes, 
 could see carried out properly. "To put in practise the 
 instructions she receives according to the changing agen- 
 cies at the moment of the sick person" is no light task. 
 
 The hospital is a charitable institution which may 
 be said to do more good and less harm than any other. 
 It does not pauperize, and gives help at the most criti- 
 cal moment to the sufferers. It is essentially Christian; 
 there is no trace of anything of the kind in the ancient re- 
 ligions. Hospitals for cats and monkeys existed in Egypt 
 and India, but it was as sacred characters, sick divini- 
 ties, that they were well treated, not as fellow-creatures. 
 It was not till Christianity taught the world the value 
 of the individual human life, even when distorted and 
 degraded by disease and misery, that such institutions 
 became possible. It is the more to be regretted when 
 we hear of any short-comings in "Hospital Saturdays" 
 and Sundays, and that the working classes do not take 
 more interest in assisting the cause. Perhaps, if they 
 could have some share of representation on the govern-
 
 83 THE INN OF REST 
 
 ing bodies of the hospitals, this at least might be to 
 some degree remedied. The cause is their own. It is for 
 their own benefit, as they are strangely slow to perceive. 
 The balance sheets of some of the unendowed hospitals 
 are somewhat sad reading. In one case 20,000 was 
 asked for to conduct the work, which there was small 
 chance of raising; and smaller institutions require far 
 larger subsidies than they can get. A wider field from 
 which to draw their resources would greatly assist the 
 harvest necessary for the full development of the most 
 useful of charities. 
 
 Probably also some small payments should be exacted 
 from many who are perfectly able to contribute, for 
 assistance which they receive at present in forma pau- 
 peris an imputation which they would resent greatly in 
 any other connection. To receive charity, in short, when 
 they ought to provide the help for themselves, is to pre- 
 vent those in real destitution from obtaining as much 
 of the benefits of the institution as they would other- 
 wise do. Many beds are left vacant in several of the 
 best of hospitals because the funds are not sufficient to 
 support the expense of them, which is indeed a sorry 
 sight for those who care for their kind.
 
 ....... 
 
 1 Is, 11 is al l< a ? might i 
 The cause is their own. ; 
 y are strangely slow to p- 
 ;^ of some of the unendowed h f 
 reading. In one case 20,'.-** 
 ct the work, v. 
 6 ' , and smaller in.-. 
 than they can get. A 
 ,v their resources would greatly assist the 
 \isary for the full development 
 
 ties. 
 
 y also some small payments should be 
 y who are perfectly able to contribut' 
 ce which they receive at present in forma ;.'.-- 
 un imputation which they would resent grea 
 other connection. To receive charity, in short, when 
 ought to provide the help for themselves, is to pre- 
 those in real destitutk obtaining as much 
 
 T*fimyMRdK&n? WosrriAL. /^Jftftal of the 
 of hospitals because the fund* are not sufficient to 
 -ort the expense of the: indeed a sorry 
 
 sight for those who care ft
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD 
 OF PAIN 
 
 Elizabeth G. Jordan
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN. 
 
 |HEY had told her that only an operation could 
 save her life, and that it must be performed at 
 once. The voice of the physician who first spoke 
 seemed a trifle strained and unnatural as he de- 
 livered this decision. He hesitated perceptibly over his 
 words, and his eyes moved restlessly as she fastened 
 hers upon him. Even in the sudden mental panic that 
 had seized her, and which she was controlling so well, 
 she realized his discomfort, and felt a vague gratitude 
 for the sympathy that caused it. 
 
 It could not be easy, she reflected, to tell a young wo- 
 man for whom life held as much as it did for her that a 
 mortal disease had fastened on her. She, who had al- 
 ways analyzed herself and others, discovered that even 
 at this crisis she was dreamily trying to follow the men- 
 tal process of the famous surgeon, who had begun to 
 roam restlessly about the room. 
 
 "He will say nothing for a moment," she thought. 
 "He is giving me time to pull myself together. I can, 
 but I do need the time. He needs it to. He has had 
 to tell a woman who is young and rich, one who is am- 
 bitious and in love, something that may mean the loss 
 of all these things. He has made her feel as if the world 
 were slipping under her feet. The only thing that may 
 save her the knife. My work must stop, my friends 
 must stand by helplessly. Even Jack can do nothing 
 for me dear Jack, who would do anything * * * *" 
 The objects in the room grew suddenly dim. She sank 
 deeper into the big chair that held her, while despair, 
 sudden and unreasoning, filled her soul. The question 
 which has so often come to men and women in agony, 
 through all time, rose in her. Why, oh, why had ex- 
 istence begun at all, if it must end like this? To her
 
 86 THE INN OF REST 
 
 the grim implacability of fate was as awful as a revelation, 
 as if she were the only one to whom it had ever come. 
 To be projected into the world through no volition of 
 one's own; to be danced about like a puppet on a string; 
 to have the body to which one is tied seized by disease, 
 and to be forced to watch one's own decay, helpless to 
 arrest or avert it that was a horror before which the 
 soul itself must shrink. 
 
 Her strong soul was appalled by the prospect. Many 
 had leaned on it in 'the course of her young life, whose 
 brightness had not made her heedless of the gloom in 
 which some have to walk. Her strength had never 
 failed them; but in this tragedy it was failing herself, 
 and she found no helper. She had made her appointment 
 with the specialists, and had come to them without a 
 word, even to those who were nearest her. "Why should 
 I go to them with my trouble?" she asked herself. "It may 
 not be what I fear, and I should alarm them unneces- 
 sarily. If it is well, there will be time enough to tell 
 them when I know myself." 
 
 She thought of them now at least, she thought of 
 Jack. Was it only last June they had been married? It 
 seemed as if they had always been together, as if they 
 had always belonged to each other, as if life had only 
 really begun when she met him. He came vividly be- 
 fore her gay, debonair, his brown eyes full of the ten- 
 derness she knew so well. She pictured the change that 
 would come in them when she told him the thought 
 wrung from her what her own suffering had not done. 
 She groaned, and the three physicians at once assumed 
 an air of professional interest. 
 
 In the interval of silence they had worn their usual 
 calm. They were suave, polished, hopeful. In this 
 atmosphere of cool, scientific interest, the woman's will 
 asserted itself, and she set her teeth with the determina- 
 tion to meet these men with a calmness equal to their 
 own. She asked that the operation might be performed 
 three days later, and found them thoroughly in accord 
 with her wish to have the matter hastened. Every de-
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 87 
 
 tail was arranged ; the strain was lightened to the ex- 
 tent of a mild professional jest or two, dropped with the 
 friendly wish to convince her that the situation was not 
 hopelessly tragic. Then she went to her carriage, while 
 three pairs of eyes looked after her, and then at each 
 other, with an expression it was well she did not see. 
 She directed the coachman to drive home, and, draw- 
 ing her furs around her, gave herself again to reflection. 
 Unconsciously she dropped forward a little in her seat, 
 staring at the falling snow outside with eyes which 
 hardly saw the streets and scenes through which she 
 passed. At one point in the journey up town the car- 
 riage was stopped for a moment by a sudden conges- 
 tion of traffic, but she was not conscious of it. Her beau- 
 tiful face, outlined against the dark collar of her fur 
 coat, and framed by the carriage window, drew the eyes 
 of another woman who stood at the curb waiting for 
 an opening in the lines of vehicles. She, too, was mis- 
 erable ; but something in the expression of the eyes look- 
 ing over her had made her forget her own burden in a 
 sudden thrill of unselfish sympathy. 
 
 Nevertheless, she might have failed to recognize the 
 face had she seen it three hours later, when Mrs. Jack 
 Imboden turned it toward the young Englishman 
 whom her hostess of the evening had assigned to take 
 her to dinner. She herself knew that she had never 
 looked better, and Jack had confirmed this conviction 
 when he folded her wrap about her as they were leaving 
 home. She had told him nothing of the afternoon's ex- 
 perience; she could not, she discovered. There were 
 limitations even to her courage. She could dress, she 
 could meet a dinner engagement, she could look her 
 best and be her brightest that much she could and 
 would force herself to do. But tell Jack no, not yet. 
 Perhaps after all she could arrange it so that he need 
 not know. 
 
 She was aroused from her reverie by the soft laughter 
 of the young Englishman by her side. "That is deli- 
 cious," he said appreciatively; and she became conscious
 
 88 THE INN OF REST 
 
 that she had been talking brightly, as usual, and that 
 what she had just said was rather clever. Jack had 
 caught it, too, and was looking at her with the expres- 
 sion she most loved to see in his eyes a look of proud 
 and tender proprietorship. Her own expression changed 
 so suddenly that both men noticed it, and Effingham, 
 the Englishman, commented upon it the next morning 
 as he was giving an account of the dinner to his cousin. 
 
 "Mrs. Jack Imboden, who wrote that clever society 
 novel last year, was in her best form," he said. "But for 
 all that, I don't believe she was happy. I can't explain 
 it, but every now and then there was something and 
 once she looked at Imboden in the strangest way. Do 
 you suppose they have quarreled, or that he is not treat- 
 ing her right?" 
 
 His cousin, the Honorable Cuthbert Effingham, 
 yawned widely. He had not met Mrs. Imboden, and 
 the subject did not especially interest him. 
 
 "The germ of an idea," evolved during the dinner that 
 evening, developed well. By taking Jack's partner into 
 her confidence, a rapid exchange of telegrams between 
 the East and West made Mrs. Imboden's plan succeed 
 so well that she drove with her husband to the station 
 the day before the operation, and saw him whirled away 
 in a Westward-bound train. He had rebelled loudly 
 over going; the subtle instinct that is the twin of per- 
 fect love had told him something was wrong. Once or 
 twice she had almost faltered, almost confessed it 
 would have been so great a comfort to have him to lean 
 upon. But she had sent him away, playing her part per- 
 fectly until the end. 
 
 There was much to be done that last night, she 
 thought of it, somewhat, as the last night, absolutely. 
 Her mental process refused to go beyond the events of 
 the next day; and though she did not allow her 
 thoughts to take on more than a hypothetical fore- 
 boding of death, she made her will, gave definite in- 
 structions to the friends who were now aware of what 
 was to take place, and wrote a long letter to Jack,
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 89 
 
 which was to be mailed to him, "unless," as she put it to 
 her maid, "within three days I myself give you instruc- 
 tions to the contrary." 
 
 The great surgeon came in the evening. He was 
 interested in the woman as well as in the case. He per- 
 suaded her to take a sleeping draught, mixing it himself 
 with a solicitude which would have surprised his col- 
 leagues had they seen it. 
 
 "You must sleep well to-night, you know," he said 
 to her, "and you would not do it without this. You'd say 
 you would, and you would try, but you would lie awake 
 all night and think which would be bad for you." 
 
 It was a long speech for the great surgeon. He was 
 a little surprised at himself, and was still more so when 
 late that night he found himself giving his wife the his- 
 tory of the case. It was his rule not to carry professional 
 matters into his home, and he was sorry he had broken 
 it when he saw the tears his remarks called forth. 
 
 "I need not tell you to be brave," he said, looking down 
 encouragingly at Mrs. Imboden the next day, a moment 
 before the anaesthetic was administered. "You will be 
 that, I know. But you must be hopeful. We are going 
 to bring you through all right." 
 
 The saturated cone settled over her face, and the 
 sweet fumes of the anaesthetic filled her nostrils and 
 crept into her lungs. 
 
 "Take a deep breath," she heard a voice say. "Take 
 a deep breath, and count. Begin with one, and count as 
 long as you can." 
 
 She counted steadily to eight, drawing in the fumes 
 with each breath, and, unconsciously, breathing as little 
 as possible. At nine a sudden panic came upon her. 
 Her strong will broke, and a sense of darkness and hor- 
 ror filled her. She opened her mouth to shriek, and a 
 great cold wave seemed to lift her and carry her away. 
 She heard some one say "twelve thirteen fourteen" 
 and her heart was filled with pity for a wretched wo- 
 man, who, far off in another world, was suffering. "Sev-
 
 90 THE INN OF REST 
 
 en-te-en," "ei-gh-te-en," "n-i-ne-te-en," moaned the dis- 
 tant voice. Then all was blackness and oblivion. 
 
 When she again became conscious of her own identity 
 she was one of a vast number of souls, floating through 
 a long, dark valley, at the distant end of which gleamed 
 a ray of light. She seemed, like the others, to be pro- 
 pelling herself toward this light with the dimly de- 
 fined conception that it marked her objective point. But 
 the journey was endless. Centuries seemed to pass, em- 
 pires to rise and fall, worlds to appear and disappear 
 as she traveled on. At first all was silence ; then the 
 air was filled with a low moan, increasing in violence 
 as she drew near the end of the valley, until it swelled 
 to a vast diapason of human agony. Before the horror 
 of it her brain reeled ; she grasped blindly at the shadowy 
 forms about her, but each swept on unswervingly. She 
 felt herself falling, and as she sank the conviction settled 
 upon her that this was at last the end. She did not know 
 why, but she realized that if she lost her place in that 
 dim procession she would never get back into the bright- 
 ness of the world she was seeking. She must wander 
 forever alone in the darkness. 
 
 Suddenly a voice, rich and musical, spoke beside her. 
 It was a deep, strong baritone a human voice. It 
 rose and fell softly, persistently. She did not hear the 
 words, but she knew at once that it was meant for her, 
 that it was striving to reach her and help her. To its 
 humanity and sympathy she responded as a frightened 
 child in the dark responds to the touch of its mother's 
 hand. She felt strong, well poised, resolute. She found 
 herself again a part of the throng around her, hurrying 
 towards the light, which grew brighter as they ap- 
 proached the exit from the valley. Through it all the 
 voice remained beside her, uplifting and sustaining. As 
 it grew stronger the whole valley seemed to her to be 
 full 'of it, but the other shadows took no heed. The 
 conviction strengthened that it was for her alone that 
 she alone heard it. A buoyant hope and strength took 
 possession of her, and the appalling sense of loneliness
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 91 
 
 departed. She floated calmly onward, out of the dense 
 gloom into a grey twilight, then at last through the 
 great arch at the end of the valley and into a broad 
 green field over which lay the blessed light of day. 
 
 As her eyes grew accustomed to the brightness around 
 her, she saw that the light came not from the sun, but 
 from a brilliant dome arching over the field, and from 
 which radiated myriads of golden wires converging to 
 a vast instrument in the centre. These wires threw out 
 blinding and many-colored lights. At the instrument sat 
 a woman of heroic size, in flowing white robes that 
 melted into the brilliance around her. Her great face 
 was calm, beautiful, benign. On the greensward in 
 front of her were thousands of men, women, and little 
 children. Each was dressed in white, each face was 
 distorted, and from each open mouth came cries of 
 agony. From time to time the ranks parted, and one 
 person was swept into the space directly before the in- 
 strument. The mighty hand of the woman sitting there 
 struck a key, and as the note sounded one of the wires 
 faded, and the shrieking, foremost figure sank from 
 sight. 
 
 Florence Imboden stood on the outskirts of the throng 
 and looked at those near her, forgetting her own physical 
 suffering in the sight of theirs. She seemed to under- 
 stand at once what it all meant, and she accepted with- 
 out question the explanation that suggested itself, as 
 one accepts the strange experiences that come in 
 dreams. 
 
 "This is the World of Pain," she told herself, "and 
 these are the souls of men and women whose tortured 
 bodies are lying on the operating tables in our world 
 below. The surgeons tell us when we come back that we 
 have not suffered but we do, we do !" 
 
 The young girl standing next to her was suddenly 
 swept by some invisible force to the open space before 
 the instrument. The woman left behind knew that her 
 time was coming, and braced herself to meet it. But 
 fear, hideous, sickening, demoralizing, again claimed her.
 
 92 
 
 The head of the woman at the instrument bent to her, 
 and she felt herself propelled forward. The pandemon- 
 ium around her grew wilder. She realized now that 
 the distant echo of it was what she had heard in her 
 journey through the valley. She saw the mighty hand 
 before her move towards the key, and her eyes followed 
 it. The surface of the key was a transparent crystal. 
 Looking through, she saw a room, bare, marble-lined, 
 with a table in the center around which were grouped 
 half a dozen white-robed figures. Four were men and 
 two were women nurses. On the table lay a figure. 
 As she looked, the cone in the hand of one was lifted; 
 a sudden stir of excitement was noticeable in the tense 
 circle. Under the raised cone she saw her own face, 
 white, still, terrible. There was a quick rush to and fro, 
 the body was raised, something that looked like a gal- 
 vanic battery was produced and used. The great sur- 
 geon turned from the table and threw up his hand in a 
 gesture of hopelessness. 
 
 The mighty finger at the instrument moved implacably 
 towards the key, shutting off the glimpse into the world 
 below. She felt herself sinking, going, when again the 
 wonderful voice that had sustained her sounded in her 
 ear melodious, golden, with musical inflections never 
 heard in any other world, but never to be forgotten now. 
 This time she could hear the words. 
 
 "Give her strength for the ordeal before her, and if 
 it be Thy will restore her to the life in which she has 
 done so much good, to the husband whom she has so 
 greatly blessed. We ask it in the name* * * *" 
 
 She raised her head without fear, and looked into the 
 calm eyes of the woman at the instrument. The voice 
 went on. She heard the words no longer, but those to 
 which she had listened were enough. She would live. 
 She would live for Jack, "the husband whom she had so 
 greatly blessed." Some benign, some powerful influence 
 was behind her, strengthening and upholding her. She 
 would live. 
 
 "She is coming round at last," said a voice softly.
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 93 
 
 "That was a close call x doctor," said another. "I 
 never saw a closer one. I was certain for a few seconds 
 that the pulse" 
 
 She opened her eyes. The white-walled room was 
 whirling round her. Faces, vaguely familiar, appeared 
 and disappeared. One mist-like at first, gradually shaped 
 itself into the features of the great surgeon. His stern 
 eyes smiled at her. 
 
 "It's all over," he remarked tersely. "Now you have 
 only to get well." 
 
 "Doctor," she said dreamily, "there is a soul there 
 is a soul. I have never felt certain of it before. And 
 that voice that wonderful voice that saved me the 
 voice that prayed! Whose was it?" 
 
 She saw them smile a little at her seeming incoherence. 
 
 "Never mind, dear Mrs. Imboden, that's the ether," 
 one of the nurses said gently. 
 
 But she persisted and questioned until the surgeon 
 himself came to her bedside. 
 
 "Who prayed?" she asked, "who was it that prayed?" 
 
 He laid lightly on hers the steady hand that had 
 worked so well for her, and spoke to her as one speaks 
 to a fretful child. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Imboden," he said soothingly, "you must 
 be very quiet. Don't talk. Don't think. As for this 
 voice of yours there has been no praying here." He 
 dfew on his gloves as he added, with professional pride, 
 "We have been working." 
 
 She regained strength rapidly, and some of her old- 
 time brightness and buoyancy came with it. But when 
 the news of the accident in which Jack Imboden had met 
 his death was flashed to his New York home, they kept 
 it from her as long as they dared. Before this double 
 tragedy in her life her friends succumbed in silent de- 
 spair. There was none among them strong enough to 
 tell her, so they delayed while she talked of him con- 
 stantly and counted the days that must pass before he 
 could return to her. 
 
 When they finally told her, she turned her face to the
 
 94 THE INN OF REST 
 
 wall without comment, and asked them to leave her 
 alone. Through the weary days and nights that fol- 
 lowed she lay there making no outcry, no complaint, ac- 
 cepting what was done for her without question silent, 
 tense, automatic. 
 
 "She's losing strength every hour," said the day 
 nurse uneasily, to one of her associates. "This has de- 
 stroyed her only chance. They shouldn't have told 
 her and yet how could they help it? She was con- 
 stantly asking for him, and the anxiety and suspense 
 would have been as bad as truth. Her courage might 
 have pulled her through. But this ends it; she will not 
 have to mourn her husband long." 
 
 As the weeks passed, the same conviction came to 
 Florence Imboden like a flash of light across a midnight 
 sky. After all, what matter? It would not be long. In 
 any case she might not have lived more than a year 
 or two, and if that were so the situation was as Jack 
 himself would have wished it to be. He would have felt 
 that he could not live without her now she need not 
 live on without him. It was well. Only a short time, 
 and they would be together. But would they? The 
 question loomed suddenly before her, black, forbidding, 
 shutting out the light that had entered her soul. 
 
 Would they? Was there a hereafter? Was the soul 
 immortal ? or was death merely the sinking of the mor- 
 tal into nothing which is poetically called eternal peace 
 and sleep? 
 
 In her full bright life she had never before had those 
 questions come home to her. She had attended church, 
 she had freely given from the abundance that was hers, 
 she had felt deep respect for the aims and teachings of 
 religion and for the convictions of her religious friends. 
 But in her soul she was conscious that she did not 
 know that she had never been convinced that relig- 
 ion was not the vital thing to her it was to some others. 
 Now her heart cried out for faith, for conviction, for 
 immortality. 
 
 "If I could be certain of meeting Jack again," she
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 95 
 
 breathed, "how cheerfully, how gladly I could bear what- 
 ever comes !" 
 
 She recalled the firm conviction in which she had 
 come back to life after the operation. "There is a soul, 
 there is a soul," she had told the doctors, with her mind 
 full of that experience in the upper world, her ears 
 still hearing the tones of that marvelous voice. They 
 had smiled over her words, telling her the episode was 
 merely an ether vision and a common one at that. No 
 doubt they were right, she told herself. The shock of 
 Jack's death had pulled her down from any spiritual 
 heights she might have reached to the earthly plane on 
 which her only need was the sound of his voice, the 
 touch of his hand. The mysterious voice had haunted 
 her for a few days. She had thought of it dreamed 
 of it ; but now that, too, was gone. 
 
 She was getting out of touch with every human thing 
 worse than that, with every spiritual thing. This, at 
 last, was agony. What had gone before was nothing. 
 She was alone, hideously alone. She had called on God, 
 and heard no answer. She tried to pray, and the prayers 
 seemed hollow mockery. She sank into lethargic de- 
 spair. 
 
 Effingham found her so one day when he had begged to 
 see her for a moment. It was the first time they had met 
 since her illness, as he had unexpectedly sailed for Eng- 
 land the day after her operation was performed. She had 
 always liked the sympathetic, clean-souled, ascetic 
 young Englishman, and she found herself speaking to 
 him as she had spoken to no one else. 
 
 "You believe in a hereafter, do you not?" she asked 
 wistfully while he was studying, with a sense of shock, 
 the great changes in her. 
 
 He flushed a little, with the Englishman's disinclina- 
 tion to touch upon the subjects most sacred to him ; but 
 something in her eyes and face made him respond 
 simply and fully. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Imboden," he said, "I do indeed. The 
 faith I have in God and heaven is very near to me. You
 
 96 THE INN OF REST 
 
 know," he added slowly, "I am preparing for the Church, 
 and I am here to study with a dear friend who has 
 helped me more than any I have ever known. If you 
 have doubts if you are looking for strength and con- 
 viction, he can help you, I am sure. He is a wonder- 
 ful man. Will you let me bring him to you, or, better 
 still, will you go with me to his church some day? It 
 it not far up town, and I would like to have you see him 
 among his people. Just now he is giving a series of 
 afternoon talks; every one of them is an inspiration. 
 Perhaps," he added, "you would be willing to drive up 
 there with me now ?" 
 
 She hesitated. "I -have gone out but a few times, you 
 know," she said doubtfully. "I am perfectly able to go, 
 but it seems so hard for me to move to arouse myself 
 from the condition of lethargy I am in." 
 
 The tone and her expression made Effingham unus- 
 ually persistent. 
 
 "Come," he urged ; "we'll sit at the back of the church, 
 and nobody will see us. You need not see Livingston 
 afterwards unless you wish, although I fancy you will 
 want to talk to him when you have heard him. People 
 usually do." 
 
 She allowed herself to be persuaded, and they drove 
 up town together to the little church, tucked modestly 
 out of the way in an unfashionable street. The winter 
 day was drawing to a close, and the church was but 
 dimly lighted. As they entered a pew near the door, 
 they saw that all the seats were rilled by shadowy fig- 
 ures, leaning forward as if in prayer. They settled them- 
 selves comfortably, and gave themselves up to the quiet 
 and peace of the place. Through the door at the right 
 of the sanctuary a man came. She could see his figure 
 but dimly in the uncertain light. He stood for a moment 
 looking over the assembly, and then began to speak. 
 
 At the first word, Florence Imboden started to her 
 feet. The voice was a deep baritone, full of musical 
 inflections, heard by her but once before, but not to be 
 mistaken when heard again. It was the voice of the
 
 THE VOICE IN THE WORLD OF PAIN 97 
 
 World of Pain the voice that had comforted, the voice 
 that had saved. She buried her face in her hands, while 
 her brain reeled. Her mind was going at last, she 
 thought; no mind could stand the accumulated horrors 
 of these last few months. She tried to think calmly. 
 It was the voice but the other had been only " an ether 
 vision." Had they not told her so? This man was 
 strange to her; but that voice was not, could never be. 
 She tried to pray, but could not. A nervous tremor 
 convulsed her. She rose and groped her way out of the 
 pew. Effingham, suddenly roused from his absorption, 
 assisted her without question into the street, where her 
 carriage stood waiting. She motioned the footman away. 
 
 "I want the air," she said to Effingham. "Let us walk 
 up and down for a few moments." 
 
 They strolled along the deserted street, the young 
 Englishman supporting her with friendly sympathy. He 
 did not speak at first, but as he saw her grow calmer 
 he broke the silence. 
 
 "I am afraid you did not like him," he said, with 
 some disappointment, "and I am so sorry. I felt sure 
 he could help you." 
 
 She made no reply, and he went on talking with 
 friendly purpose of giving her time to collect herself. 
 
 "He has helped me as I have told you, more than any 
 one else, and I have perfect confidence in him. I turn 
 to him not only with my own troubles, but with those 
 of my friends. I hope you won't mind my telling you," 
 he went on, a little diffidently, "that I took yours to 
 him. When I learned of your your illness, I went 
 to him the day before sailing and asked him to pray for 
 you during the operation, which was to be performed 
 that afternoon at two. When I had been in England a 
 week I had a letter from him. He wrote that your case 
 had strongly appealed to him had 'taken hold of him/ 
 as he put it. So much so, in fact, he said, that he had 
 knelt down in his study and prayed for you for two hours 
 while your operation was going on. Why, Mrs. Imbo- 
 den "
 
 98 THE INN OF REST 
 
 She reeled slightly, but his strong arm held her up. 
 Her mind was going, after all; it grasped as much of 
 the strange experience as she could understand. She 
 did not know why it should have come to her of all 
 the world, but she did not question, either. It was for 
 some great purpose, she felt. When the human soul 
 was taxed beyond its powers something divine entered in 
 and helped it. She was no mere atom whirling through 
 space, to exist for a little time and perish. Behind the 
 mystery of life was some benign power she did not 
 know what, but she was satisfied. In these dark hours 
 of life it had given her this proof that it existed. She 
 could safely trust herself to it. She looked up into Ef- 
 fingham's eyes with a sudden light in hers which glad- 
 dened him. 
 
 "Your friend can help me," she said, "and he shall 
 more than any one else in the whole world. He shall 
 teach me and I will believe I know it. Let us go to 
 him now." 
 
 The people were coming out of the little church as 
 they turned back together. They stood aside for a mo- 
 ment to let the others pass. Off in the darkness the 
 street lamps began to twinkle; above, the crescent of 
 the moon hung pale in the twilight. Florence Imboden 
 drew a deep breath as she looked up at it. The tragedy 
 of life, of which her mind had been so full what was 
 it ? Nothing. Fear, pain, loneliness all these were swept 
 away by the mental illumination that had come to her. 
 The grim spectre of death itself was a benign friend, wait- 
 ing smilingly beside her. Her prayers were answered. It 
 was well with her it was to be well with her. No mat- 
 ter what came, or how long or short the time, she could 
 bear, she could wait. This little life was not the end. 
 There must be another world, another existence com- 
 plete, perfect. She did not know where, but it was 
 somewhere, and in it Jack was waiting!
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 
 
 Eliza Priestley
 
 NURSES A LA MODE. 
 
 N THESE days of immense hospitals and asylums 
 of every kind, it may not be without interest to 
 let our minds wander back for a moment to prim- 
 |itive times when women alone attended women in 
 childbirth, and the tomahawk was the only true and uner- 
 ring remedy for sickness known. By degrees charms, 
 amulets, and superstition generally, took the place of the 
 tomahawk, and for centuries found virgin soil in the hu- 
 man mind, lasting throughout the dawn of civilization, 
 lingering on in primitive places, and still existing in be- 
 lated countries even in these scientific days. At the 
 beginning of the Christian, era, and also in the Middle 
 Ages, tending the sick was regarded entirely as a re- 
 ligious duty, the hospital and the House of God being 
 one and indissoluble. Under the shelter of monastic 
 institutions and religious orders, hospitals for the sick 
 spread over the land, and the study of medicine was in- 
 terwoven with that of theology for the common worship 
 of God and the good of man. In all Roman Catholic 
 countries this holy combination still goes on, and when 
 a sick-nurse is required it is difficult to find one outside 
 the walls of a religious institution. 
 
 With us the nursing of the sick has for long been dis- 
 associated from religion, being adopted in Protestant com- 
 munities simply and frankly as a means of earning a 
 livelihood. But until recent years no one ever thought 
 of engaging a nurse for the sick except in extreme cases, 
 for every woman with the true instincts of a woman 
 considered it her special privilege, however ignorant, to 
 nurse the sick within her own household. Now all that 
 is over, for nursing as an art has emerged from the mere 
 instinct of domestic love and duty into a science to meet 
 the general advance of our times.
 
 102 THE INN OF REST 
 
 X^ith our ever-increasing knowledge of disease de- 
 rived from research laboratories all over the world, and 
 further with the introduction of anaesthetics, an im- 
 mense impulse has been given to the practice of medi- 
 cine and surgery. Operations that were impossible 
 twenty years ago can now be performed with impunity. 
 Nowadays no one is bled to death for fever, or need 
 be brought to a miserable end from preventable blood- 
 poisoning; in fact no one need die the mere victim of 
 ignorance, and where suffering is inevitable alleviations 
 can be found to soothe. The difficulties we have to 
 encounter no longer arise from ignorance of the causes 
 of disease on the part of the practitioner who is up to 
 date, but from the deplorable ignorance of the causes of 
 disease on the part of millions of people, with a rapidly 
 increasing population. To and fro, in and out, by rail, 
 by foot along the roadways, by carriage, and by boat, 
 vast numbers of people are ever drifting about carrying 
 the living seeds of disease with them from one place 
 to another. In the island of Malta medical men, study- 
 ing the local fever at the bedside and in the laboratory, 
 have ascertained that this particular fever has increased 
 in "virulence" within the last fifteen years, and attribute 
 this to the immense increase of population within a 
 limited area. In the densely crowded and fetid black 
 slums of Cairo cholera is rarely absent, but unless it 
 becomes epidemic as it does periodically the fact re- 
 mains known only to the officials who keep it in check, 
 and who are always on the alert. In all large cities 
 sickness in various shapes seems to form permanent 
 centers, throwing out living streams of infection over 
 the outskirts and into the more thinly populated parts. 
 Thus, with all our medical knowledge and notwithstand- 
 ing the wonderful system of inspection emanating from 
 the Local Government Board, our hospitals and infirm- 
 aries continue to be crowded, every children's school be- 
 comes sooner or later a focus of infection ; and sickness 
 in some shape finds its way into every home. Do what 
 we will, we cannot keep back sickness and death from
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 103 
 
 our door, and through that door we have all in turn 
 to call the sick-nurse in. 
 
 Her duties in this our Protestant country are no less 
 serious with us than they are in those countries where 
 the "Sisters" are celibates, and bound by their religion 
 to take the vows of chastity and obedience, with the 
 one great object ever before them, the Cross of Jesus 
 Christ. Darkly robed in saintly garb, the Fille-dieu 
 visits the home of the sick, and performs her duties in 
 deep humility and faith. If she does not enjoy the high 
 training of our aspirants she at least carries out the doc- 
 tor's orders, and does all the work required of her, how- 
 ever menial, and having secured the gratitude of her 
 patient she subsides once more into the sacred privacy 
 and silence of the cloisters. No gossip attends her min- 
 istrations, and where she herself is so guarded no 
 breach of confidence takes place. Her person and her 
 office are alike sacred. 
 
 With our nurses or shall we call them "sisters"? 
 things are not the same. There is not the same respect 
 for privacy, silence, obedience, and even the discipline 
 which was so marked a feature under the regime 
 of Florence Nightingale is conspicuous now only by its 
 absence. The very class from which sick-nurses were 
 formerly drafted has changed from the lower to the 
 middle and even upper class. She is no longer con- 
 tent to fraternize with the servants of the house and 
 take her meals with them where convenient, but, failing 
 a table apart, she has to join the family at meals, how- 
 ever unwelcome her presence may be. Her position 
 in the household is no longer what it once was and, 
 indeed, could scarcely be, when in all probability the 
 nurse "a la mode" is of higher birth and social position 
 than the family in which she takes temporary service, 
 and from whom she receives a wage of from two to three 
 and five guineas a week. Some of our hospitals refuse 
 to receive any pupils who are not "ladies," and go so 
 far as to consider that rural and district nursing, and
 
 104 THE INN OF REST 
 
 indeed all nursing, should be kept entirely in the hands 
 of women cultured to begin with. 
 
 No doubt many daughters of rich fathers seek hos- 
 pital nursing as a relief from the idleness of home life, 
 and in the bona-fide hope of d>ing something else to 
 help suffering humanity in various ways, but there are 
 others who rush in for it in a pure spirit of adventure, 
 and have no small difficulty in bearing the strain and 
 restraints of the compulsory three or even four years' 
 hospital training. Others again are honestly impelled 
 to it by necessity, and if not choked off by the scenes 
 they witness, and the awful glimpses of life unveiled 
 before them, they bear the burden well, and, taking 
 matters seriously, turn out the most profitable nurses for 
 the institution, and the most valuable to the world at 
 large. The pity is that whatever the intellectual calibre, 
 the motive, the temper, and temperament of the woman, 
 the certificate for all is the same, and she stands before 
 the world, after the prescribed three or four years' train- 
 ingj pronounced competent to attend the sick in all the 
 various and varying circumstances of life, in every kind 
 of home. When the certificate is once obtained she has 
 no difficulty in joining an institution, co-operative or 
 otherwise, where she takes her turn in being sent hither 
 and thither as the call for a nurse comes in. In most 
 of these institutions it is the rule that no favor is shown, 
 but that each is sent out in turn. This plan adopted no 
 doubt with a view to fairness leads to strange situ- 
 ations, and often accounts for young and pretty women 
 being found in the apartments of young and handsome 
 men who for the time are enjoying bad health, and are 
 not imbued with any wild desire for convalescence. In 
 ordinary circumstances these same young ladies in all 
 probability would never dream of setting foot in bache- 
 lors' apartments without a chaperon, but given a reason- 
 able and grave excuse, the door is thrown open, and 
 a young woman robed in a costume not altogether un- 
 becoming enters, to mount guard day and night. Some 
 callow young men are at first horrified at the idea of
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 105 
 
 having a woman sent in to nurse them, but being 
 obliged to submit, their astonishment soon subsides, and 
 reconciliation quickly follows. 
 
 It is not necessary here to enter into details concern- 
 ing the nature of a nurse's duties, but, however delicate 
 they may be, the training is supposed to have the won- 
 derful effect of so preserving her pristine unconscious- 
 ness that the man is to her the same as the child. Never- 
 theless we do occasionally hear of wives being intensely 
 jealous of the woman installed in the husband's bed- 
 chamber. To know that suspicion is not always unrea- 
 sonable, we have only to study the records of the Pro- 
 bate Court to realize the extraordinary influence which 
 has occasionally been exercised by sick-nurses over sick 
 men in their last illnesses. 
 
 Not long ago at a favorite health resort on the Con- 
 tinent, society was scandalized at the behavior of a 
 young and pretty nurse who was there in sole attendance 
 on a young English gentleman. He was daily carried 
 into a garden, where all the gay people thronged, and 
 was laid on a chaise tongue, in the midst of them, 
 followed by the nurse, who, regardless of the fitness of 
 things, forthwith got another chaise longue, and plac- 
 ing it by his side proceeded to stretch herself upon 
 it. When whispers became an audible growl, the man- 
 ager and the doctor together made representations 
 which resulted in their removal to a villa. The end 
 of it was the transference of the invalid to another 
 health resort, another nurse was placed in charge, and 
 forsaking the old love, he ultimately married the new. 
 
 In the daily papers a few months ago, under the head 
 of "Sudden Death of a Baronet," a professional nurse 
 stated that "she had been attending deceased for some 
 time past. She was engaged to be married to him 
 shortly." And again more recently, the following ap- 
 peared in the daily papers: 
 
 "A Scotch Breach of Promise Action. In the Court 
 of Session, Edinburgh, yesterday, the record was 
 closed in an action by C S , professional nurse,
 
 106 THE INN OF REST 
 
 Edinburgh, against L C P , a retired col- 
 onel, for the recovery of 3,000 damages for breach of 
 promise of marriage and seduction. The plaintiff, who 
 was engaged to attend the defendant as nurse, alleges 
 that he took a fancy to her and proposed marriage, and 
 on her accepting the offer treated her as his wife. In 
 reply to her request that they should be married, he said 
 they were already married according to the Scotch law. 
 Although appearing willing to marry her he failed to 
 fulfil his promise, and ultimately turned her out of the 
 house. The defendant said he was subject to malarial 
 fever, contracted abroad; he also had delirium tremens, 
 and plaintiff when called in, plied him with drink, and 
 obtained an ascendency over him. He further urges that 
 he never promised marriage, but the plaintiff denied the 
 defendant's statements." 
 
 As many marriages must necessarily spring from op- 
 portunities which present themselves all along the line 
 of duty, from the hospital to the hotel or private house, 
 we cannot be surprised that an invidious world should 
 style this new profession "The new road to matrimony," 
 or, as the St. James's Gazette lately had it over an ar- 
 ticle on nurses, "To the altar by the new cut." 
 
 Uncontrolled by vows, untroubled by austerity, the 
 nurse of the period, guardian of the sick-bed, and 
 watcher over the solemn moments of expiring life, may 
 be found taking part joyously in many of the frivolities 
 around us. Abroad, in some of our garrison towns, she 
 may be seen at balls, dressed in nursing attire, dancing 
 with the young officers whom she has recently nursed 
 or may be called on to nurse in the future. 
 
 Again, it is not unusual either at home or abroad to 
 find the professional nurse sitting at table d'hote, the 
 observed of all observers, in the bewitching costume 
 of the sisterhood to which she belongs. Many old-fash- 
 ioned people have been known to object to this for 
 social reasons, forgetting that the nurse of the period 
 may rank socially with themselves. Still, not alone for 
 reasons of propriety but for reasons of health and
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 107 
 
 safety, it would be infinitely better to keep the nursing 
 dress strictly for the sick-room. Not long ago a certifi- 
 cated nurse was discovered in a large West-end draper's 
 shop attired in the very dress she was wearing at that 
 time in the sick-room of a scarlet-fever patient. This 
 of course was in violation of all rules, but in this case 
 private remonstrance had so little effect that she not only 
 continued to walk in the same dress, but even went in 
 and out of the sick-room after being fully equipped for 
 her walk. This same highly trained nurse was further 
 thoughtless enough to allow the under-housemaid to 
 clear away the faded flowers from the invalid's bedside, 
 and instead of burning them allowed them to be thrown 
 into the dust-heap, thus spreading the vital seeds of in- 
 fection broadcast, to break out again in all probability 
 in the wretched homes of our poorest and most helpless 
 fellow-creatures. It never seems to occur to a confiding 
 public, that the nursing costume can be anything else than 
 a harmless vanity, yet in the face of such a possibility as 
 that just mentioned it ought to be regarded as a danger 
 signal. 
 
 One of the lecturers to the National Health Society, 
 when giving a lecture on nursing at an English village 
 lately, was told that during an epidemic of scarlet fever 
 the people were in the habit of shaking the sheets out of 
 the windows to get rid of the peeling skin. These people 
 were too ignorant to know they were sowing the seeds 
 of the fever, which their neighbors reaped ; but with the 
 trained nurse there is not the same excuse, unless a 
 knowledge of the fundamental principles of health has 
 been left out of her education altogether. 
 
 In directing attention to such cases it must not be 
 supposed that all nurses are giddy and thoughtless, for 
 within my own experience and that of others, many 
 an ideal nurse has been found. I would simply indicate 
 that in a profession which ought to be absolutely above 
 suspicion, it would be better and more expedient, to 
 exercise a certain amount of discrimination in sending 
 nurses out. In every institution there must be nurses
 
 108 THE INN OF REST 
 
 of every age, temperament, and degree, who with a lit- 
 tle adjustment might be found to fit more suitably the 
 requirements of a public consisting of men and women 
 of every grade, and children of every age. 
 
 It is strange, considering the manifold requirements 
 of life, that so little is done to encourage the training 
 of male nurses for domestic employment. We rarely 
 hear of a male nurse attending sick men, except in men- 
 tal cases, yet in military and naval hospitals they are 
 thoroughly trained, with the additional advantage of 
 discipline and drill. In one institution in Bond Street 
 male as well as female nurses and rubbers may be had, 
 and in Great Marylebone Street a male nurses' (tem- 
 perance) co-operation has opened an office. Among the 
 conditions of this new society a course of three years' 
 training must precede membership ; total abstinence is 
 obligatory, and a preference is given to married men with 
 families. No doubt th,ere are other institutions for male 
 nurses, but they must be few and far between, for we 
 rarely hear of a male nurse being in attendance where 
 he might with propriety be installed. In New York 
 a great movement is going on in this direction notwith- 
 standing opposition and clamor. If therefore it ever be- 
 came as easy to send a male nurse as a female, a motherly 
 married nurse (if such a thing exists), or unmarried mid- 
 dle-aged woman (if there is one), in place of the young 
 and flighty, many of the present' difficulties, dangers, and 
 anomalies would be overcome, and the new profession as 
 a profession would take a more dignified place in public 
 estimation. 
 
 Passing from domestic difficulties we must now review 
 difficulties of another sort those which spring in the 
 very nature of things from the training and medical edu- 
 cation given to nurses in these advanced days. 
 
 We have only to look over the following course of 
 studies which is a fair example of the curriculum adopted 
 at most of our London hospitals, to realize that a nurse 
 leaves the hospital of her apprenticeship stored with a 
 considerable amount of medical knowledge.
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 109 
 
 The lectures on anatomy and surgery are delivered 
 by the Demonstrator of Anatomy during the months of 
 March, April, and May. There is a written examination, 
 which lady pupils must attend, at the end of the course. 
 The following is the syllabus : 
 
 1. The skeleton and the anatomy of the limbs. 
 
 II. Simple fractures, and the principles of treatment. 
 
 III. Anatomy of the joints. Hip diseases. 
 
 IV. The spinal column, its injuries and diseases. 
 V. Head injuries and the principles of treatment. 
 
 VI. Treatment of wounds. Antiseptic dressings. 
 VII. Hemorrhage and its treatment. 
 VIII. Minor surgical operations. 
 IX. Tumors, &c. 
 
 The lectures on physiology and medicine are delivered 
 by the Demonstrator of Biology during the months of 
 June, July, and August. There is a written examination, 
 which lady pupils must attend, at the end of the course. 
 The following is the syllabus : 
 
 I. Food: its digestion and absorption. 
 II. The diseases of the alimentary canal. 
 III. and IV. The lungs and respiration. Diseases of the 
 
 respiratory organs. 
 V. The heart and heart disease. 
 VI. The urine and diseases of the kidney. 
 VII. The skin and cutaneous diseases. 
 VIII. Contagious diseases. 
 IX. and X. The nervous system ; nervous diseases 
 
 and electrical batteries. 
 XI. Diet; clothing; ventilation. 
 
 During the months of December, January, and Feb- 
 ruary, the lady pupils are taught the elements of phar- 
 macy and dispensing, in the dispensary of the hospital, 
 by the Head Dispenser. The course includes a series of 
 lessons upon the sources, properties, and uses of vari- 
 ous drugs, with a practical instruction in the preparation 
 of mixtures which lady pupils must attend, at the end of 
 the course. 
 If they fail to pass their examinations they are re-
 
 110 THE INN OF REST 
 
 quired to go through the course again. Thus by living 
 on the spot, surrounded by doctors, watching the pro- 
 gress of cases till they are "relieved by art or released by 
 death"; by living, in fact, in the midse of object lessons, 
 day and night, over a prolonged period, and further by 
 attending such lectures, the modern nurse enjoys advan- 
 tages that many fully fledged doctors might envy. For 
 those who intend to remain permanent staff sisters, or 
 to become hospital matrons in the future, the more ad- 
 vanced studies might advantageously be pursued, but, 
 all being trained alike, it is not altogether surprising that 
 a little confusion arises occasionally in the highly trained 
 nurse's mind as to her ultimate position in regard to the 
 patient and doctor. When once she is launched on the 
 world she is often called to attend people who can ill af- 
 ford the fee ranging from two to three guineas a week ex- 
 clusive of extras. This in addition to the doctor's fees fall 
 'heavily on those whose means are small and whose fam- 
 ilies are large. With a nurse on the spot who can criti- 
 cize the treatment, and who is only too proud to air her 
 own medical knowledge, it is quickly felt that the doc- 
 tor's visits may be curtailed, and with the undermining 
 of his authority, and the gradual assumption of respon- 
 sibility on her part, friction between the two is not un- 
 likely to follow. That it does follow is not unknown be- 
 hind the scenes of medical life, for nurses have occas- 
 ionally been dismissed for assuming they were in charge 
 of the case, instead of being in charge of the doctor's pa- 
 tient. 
 
 I have known more than one nurse to utterly ignore the 
 doctor's orders with regard to diet, on the ground that he 
 was trenching on her province. "Oh, we never consult 
 the doctor about diet," said a nurse in my hearing one 
 day to the lady's maid of the patient; "we always at- 
 tend to that ourselves!" The case was one turning en- 
 tirely on diet, and was exercising the minds of several 
 of the leading consultants of London. Another I knew 
 of refused to give the morphia prescribed by the doctor,
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 111 
 
 saying, "she always threw it away, and gave milk and 
 water instead, which did just as well!" 
 
 Dr. Charles West in his book refers to Sir William 
 Gull's celebrated saying to the Queen after the Prince 
 of Wales' recovery from typhoid fever. "Madam," he 
 said, "His Royal Highness has been nursed as well as 
 if he had been in a hospital." 
 
 This speech, continues Dr. West, points out the weak 
 points of many of the nursing associations. The nurse 
 out of the hospital is under no discipline. She is a sort 
 of free lance, engaged in combating diseases together with 
 the doctor, but by no means always subject to his di- 
 rection. A sentry told off to a certain post must remain 
 there, and do unquestionably as he has been ordered. 
 The nurse too often feels herself under no such obli- 
 gation. She not only passes her own judgment on the 
 doctor's orders, but too often criticizes them to the fam- 
 ily, as I remember in a case under the care of one of 
 our most distinguished surgeons, and an officer of one 
 of our largest hospitals. The nurse said to the family 
 with reference to some of his directions, "Oh, these are 
 old-style ways ; we have done away with all of them, and 
 do quite differently now." 
 
 "Conceit is their besetting sin* * * *Sometimes the 
 nurse has a favorite doctor, and disparages the one in at- 
 tendance* * * *Not infrequently, too, they are what, if 
 they were of the opposite sex, we should call masterful, 
 and without sufficient reason exclude the wife or the 
 children from the sick-room without making up for it by 
 any special personal interest in the patient* * * *I re- 
 member once assisting a peeress, whose daughter, of still 
 higher rank than she, was dangerously ill, to wash the 
 medicine and wine glasses on the sick-room table, be- 
 cause the nurse considered it an office beneath her." 
 
 These remarks coming from an experienced London 
 physician, and which I have inserted here after writing 
 this article, go far to confirm my own views, and those 
 of many others, that the modern nurse is too often above
 
 112 THE INN OF REST 
 
 her position even in great houses, and in more humble 
 homes is out of harmony with her surroundings. 
 
 One of the objections raised to the high training of 
 male nurses in the New York Hospital is the fear that 
 men will make it a stepping stone to medical practise, le- 
 gal or otherwise. The line of demarcation between the 
 certificated male nurse, after two or possibly three years' 
 hospital training and the qualified doctor, is so slight that 
 boundaries can easily be overstepped. A little further 
 study, a few examinations to pass, and the portals are 
 opened to an inferior class of men. Similar objections 
 might apply equally to women nurses, but for the more 
 serious barrier existing between the certified nurse and 
 the fully qualified female M. D. It is no thin line of 
 demarcation here, for it would be an impossible drop for 
 a woman accustomed to the excitement of hospital life, 
 with house surgeons, house physicians, students, flir- 
 tations, and prospective marriages, to enter the gates of 
 the female school of medicine, and walk the wards of a 
 hospital managed solely by women; and this she would 
 have to do before she could pass into the world a fully 
 qualified doctor. Still, failing the legal right to practise, 
 there remains the right to nurse, with the delightful fact 
 that the two things are easily fused together in the public 
 mind, the result being a world overrun with "medical 
 women," legal and semi-legal. The legally qualified 
 might with some reason take exception to the encroach- 
 ments of this army of medical illegals treading on their 
 heels, but the only complaint we hear of on the part of the 
 lady doctors is the difficulty they find in getting modern 
 trained nurses to act under them at all ! 
 
 At the present moment a curious and interesting dis- 
 cussion is going on in one of the nursing journals headed 
 "The Future of the Private Nurse," the correspondents 
 trying to find reasons for the waning popularity of the 
 trained nurse. Samples of bad conduct are given. One 
 nurse refuses to lift a patient who is very ill, saying "she 
 was not trained for that work." Another hung the tub- 
 ing of a douche-can on the nail on which hung a large
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 113 
 
 crucifix. She was made to remove it, but next day hung 
 a thermometer in the same place. 
 
 A still more grave aspect is to be found in the adver- 
 tisements which hold out as an attraction to young men 
 that "Sister" or "Nurse" So-and-so is the masseuse at 
 such an establishment. Behind all this lies a question 
 which can only be dealt with by the police, and which 
 it is unnecessary to dwell upon here. 
 
 Looking at the question of modern nursing from the 
 more moral point of view, we find the district and rural 
 poor well provided with good and faithful nurses 
 through the Queen's Jubilee Fund and various public 
 and private charities, and for the rich there are plenty 
 of good nurses to be had ; but there is still the large mid- 
 dle class unprovided for, and who find the ground cut 
 from under their feet. They can no longer get a nurse 
 for ten shillings or a guinea a week as formerly, and can- 
 not afford nor provide the requirements for a nurse 
 "a la mode." The charges being universally the same 
 for the simplest as for the most complicated case, the cost 
 of ordinary and prolonged nursing, especially where two 
 are required, falls, as I have already said, heavily on the 
 family. Many persons, moreover, object to the sense of 
 superiority exercised by the nurse over them. I heard 
 of one the other day in a modest establishment who en- 
 tertained her youthful patient with an account of her do- 
 ings in the hunting field, adding that she always had a 
 groom behind her. 
 
 "Did your mother keep a parlor-maid ?" asked the child 
 simply. "Oh no, dear," she replied; "my father kept 
 a butler!" 
 
 At a conference lately held at Stafford House under the 
 auspices of the "Council of County Nursing Associations," 
 some of the speakers maintained that some women were 
 efficient nurses from the beginning, others became effi- 
 cient with experience, and others were hopeless from the 
 first. One of the questions under discussion was the 
 minimum amount of training required, and I believe 
 it was generally agreed that one year's training and
 
 114 THE INN OF REST 
 
 six months' district work, as with the Queen's Jubilee 
 nurses would suffice. 
 
 In the Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore (the finest 
 and most perfect hospital in the world), the full term for 
 the training of nurses is two years. They are all taught 
 invalid cookery, and are thus qualified for every kind of 
 nursing even in the most out-of-the-way parts of the 
 earth. In America generally two years' training is the 
 maximum ; in Sweden it is the same ; and in Copenhagen 
 the minimum for private nursing is one year. 
 
 Surely for a guinea a week an intelligent woman after 
 a minimum training, which I do not profess to decide, 
 ought to understand the hygiene of the sick-room, know 
 how to carry out the instructions of the doctor, how to 
 make the bed, keep the room clean if necessary, adapt 
 herself to the household, and render strict obedience un- 
 der a sense of duty and in simple good faith. In talking 
 this matter over the other day with some of our most 
 eminent surgeons, he stated his belief that any woman 
 of good intelligence could soon be taught all that it was 
 "necessary" for her to know in the sick-room. If she has 
 not intelligence (which includes tact) and lacks natural 
 sympathy and tenderness, no amount of hospital training 
 will endow her with these qualities. It may be pleaded 
 that we should be opening the doors of this new pro- 
 fession to a lower class of women altogether, and that 
 the main object of the higher training is to raise the 
 standard. 
 
 Now, in every class there are good, bad, and indifferent 
 to be found even in the higher class, as I have shown 
 and in making the suggestion of less medical training 
 for a humbler class it is quite possible that many of the 
 difficulties I have ventured to indicate might be over- 
 come through the wider difference in class between nurse 
 and patient. In any case, what we want is to fill the 
 immense gap that exists between the humble celibate of 
 Roman Catholicism and the accomplished, and often flip- 
 pant women of modern times. That the public should 
 be able to define the status of the nurse should be no
 
 NURSES A LA MODE 115 
 
 difficulty in these days of registration, badges, institu- 
 tions, and organization generally. 
 
 For complicated abdominal and brain operations, and 
 for typhoid fever, the highly skilled nurse will always be 
 necessary, and for the rich she can always be obtained ; 
 but beyond this we should make an effort to satisfy the 
 requirements of those who neither need nor desire the 
 presence of an expensive trained nurse any more than 
 they need or desire the daily visits of a first-class consul- 
 tant.
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 
 
 In 1862
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL. 
 
 HE external aspect of our metropolitan hos- 
 pitals is familiarly known to all who are 
 accustomed to traverse the streets of Lon- 
 don. Their many windows, studded by day 
 white-capped heads, and shining by night 
 the pale reflection of the single dimly burn- 
 ing lamp, their general air of subdued quiet, and their 
 lynx-eyed porters at the gate, ever ready to pounce upon 
 suspicious parcels carried by visitors, and scanning the 
 passengers as if to detect disease lurking under a healthy 
 mask, or deformity concealed by artificial means 
 serve to -distinguish these buildings from prisons and 
 asylums, to which some of them have no small resem- 
 blance. With the exception of certain newspaper re- 
 ports, and a general idea of suffering, evil odors, and 
 liability to contagion, the inner life of a hospital is to- 
 tally unknown to ninety-nine out of every hundred who 
 pass its walls ; and, as is usual in such cases, the popular 
 idea of hospital life is widely different from the reality. 
 Let us, therefore, follow the course of a day's labor in 
 one of these institutions; and, as a type of the method 
 in which the medical and surgical administration of a 
 hospital is conducted, we will select the most ancient of 
 these sanctuaries of suffering poverty. 
 
 Entering Smithfield about 9 or 10 A. M., and looking 
 along the wide front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a 
 vast crowd is seen gathering round the portico close to 
 Duke Street, where two pillars support a porchway, un- 
 der which the expectant assemblage can shelter them- 
 selves until their admission. Here we find ourselves 
 face to face with two glass doors, bearing conspicuous 
 plates upon their fronts, one labeled ENTRANCE FOR MALES, 
 and the other, ENTRANCE FOR FEMALES. Just within
 
 120 THE INN OF REST 
 
 either door stands a trustworthy porter, whose busi- 
 ness is to keep the applicants from entering at the 
 wrong door, a blunder which they constantly attempt 
 to perpetrate in spite of the large plate and many verbal 
 warnings, and, after admitting the patients, to direct 
 them to their proper places. 
 
 Passing through one of the doors, we enter a large 
 and handsome room, nearly one hundred feet long and 
 about thirty-five feet wide, warmed by open stoves, 
 lofty and well ventilated an absolute necessity under 
 the circumstances divided in the centre by a red cur- 
 tain, and furnished with abundant benches, arranged in 
 double sets on each side of the curtain. The left-hand 
 division of the room is intended for women, and the right- 
 hand division for men; and each room is further subdi- 
 vided by the double sets of benches, one being for sur- 
 gical and the other for medical cases. 
 
 As each patient passes through the door, the porter 
 inquires, "What is the matter with you?" "Bad arm, 
 sir." "Sit down there," says the porter, pointing to one 
 of the forms on the surgical side of the room. "What 
 is the matter with you?" "Please, sir, I feel bad all over 
 
 entirely; I don't eat my victuals, and I " "Sit down 
 
 there," says the porter, hastily cutting short a train of 
 symptoms, and pointing to the medical benches. In 
 a wonderfully short time the benches are filled, and the 
 inspection of the patients commences. 
 
 The receiving-room, as this apartment is called, is at- 
 tended by the apothecary, his assistant, four house-sur- 
 geons, and the dressers, who examine the patients in 
 their proper turn, and make a further separation into 
 three classes the slight, the grave, and the imminent. 
 The slight cases that require but little assistance are tech- 
 nically termed "casualties," and attended at once ; if nec- 
 essary, a prescription is handed over to them, which they 
 take to a large window opening out of the room, 
 whereat are dispensed vast quantities of useful and harm- 
 less remedies, linseed meal being a very large pro-
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL. 121 
 
 portion, and being generally carried away in handker- 
 chiefs. 
 
 For more delicate cases, especially those of a surgi- 
 cal nature, the patients are shown into separate rooms, 
 where their ailments are examined and proper remedies 
 applied. These slighter cases, or casualties, are of al- 
 most every imaginable description. In many instances 
 the single attendance is all that is needed ; but should 
 further care be required, the patient is told to return 
 on a given day, and a notice to that effect is placed on 
 a paper. 
 
 The graver of these cases now come under notice. 
 They are classed together as Out-patients, and are mar- 
 shalled into separate rooms; and as the patients enter 
 the room, they each receive a ticket with a number, in- 
 dicating the order in which they will be seen. Out of 
 this room lead two small chambers, or waiting-rooms, 
 one of which belongs to the surgeon of the day, and 
 the other to the physician of the day; this duty being 
 taken in turns by the medical and surgical staff of the 
 hospital. All these gentlemen are men of great emin- 
 ence, holding the first rank in their profession, so that 
 the poorest man, woman, or child that seeks for help 
 is given the benefit of the best advice in the kingdom, 
 and the sick costermonger or ailing chimney-sweeper is 
 enabled gratuitously to command services which many 
 a wealthy man cannot purchase. The waiting-rooms 
 of the surgeon and physician are placed in close prox- 
 imity to each other, so that in any difficult case an im- 
 mediate consultation can be effected. A paper is de- 
 livered to each patient, on which is written the name, 
 age, and the needful prescription. 
 
 This prescription, technically termed a "letter," is 
 then carried to another apartment, having, as before, one 
 entrance for men and another for women, a wall sep- 
 arating them from each other. At the end of this room 
 is a large window opening into the dispensary, and at this 
 window the prescriptions are received, made up, and 
 given out. In order to obviate the scrambling, jostling,
 
 122 THE INN OF REST 
 
 and struggling that, according to British custom, would 
 inevitably take place without precautions, and which 
 would be highly dangerous, not only on account of the 
 patients themselves, but of the children which many of 
 them carry, the only access to the windows is by means 
 of a passage through iron railings, defended by a turn- 
 stile, so that the patients are, perforce, obliged to form 
 a line a queue, as it would be termed in France and can 
 only pass singly to the window. On arrival, they de- 
 posite the "letter," together with a bottle or jar, in case 
 they require liquid medicine, and presently receive it 
 back filled and ticketed. Legible labels, in very bold 
 characters, are affixed to each jar or bottle, and, in or- 
 der to prevent mistaken administration thereof, all medi- 
 cines that are to be taken internally are distinguished 
 by a white label, and all external applications by a 
 gaudy yellow, one. 
 
 Engaged in the task of dispensing the medicines are four 
 qualified medical men, who are hard at work for five or 
 six hours daily in mixing, labeling, and delivering the 
 various remedies, and a large staff of experienced work- 
 men is employed in preparing the drugs. Yet the mul- 
 titudes that crowd daily to this room are so great that 
 their wants could not be supplied in twice the time, were 
 not the principal drugs kept in solution or other forms 
 which are suitable for rapid measurement and immedi- 
 ate combination. 
 
 Having seen our Out-patients safely through their 
 daily progress at the hospital, we come to the cases of a 
 severer nature. These, termed In-patients, are at once 
 taken into the wards, whither let us follow them. 
 
 As soon as they enter the ward they are delivered 
 over to the charge of the "sister," or matron, as the 
 office might be termed. In this hospital, however, the 
 matron is the superior who, in conjunction with the 
 steward, exercises a surveillance over the whole of the 
 wards, and the head nurse of each ward retains the name 
 of sister, which dates from time immemorial. To a novice 
 the hospital nomenclature is often rather perplexing, and
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 123 
 
 to the outer world appears almost as absurd and quite 
 as unintelligible as the slang terms of a public school 
 to all who have not been educated within its walls. For 
 example, as soon as the sister enters upon her office, she 
 loses the name by which she is known to her friends, 
 and is henceforth called by that of her ward, the result 
 being sometimes rather amusing. The inmates talk with 
 easy composure of a male sister, meaning thereby the 
 sister of a male ward ; and though such names as Sister 
 Abernethy, Sister Queen, Sister Elizabeth, and Sister 
 Faith, seem appropriate enough, yet a stranger cannot 
 but feel slightly startled when he hears a summons for 
 Sister John, Sister Henry, Sister Matthew. 
 
 The sister is the mainspring of each ward, and it is 
 noteworthy that before she has taken office for many 
 weeks, her individual character becomes so deeply 
 stamped upon the entire ward, that a practised observer 
 can deduce the character of the sister from the first 
 glance round the little domain under her superinten- 
 dence. Nothing seems to be so fatal to the prosperity 
 of a ward as indecision in the sister, who stands in much 
 the same relation to the patients as a schoolmaster to 
 his pupils, and whose measure is taken in by the pa- 
 tients with the instinctive accuracy of sickness. Strange 
 to say, the inhabitants of a ward rather like the sister 
 to be sharp, decided, and driving, one who knows her 
 work, does it, and insists upon all under her charge do- 
 ing the whole of their duty to the minute. None seem 
 to be more successful, or to gain more respect and real 
 affection from the patients, than the thorough-bred 
 Anglo-Saxon woman quick, keen-eyed, brisk of move- 
 ment, incisive of speech, and a disciplinarian of military 
 rigidity. Her ward and private room are generally 
 bright with flowers sent by discharged patients in kindly 
 remembrance of her services, or brought by their country 
 friends, in flat, circular messes of leaf, bloom, and flower, 
 like huge warming-pans of concentric colors, which to 
 the rustic mind is the very acme of floral arrangement. 
 All the green forms a backing, and radiates gloriously
 
 124 THE INN OF REST 
 
 from the outer circle; all the red flowers form the next 
 ring; then come the white flowers, then the purple, and 
 the centre is generally florid with a full-blown sunflower. 
 
 Flowers, however, are the only gifts permitted to be 
 offered by patients and their friends, or accepted by the 
 sister or nurse, and even this relaxation of a necessarily 
 stringent rule is mostly due to the fact that the flowers 
 are distributed through the ward, and by their fresh 
 brightness and delicious perfume, become the common 
 property of patients, nurses, and sisters, and aid in re- 
 lieving the monotonous aspect which such an apart- 
 ment invariably possesses. There is, perhaps, no rule so 
 sternly enforced as that which prohibits fees or pres- 
 ents of any kind to be accepted by any person employed 
 in attending on the patients. Of course there are in- 
 stances now and then where money is offered and ac- 
 cepted; but if the delinquency be discovered, the of- 
 fender is at once turned off without hope of pardon, and 
 the patient is discharged if the state of health will allow 
 of removal. The hospital is a free one in the widest 
 sense of the term. No letters from governors are needed, 
 no introduction, and no interest, and the only recommen- 
 dation is the necessity of the case. All persons admitted 
 into the wards are fed and supplied with every necessary 
 and many luxuries without any charge whatever; in 
 cases of extreme poverty they are provided with decent 
 clothing and pecuniary assistance when they are dis- 
 charged, and there is also a fund which gives a small 
 pension to a certain number of incurables. 
 
 Many vagabond impostors are accustomed to wait 
 upon those kind-hearted people whose benevolence is 
 right well known to exceed their knowledge or discre- 
 tion, and to represent themselves as needing the aid 
 of the hospital, but unable to avail themselves of the 
 institution because they have not the required amount 
 of clothing, and sufficient money to pay the nurses' fees, 
 or to provide themselves with tea and sugar. Any phil- 
 anthropic person who reads this paper, and is subject to 
 such an application, is hereby warned that imposition
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 125 
 
 is intended, and is strongly advised to hand over the 
 applicant to the police on a charge of obtaining money 
 on false pretences. 
 
 ,To return to the sister. She is the supreme sovereign 
 of her domains, as is indeed necessary in such an institu- 
 tion, and before she has been very long in the situation 
 becomes quite an accomplished physician or surgeon, 
 according to the nature of her ward. One of her chief 
 duties is to watch every patient, and note every new 
 symptom, and if she sees any change that she deems 
 important, to send immediately to the medical man in 
 charge of the ward and report it to him. She also ad- 
 ministers all medicines, and is responsible for the proper 
 measurement of every remedy, as well as for its recep- 
 tion by the patient. 
 
 Generally, however, there is little need of urging medi- 
 cine on the patients, no matter how distasteful it may 
 be. The class of people who form the bulk of the hos- 
 pital population have an almost Oriental veneration for 
 "physic," or "stuff," and really seem to be gratified in 
 exact proportion to its unpalatable flavor. Pills, as a 
 rule, they despise; powders they detest, these articles 
 not coming under the honored apellatives of "physic" or 
 "stuff"; but the treatment for which they have the 
 greatest respect is a good draught, dark-colored to look 
 strong, plenty of it, and horribly nasty. They like to feel 
 that justice is done to them, and that they are not put 
 off with weak and tasteless remedies. 
 
 As an example of this feeling may be cited the case 
 of one of the large gaols, where the prisoners, though 
 perfectly well, had got into an increasing habit of de- 
 claring themselves ill and wanting medicine. Finding 
 that the number on the sick list was daily augmented, 
 and knowing perfectly well that the men were in good 
 health, but wished to shirk their daily tasks, the surgeon 
 at that time new to this line of business attempted to 
 disgust the feigned sufferers by mixing the most naus- 
 eous draughts that the druggist's shelves could supply. 
 But, to his astonishment, the remedy had exactly the op-
 
 126 THE INN OF REST 
 
 posite effect. The men were charmed with the medicine 
 real strong doctor's stuff, and no sham about it, which 
 you could taste for a fortnight. At last the surgeon be- 
 thought himself of changing his tactics, and instead 
 of draughts, put the patients on a course of pills and 
 powders. The effect was magical ; the sick list was sud- 
 denly suspended ; all the men in the sick room recovered, 
 and no others came into it. 
 
 As a general rule, the best time to find a patient in 
 the sweetest of tempers is to watch him take a very nasty 
 draught, and then to go and talk to him while he is 
 shaking his head and shuddering in the full enjoyment 
 of its flavor. A fine large blister, too, is a thing to be 
 proud of; it proves that the doctors are not neglectful of 
 the case, and affords subject of conversation for several 
 days. A patient of the regular sort always wants to 
 show his blister, and is quite proud if you look at him 
 while being leeched. It is probable that one cause of this 
 remarkable idiosyncrasy may be found in the fact that the 
 monotony of life in bed is relieved by active treatment, 
 and that the greater number of patients are very illiter- 
 ate, unable to divert themselves by reading, and cut 
 off from the coarse amusements which they love best 
 when in health. 
 
 Let us now visit a few of the wards, taking one or two 
 of each kind. Of course, the male and female wards are 
 quite distinct, except that children of both sexes are re- 
 ceived in the female wards. The wards are again di- 
 vided into medical and surgical, and the latter are again 
 subdivided into accident, chronic, and operation wards, 
 so that it is easy for one who knows the hospital to 
 find the whereabouts of any patient whose name and 
 ailment are given. The accident wards are placed on 
 the ground floor, in order to avoid the injury that might 
 be done by carrying the sufferer up and down stairs. 
 On entering one of these wards, we find ourselves in a 
 very large room, divided along the middle by a parti- 
 tion wall so as to form two separate apartments. These 
 are technically known by the names of front and back
 
 127 
 
 wards, because the windows of the front wards look 
 into the large square of the hospital, and those of the 
 back ward open into the space between the actual hos- 
 pital and the buildings belonging to it. These form a 
 double square, one within the 6ther, and in the centre 
 of the large square a plot of ground is laid out as a gar- 
 den, with a fountain playing in its midst and gold fish 
 swimming in the basin. This basin is often the medium 
 for experiments on various aquatic animals, which im- 
 mediately become objects of absorbing interest to the 
 convalescent patients. 
 
 The partition does not extend quite to the end of the 
 room, but leaves a passage between the front and back 
 wards. A fire-place with various appliances is set in 
 the midst of the partition, and a large supply of hot 
 water is constantly maintained. This is an absolute nec- 
 essity, as there are cases where an immediate warm 
 bath affords the only hope of saving life; and on look- 
 ing outside the wards we shall see on each landing a 
 full-length bath on wheels covered with caoutchouc, 
 which can be drawn into the ward, filled with warm 
 water, and the patient placed therein in the space of 
 five minutes ; it is indeed got ready while he is being un- 
 dressed. The use of the bath is one of the principal in- 
 stitutions of the hospital. All in-patients are obliged to 
 subject themselves to the cleansing medium of a warm 
 bath before they are placed in bed, none being exempt 
 from this rule but those who are seriously injured or 
 greatly weakened by illness. There are also two sets of 
 warm, cold, and shower baths for the use of the out-pa- 
 tients, furnished with every requisite, and being served 
 by persons appointed to this special office. 
 
 As a rule, each ward contains twenty full-sized beds 
 for adults and two cots for children, half being in the front 
 and the other half in the back ward. There is a wide 
 space between every bed; and the room is so lofty, and 
 the ventilation so good that the air is purer than in 
 many a magnificently furnished drawing-room. At the 
 end of the ward, and close by the door, is the sister's
 
 128 THE INN OF REST 
 
 room, where she sits like a spider in her web, ready to 
 pounce out at every strange step, and to arrest the pro- 
 gress of any one not entitled to admission. Altogether 
 there are 650 beds in the hospital, 400 of which are de- 
 voted to surgery, and the rest to medicine. 
 
 We have just entered a surgical ward, where are the 
 cases demanding the severest treatment, and in which 
 the popular idea of such places supposes that dreadful 
 sights and fearful sounds are seen and heard continually. 
 Sounds certainly are heard, but they are generally sounds 
 of merriment, the patients of a surgical ward being, as a 
 general rule, remarkably lively. The greater number 
 of them find themselves better off than they ever were 
 in their lives ; they get far better food than the ill-cooked 
 meals to which they are accustomed ; they mostly have 
 rather more than they can manage to eat; they have no 
 work to do, and are perfectly well in health. So their 
 only object is to amuse themselves, and this task they 
 undertake with right good will. The "scholar" of the 
 ward is generally induced to read aloud out of some 
 of the many books provided for the patients, among 
 which our old friends, "Black Giles the Poacher," 
 "Tawny Rachel," "Hester Wilmot," "The Way to 
 Plenty," and others of that thoroughly genuine series, 
 are deservedly the favorites. Puzzle-making now and 
 then runs through the hospital like an epidemic; and 
 for two or three months kettle-holders were manufac- 
 tured in such profusion that the family of each patient 
 might be supplied, and each ward set up in those ar- 
 ticles for the next few years. Water-colors are always 
 in great favor, and the liberality with which Prussian 
 blue, vermilion, and yellow ochre are lavished upon sail- 
 ors, bandits, and Mr. Kean as Othello, is as amusing 
 as the result is remarkable. 
 
 Now and then comes a patient of more sense than his 
 fellows, who, feeling that he will be confined to the hos- 
 pital for several months, sets boldly to work and tries 
 heartily to improve his mind or learn some new art. 
 Such patients are most grateful for a word or two of help,
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 129 
 
 and it is very pleasant to find them asking the surgeon or 
 the chaplain to lend them books of a higher class than 
 those which are supplied to the wards. Latin and French 
 grammars, books in those languages, and Euclid have 
 repeatedly been lent, and have always been honorably 
 delivered to the sister before the borrower has left the 
 ward. A few years ago one patient amused himself with 
 oil paint, and after decorating all the flower-pots and 
 saucers in arabesque patterns, became ambitious and 
 tried to copy landscapes. Being a persevering man, 
 with some taste for color and a good eye for form, he 
 succeeded marvelously well, and actually sold his pro- 
 ductions as fast as he could paint them. 
 
 There is a wonderful diversity in the patients, who, 
 however, fall naturally into classes, and might be labeled 
 and docketed like specimens in a museum. There is, for 
 example, the take-it-easy patient, who never does any- 
 thing in particular never reads, never hurries himself, 
 would as soon lose his leg as keep it, and would probably 
 be quite unconcerned if the question referred to his head ; 
 perfectly contented, not in the least haste to recover, and 
 is, in fact, an illogical optimist of the first water. 
 
 Then there is the confirmed grumbler, who is never 
 pleased about anything, but always gets the best of 
 everything; growls sotto voce at the doctors, yells lustily 
 when touched, declines to answer inquiries after health, 
 or only after several solicitations; allows the solitary 
 word "Wuss" to escape his lips, and then shuts his 
 mouth tightly, and looks at the ceiling. (N. B. He is 
 really much better, and improves daily.) When he is 
 allowed to dress, he monopolizes the best place by the 
 fire and the pleasantest seat at the window, and there 
 sits taciturnly morose until he gets his dinner, which he 
 eats rapidly and abuses it the while. In fine, he is the 
 wet blanket of the ward, and as soon as he is fairly out 
 of it a burst of sunshine seems to irradiate its inmates. 
 Two or three of these grumblers are generally found in 
 a ward in the course of a year. 
 
 To counteract the effect of this unpleasant personage,
 
 130 THE INN OF REST 
 
 there is usually the benevolent patient, who becomes the 
 life of the ward, ready to help every one, and never 
 thinking of himself. Lame as he is himself, he hobbles 
 along to assist his neighbor who has risen for the first 
 time, and is tremblingly endeavoring to move on un- 
 accustomed crutches. He reads aloud for the benefit of 
 the unlearned ; he "chaffs" the grumbler, and neutralizes 
 his complaining; he helps ignorant but industrious pa- 
 tients in their reading and writing; and, when he at last 
 sits down, some small boy usually contrives to slide on 
 one knee, and the cat jumps on the other. 
 
 Cats, by the way, are among the great institutions of 
 a hospital, and on a very small average, each ward has a 
 cat and two-thirds. They always have their particular 
 allies among the patients, sometimes choosing the rough- 
 est and burliest for their friends; and it has a most ab- 
 surd effect to see the rough, shaggy face of a navvy, 
 and the smooth, sleek head of the cat, amicably repos- 
 ing on the same pillow; and the man's half apologetic 
 but kindly grin is a sight really worth seeing. 
 
 Then there is the religious patient, a not unfrequent 
 and invaluable inmate of a ward, effecting wonders by 
 the mere force of example, unwilling to talk about him- 
 self, generally rather silent for a time, but always having 
 something sensible to say when the crust of reserve 
 is broken through. 
 
 As a contrast, there now and then comes into the ward 
 the controversial patient, mostly a brand new convert, 
 always obtrusive and obnoxious, and who generally has 
 to be silenced by the threat of expulsion. A contro- 
 versial drayman seems rather an anomaly, but one of the 
 wards was actually honored by that example let us 
 hope an unique one a drayman who had been con- 
 verted to some newfangled notions, who contrived a few 
 days afterwards to let the wheel of his own dray run 
 over his leg, and who was brought into the hospital with 
 a zeal red hot as his face. Since drays were invented 
 there never was such a drayman, and it is to be devoutly 
 hoped that there never will be such another. He tried
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 131 
 
 to convert the surgeon, the sister, the nurses, the pa- 
 tients, the chaplain, the dressers, and the beadles. He 
 occupied the bed at the end of the ward, called technically 
 the state bed, because it is exactly the same as all the 
 others ; and as soon as he saw any one enter the door, he 
 would in a stentorian voice demand their opinion of cer- 
 tain points of doctrine. He had piles of the fattest books 
 in the smallest type, and would insist on reading pas- 
 sages aloud, to the great disadvantage of his own health. 
 He would not keep himself quiet, and there were seri- 
 ous thoughts of transferring him to a separate room, 
 where his leg might have a chance of mending, and where 
 he might get up his arguments for proselytizing his fel- 
 low-draymen after his discharge. 
 
 There is always a tolerable sprinkling of foreigners, 
 unable to speak English, and very ingenious in estab- 
 lishing a pantomimic language. They get on very well 
 with their fellow-patients; but it is pleasant to see the 
 sudden brightening of the face when addressed in their 
 own language. Now and then a negro finds admission; 
 quiet, mostly useful, with a subdued but contented look, 
 and a pair of soft brown eyes like those of a spaniel, 
 grateful for the least attention, and with a pleasant smile 
 displaying a double row of white and regular teeth that 
 would make a dentist's fortune. Irish patients are al- 
 ways plentiful, as they have a habit of partaking freely 
 of the beverage of their country, ascending tall ladders 
 with loads on their shoulders, traversing narrow planks 
 at immense heights, and very naturally falling to the 
 ground accompanied by their hods. They do not, how- 
 ever, seem to hurt themselves much; and horrifying as 
 these accidents really are, some of them seem rather to 
 belong to the mimic regions of pantomime than of dread 
 reality, the results being equally harmless in either case. 
 
 After watching for some years the accidents that en- 
 ter the walls of a hospital, three conclusions are ar- 
 rived at : First, that the apparent severity of an accident 
 is by no means proportioned to its effects upon the suf- 
 ferer; second, that accidents seldom occur singly; and
 
 132 THE INN OF REST 
 
 third, that certain accidents generally take place about 
 the same time of the year. So that an experienced sis- 
 ter can mostly predict the kind of work which will be 
 given to her as soon as she sees the patient being brought 
 towards her ward. The apparent impunity with which 
 some men suffer the most fearful casualties is quite as 
 remarkable as the fatal effects of a mere trivial injury 
 on others. One man, for example, being in a room where 
 some forty pounds of powder exploded, was blown 
 through a wooden partition and landed on the grass, not 
 very much the worse, except that he was rather stunned, 
 very black, and could not for some time exactly com- 
 prehend what had occurred. Another fell off the top 
 of a lofty house upon a heap of bricks, and was shot 
 into a basket with such force that he had to be cut out 
 with a knife. He left the ward in a few weeks, 
 quite recovered. Another fell flat on the stone flooring 
 of a new chapel, from a height of fifty feet, and was dis- 
 charged in a week or two, without even a bone broken. 
 Yet, though one man will sustain some such terrible ac- 
 cident without much danger, another will just step off the 
 curbstone and be picked up with compound fracture of 
 both legs. Indeed curbstones and orange-peel are re- 
 sponsible for a wonderfully large percentage of accidents, 
 and the police really ought to prevent orange-peel from 
 being flung on the foot pavement. 
 
 Again there seems to be an epidemic in accidents as 
 in diseases. If one man is brought to the hospital in 
 consequence of falling off a scaffold, four or five more 
 are sure to enter from the same cause, though the acci- 
 dents may have occurred in different parts of London. 
 And if an accident of some peculiar nature happen, a 
 second is nearly sure to follow before long. For ex- 
 ample, there was a stationer's apprentice brought in 
 with a severe injury to the chest, caused by falling off 
 the steps with a ream of brown paper in his hands, the 
 corner of the package coming on his chest. He was 
 hardly settled in bed when another stationer's appren- 
 tice was brought to the same ward, having met with
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 133 
 
 exactly the same misfortune. There really seem to be 
 some laws which govern accidental injuries as well as 
 diseases, for at one time people get blown up by explod- 
 ing boilers; at another time they get run over; at an- 
 other they get crushed in machinery (boys are espec- 
 ially liable to this kind of injury) ; at another they break 
 their knee-caps ; and at another they fall down-stairs. 
 
 None of these accidents have any bearing on the 
 time of year, but there are others which can clearly 
 be referred to causes connected with the weather or the 
 temperature. Winter, of course, brings many inmates 
 who have fallen on slides, or slipped off the icy curbstone. 
 Fearful cuts are often occasioned by the sharp edges of 
 ice, and in some instances are of a severer character than 
 those inflicted by broken glass. Bricklayers and ma- 
 sons mostly injure themselves in the summer and warm 
 months; and the Irish hodmen are generally wonderful 
 specimens of their race. 
 
 The connection between the time of the year and the 
 kind of accident is, however, most apparent in children. 
 In the summer they are run over by wagons, or pushed 
 down areas by their companions. Towards the end of 
 autumn they set their pinafores on fire, and drink out 
 of spouts of teapots and boiling kettles ; and about spring 
 they generally begin to fall out of two-pair-back win- 
 dows. 
 
 The children are, indeed, among the sights of a hos- 
 pital. On first admission there is nothing but wailing 
 and crying after mammy; but in a day or two they are 
 perfectly reconciled, and become quite talkative. They 
 are generally great pets among the other patients, be- 
 ing treated as living dolls, and gratified in every way, 
 until they are as noisily sorrowful at being forced to 
 leave the hospital as when they first entered its walls. 
 On more than one occasion a child has made itself so ill 
 by constant crying after its playmates that the mother 
 has been forced to bring it back again. They have toys 
 in profusion, dolls of course holding the pre-eminence, 
 and it is a remarkable fact that the dolls have exactly
 
 134 THE INN OF REST 
 
 the same complaint as their little owners. Mostly, the 
 children are very well behaved, and when they are noisy 
 it is on account of the exuberant spirits of childhood. 
 Now and then there is a peevish, fretful child, who re- 
 fuses to be pacified, and is a considerable nuisance to 
 the other patients. But of all the unpleasant inhabitants 
 of a ward, the very worst is an Irish child accompanied 
 by its mother. The child would do well enough, but the 
 mother is so very energetic in her grief that the little 
 thing can get no rest. She rocks herself backward and 
 forward ; she bewails her sad lot in the most fluent man- 
 ner and the loudest tones, breaking every now and then 
 into a prolonged howl; she claps her hands in cadence 
 with her lamentations, and no sooner has the child fal- 
 len asleep that she wakes it with her demonstrative sor- 
 row, and sets it crying afresh. 
 
 One of the chief benefits of this, as well as of other 
 similar institutions, is the instantaneous readiness for any 
 emergency at any hour. We will take an extreme case, 
 and suppose that in the dead of night a poor man, en- 
 deavoring to escape through the window of a burning 
 house, falls into the street, and in one moment lies stun- 
 ned and bleeding on the ground, having evidently 
 suffered injuries so severe that none but medical men 
 dare to meddle with him. A messenger is despatched 
 to the nearest police station, and in a very short time a 
 couple of stalwart men make their appearance, bearing 
 a litter expressly constructed for such emergency. With 
 their gentle but strong and practised hands they place the 
 poor wounded form on the stretcher, and bear the suf- 
 ferer to the hospital gates. Meanwhile, all is in commo- 
 tion within the halls, but no one is at all flurried ; mes- 
 sengers are sent to the various surgeons, and almost as 
 soon as the poor man is fairly deposited within the re- 
 ception-room, the surgeons are ready to examine his in- 
 juries. 
 
 We will suppose it to be an extreme case, where im- 
 mediate operation affords the only hope of saving life. 
 Notice is instantly given, and the sufferer is borne gently
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 135 
 
 to the dread operating room, once the theatre of agony 
 almost too great for the human frame to endure, but 
 now shorn of half its terrors by the blessed influence of 
 chloroform. It is a quiet-looking room enough, with 
 nothing in it to alarm any one. All the array of instru- 
 ments needed are kept in an adjoining room, where they 
 are marshaled in proper ranks, and preserved in the very 
 perfection of working order. Woe be to the delinquent 
 through whose neglect a screw refuses to turn rightly, a 
 silken thread is allowed to be tangled or an edge shows 
 the least symptoms of dullness. A human life hangs upon 
 every such apparent trifle, and each instrument, however 
 simple it may be, is conserved and examined with a seri- 
 ous minuteness that would seem absurd to those who 
 knew not the responsibility of the examiner. 
 
 In a wonderfully short time the operation is over, the 
 wounded vessel that was draining the stream of life is 
 secured, the sufferer is again placed on the stretcher, and 
 conveyed to a bed which has been prepared in the mean- 
 time. Until he is out of danger he is never left for a 
 moment, the surgeons relieving each other in a regular 
 rotation, and keeping their anxious watch through day 
 and night by his bedside. If the accident should happen 
 to occur near the hospital, barely half an hour will inter- 
 vene between the moment of its occurrence and the time 
 when the sufferer is placed in bed. 
 
 If we now leave this kind of ward and enter one of 
 those devoted to medical cases, we shall see very little 
 difference. There is the same row of beds with their 
 chequered curtains, and the suspended batons by which 
 the patients are enabled to lift themselves in bed, and 
 which are technically called pullies. Over the head of 
 each patient there is the same looking white board, on 
 which is written the name of the patient, the ward, the 
 physician, the malady, and the daily treatment and diet, 
 so that the whole case is seen at a glance. The sister 
 in her blue dress, and the nurses in sober brown, are 
 working in the same quiet way; the convalescent pa- 
 tients are talking in little groups, or reading, or watch-
 
 136 THE INN OF REST 
 
 ing their farther advanced companions walking in the 
 square below. The wards are always in the same state 
 of order, and any one can enter a ward at any hour of 
 day or night without giving notice, and find everything 
 going on in the same systematic fashion. 
 
 The general life of a patient is necessarily regulated 
 with as much care as is exercised aboard a man-of-war. 
 After breakfast the sister reads a few short prayers, a 
 copy of which is hung over each bed, so that the patient 
 may follow if he chooses. The medical men then make 
 their rounds, and after them comes the chaplain, who 
 reads a selection from the prayer-book or sometimes 
 gives a short address, and then speaks a word here and 
 there to the patients. There are three chaplains attached 
 to the hospital, and as on the average each reads prayers 
 six or seven times daily, there are eighteen short ser- 
 vices held in the wards every day. One is resident ; and 
 they make arrangements among themselves, so that if 
 a patient should at any hour of the day or night desire 
 to see the chaplain the wish is immediately gratified. 
 Patients of any religion or sect can have their own min- 
 ister, and even members of the Church of England who 
 desire to see the clergyman to whom they have been ac- 
 customed, or to whom they take a fancy, have only to 
 express the wish and a messenger is immediately des- 
 patched. There is necessarily the proviso that any such 
 minister shall confine his attentions to the particular pa- 
 tient who sent for him, or otherwise the hospital would 
 be inundated with conflicting missionaries, and each ward 
 turned into a polemical battle-field. 
 
 Dinner-time is fixed at 12:30, and about twenty min- 
 utes before that time a long stream of nurses is seen con- 
 verging towards some stone stairs leading to regions 
 below. Here the vast amount of varied food is cooked 
 for the patients by means equally simple and ingenious. 
 
 On entering the kitchen we do not find the air par- 
 ticularly hot, and except a moderate fire, at which noth- 
 ing is being cooked, and a row of dressers adorned with 
 shining pipes, handles, and chains, hardly a sign of cook-
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 137 
 
 ery is visible. The dresser, however, contains several 
 huge coppers, wherein all the beef-tea, broth, and simi- 
 lar articles of food are cooked. No fire is needed for 
 them, as they are heated by steam supplied from a boiler 
 outside the walls. The steam acts in two ways. To 
 warm the mixture and keep it at the gently simmering 
 temperature needful for the production of good broth, 
 steam is admitted between the double jackets of which 
 the boiler is made. To make it boil, when the temper- 
 ature must be increased, steam is admitted from below, 
 which passes through the liquid, parting with all its 
 heat in so doing, and stirring up the contents of the ves- 
 sel most effectually. Another large cauldron is heated 
 by means of a gas-stove. 
 
 We ask the cook where the meat is roasted, and he 
 answers by opening the door of a large iron-safe, let 
 into the wall, where between twenty and thirty joints 
 are seen sputtering at a wonderful rate. Two of these 
 safes are placed side by side, and each can cook about 
 thirty large joints. This structure is remarkably simple, 
 the whole number of joints being roasted by a single 
 row of gas jets round the bottom. The gas has no di- 
 rect effect on the Imeat, being outside the gridiron and 
 hooks on which the joints are placed, but merely heats 
 the metal sides of the roasters, which* are so formed as 
 to reflect all the warmth upon the meat. This arrange- 
 ment is so perfect that every joint is equally well roasted, 
 whether it be at the top, the bottom, middle, or side of 
 the roaster, and the ventilation is so powerful that the 
 meat has not the least flavor of gas, as is too often the 
 case when cooked by such means. It is a most econo- 
 mical system, for the dripping overpays the cost of the 
 gas, being so pure and free from ashes or foreign sub- 
 stances that it is sold by contract at a high price. The 
 open fire is mostly used for little extra delicacies which 
 any patient of feeble appetite may fancy. There are, 
 indeed, no bounds to the liberality of the hospital in 
 this respect, and if a really sick person has a particular 
 wish for any article of diet, it is at once ready, if the
 
 138 
 
 THE INN OF REST 
 
 hospital appliances are sufficient for that purpose, or, if 
 not, is straightway purchased from a restaurant. In- 
 deed, if a patient could eat nothing but turtles and veni- 
 son, and drink nothing but Lafitte and Cliquot, they 
 would be supplied without the least hesitation. 
 
 Arranging and giving out the rations is a business of 
 sonic importance, and is thus managed. In the kitchen 
 a large blackboard is placed, which is divided into lines 
 and columns according to the following chart: 
 
 Total 
 
 Extra 
 
 
 Kenton 
 
 Harley 
 
 Pitcairn 
 
 
 1 
 
 68 
 54 
 3 
 
 78 
 
 30 
 156 
 
 Half Diet 
 
 
 
 
 Half Diet 
 Chop 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 Full Diet 
 
 6 
 
 23 
 
 
 Full Diet 
 Chop 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 Broth 
 
 
 
 
 Beef Tea 
 
 
 
 
 Milk 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 Rice Milk 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 Arrow- 
 root 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 Sago 
 
 
 
 
 Pudding 
 
 
 
 
 Eggs 
 
 5 
 
 4 
 
 
 The board being black, the figures are written upon 
 it with chalk, and, after the dinner has been served and 
 the accounts checked, are erased with a wet cloth. At
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 139 
 
 the time when the above table was copied, Kenton ward 
 was nearly empty, and Harley quite full ; but in a week 
 or two Kenton will probably have every bed occupied. 
 
 On the day when the writer happened to visit the 
 kitchen, there were five hundred and seventy-three in- 
 mates of the hospital, who consumed eight hundred and 
 twenty rations at dinner, including extras, such as pud- 
 ding and arrowroot. 
 
 The manner in which the dinner is sent into the wards 
 is very curious. On a long table in the centre of the 
 kitchen are ranged a regiment of covered tin dishes, 
 each stamped with the number representing a ward. 
 When all is ready the cook turns off the gas, opens the 
 door of the roaster, seizes a huge two-handled fork, 
 plunges it into one of the joints, looks at a tin label fas- 
 tened to the meat by a skewer, shouts out the number 
 upon the label and the name of its proper ward, removes 
 it, and hands the joint to an assistant, who places it in 
 the dish corresponding to the number. It is then taken 
 by the nurse of the ward, who carries it off to her do- 
 mains, where it is carved by the sister, and distributed 
 by the nurses. The whole of the cooking for six hun- 
 dred patients, including puddings and various extras, 
 is achieved by one man, aided by his wife and two maid 
 servants. Nothing is wasted, and after the patients have 
 eaten as much as they can manage, the whole of the re- 
 mainder is distributed to the poor, so that there is no 
 possibility of stale provisions being served out to the 
 patients. 
 
 The arrangements for supplying the patients with 
 medicine are quite as elaborately simple as those for 
 supplying them with food. If we cross the square, pass 
 into the dispensary, popularly called the "shop," because 
 nothing is sold there, and look around us, we find our- 
 selves in the midst of remarkable smells and singular 
 sights. Huge jars and unlimited rows of bottles dis- 
 tract the eye, while we pass through another door and 
 enter the laboratory. Here the various drugs are com- 
 pounded the whole of the mechanical work being done
 
 140 THE INN OF REST 
 
 by steam. In a little side-room is a small steam engine, 
 which works a mill for grinding bark and other drugs. 
 The mill is just like that of a powder manufactory, con- 
 sisting of a pair of huge stone discs, rolling on their edges 
 in a circular basin, and driven round by the engine. The 
 same machine also works the sieve, which requires no aid 
 except being occasionally supplied with fresh material. 
 
 Economy reigns supreme here as in other departments, 
 and even the steam is not allowed to be wasted, but is 
 condensed into distilled water, which is necessary for 
 the manufacture of many chemical compounds. There 
 are also seen two huge evaporating pans, with move- 
 able covers, like copper domes, terminating in chimney 
 pots of the same material, and the liquid in these pans 
 is heated by means of steam, as in the case of the great 
 cauldrons in the kitchen. Lest, however, the engine 
 should be out of order, there is a fire-place under each 
 pan, which would heat the various decoctions until the 
 steam could be again supplied. In the many cases where 
 valuable juices must be expressed by main force, a pow- 
 erful Bramah's water-press stands always ready for use. 
 
 Here and there on the counters are seen great shape- 
 less lumps of some dark substance, looking like spade- 
 fuls of black mortar, and each having a tin label stuck 
 on it. Each of these lumps is a mass of pills not yet made 
 up, but which will soon be cut into shape and size by a 
 machine. The pills thus made are placed in great store- 
 boxes, whence they are scooped with a shovel, just as 
 bankers' clerks scoop sovereigns, and transferred to cer- 
 tain little pigeon-hole boxes just under the dispensing 
 window. The pill-boxes are also kept in vast quantities, 
 and each box is ready labeled, this operation being per- 
 formed by the convalescent patients mostly the chil- 
 dren, who take to the task quite easily, as there is plenty 
 of snipping and gumming in it; the boxes being of 
 course classed according to their labels. There is also 
 a large store-room where the drugs are kept before be- 
 ing ground and made up, and here, also, are placed the 
 wine, brandy, and other spirits required by the patients.
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 141 
 
 Here is made that useful substance, called diachylon 
 plaster by the outer world, and simply denomi- 
 nated "strapping" in surgical parlance. Like the pills, the 
 grinding, and the sifting, the strapping is made by ma- 
 chinery. A strip of linen, about forty yards long and ten 
 inches wide, is taken to the machine, and one end inserted 
 between two rollers, which revolve as the linen is drawn 
 between them ; causing it to be equally covered with the 
 substance that converts it into plaster, and which is 
 seen bubbling in a trough, from which it is conveyed to 
 the linen. The process of manufacture is quite an ab- 
 surd sight. Two men seize the projecting end of the 
 linen, and run away with it through the door-way, and 
 through the dispensing-room, until they reach the win- 
 dow, where they hand it over to a couple of assistants 
 standing ready outside, who continue to run away with 
 it until the whole forty yards are expended. The air 
 cools it almost immediately, and it is then sliced into 
 lengths with huge scissors, rolled up, and stowed away. 
 As this strapping is dispensed very liberally, it is needful 
 to have some protection against the many impostors who 
 would obtain it from the hospital, sell it for a few pence, 
 and buy gin with the proceeds. The name of the hos- 
 pital is therefore printed in full in diagonal lines across 
 the back of the linen, and the type is so bold and the 
 lines so close together that it would be impossible to 
 behave dishonestly without detection. Similar precau- 
 tions are taken with every article of portable property 
 belonging to the hospital such as plates, dishes, tin- 
 ware, sheets, counterpanes, and blankets, all of which 
 are marked so boldly that they must be recognized, and 
 so ineradicably that in most cases to obliterate the mark 
 would be to destroy the article. 
 
 Before closing these remarks, it will be as well to men- 
 tion a few statistics gathered from the institution. 
 
 It is found that of the whole number admitted into the 
 wards in a single year, nearly eighty per cent, are dis- 
 charged either cured or relieved, and that about ten per- 
 cent, die within the walls. Of these, however, about
 
 142 THE INN OF REST 
 
 one and a Half per cent, are nearly dead when brought to 
 the gates, and die before they have been within the walls 
 for one day. Of the deaths, the greater number are at- 
 tributed to the scourge of our land, consumption, which 
 insidious disease carries off thirteen per cent, of the 
 whole number. The next fatal malady is bronchitis, which 
 kills about eight per cent. ; next conies burns and scalds, 
 which account for six per cent.; and next in order is 
 inflammation of the lungs, which carries off five per cent. 
 So that more than twenty-five per cent, are attributable 
 to affections of the lungs. Scarlatina, so much dreaded, 
 only gives two per cent.; and croup, the just fear of 
 anxious parents, only kills one per cent. Fever and apo- 
 plexy are marked by the same figure as scarlatina; and 
 dropsy and diseases of the heart (often allied) range be- 
 tween four and five per cent. 
 
 During the last official year no less than 105,452 suf- 
 ferers applied for and received relief from this institu- 
 tion, of whom 5,633 were admitted as in-patients, and 
 more than 35,000 were surgical casualties. There is 
 also a provision for ensuring gratuitous attendance upon 
 poor women about to become mothers; and during the 
 past year 849 children were ushered into the world un- 
 der its kindly auspices. Six pensioners have been added 
 to the list of poor incurables, and a sum of 522, 5s., lOd. 
 has been expended in giving clothes and pecuniary re- 
 lief to discharged patients. The former fund is known 
 by the name of the Priscilla Coborn Charity, and the lat- 
 ter is called the Samaritan Fund. Various other patients 
 have been presented with costly surgical apparatus and 
 other appliances. No less than thirteen pipes of port 
 wine have been consumed by the patients within the last 
 twelve months, and it is found that, upon an average, 
 one pipe of this wine is drunk in twenty-eight days. 
 Sherry and brandy are not included in this estimate. 
 The whole of the funds (almost entirely derived from 
 landed estates) which are needed for the administration 
 of such enormous expenses, is managed by a resident
 
 INNER LIFE OF A HOSPITAL 143 
 
 gentleman, who gives his unpaid services to the insti- 
 tution, and who is the virtual head of the hospital. 
 
 Ex uno disce omnes. The foregoing sketch of the Inner 
 Life of a Hospital is necessarily given in outline, and 
 admits of few details, the whole system of medical and 
 surgical instruction being omitted for want of space, 
 and the description confined to its immediate bearings 
 upon the patient. Still, it is hoped that the reader may 
 have gained some knowledge of the intricate and costly 
 machinery by which these valuable institutions are 
 worked, and of their claims to consideration on the part 
 of the wealthy and benevolent.
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL 
 
 Adelaide C. G. Sim
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL. 
 
 | HE Sister in charge of the large hospital just out- 
 side one of the grimiest, noisest, busiest, and most 
 crowded of our manufacturing towns was 
 standing in the doorway of her own special 
 quarters, at one end of the long plain building, 
 looking after the doctor who had just left her at 
 the close of a lengthy conference on hospital mat- 
 ters. It was a very raw November day, a damp 
 fog was settling down over the flat waste of land 
 that lay between the hospital and the great town about 
 two miles distant; it hung in glistening drops on the 
 black iron railings around the Sister's little plot of gar- 
 den, and weighed down the slender branches of the few 
 stunted shrubs that managed to hold their own in the 
 poor soil and smoke-laden atmosphere. A dreary pros- 
 pect, but yet, as the doctor disappeared through the big 
 gates, although the Sister gave an involuntary shiver 
 which shook her ample form and made the white wings 
 of her headdress tremble, she turned back to her little 
 sitting-room with a bright smile of contentment and tri- 
 umph. A good woman was the Sister Superintendent 
 and what is perhaps rarer, a clever one also. She had 
 her own ideas as to the administration and government 
 of the large establishment over which she presided, and 
 on occasions would defend those views even against the 
 doctor with much energy. This afternoon, however, the 
 two authorities had agreed with remarkable unanimity 
 on one matter very near to the Sister's heart, the promo- 
 tion of Nurse Miriam, and as the Sister sat down at her 
 writing table and turned to the consideration of the 
 weekly bills, she sfmiled again at the thought of having 
 so easily carried a point for which she had been pre- 
 pared to fight her hardest, for after two years' residence
 
 148 
 
 in the hospital the appointment to be bestowed on the 
 nurse was an almost unprecedented favor. 
 
 It was only two years since a poor wasted woman 
 had been found lying sick of typhoid fever in a miser- 
 able lodging in the town and brought to the hospital by 
 her landlady, who could give no information respecting 
 her, beyond the fact that she had paid a week's rent in 
 advance, had asked for a cup of tea, and, poor soul, had 
 fallen asleep on the bed while it was preparing, to awake 
 delirious and in a high fever. She lay for weeks be- 
 tween life and death in the hospital ward, and though 
 at times she talked volubly, the nurses and sisters could 
 make nothing of her ravings, and only agreed that she 
 spoke like an educated woman, and that the voice that 
 came from her poor parched lips was singularly sweet 
 and low. She was so ill and for so long as to create a 
 special interest in her case among the staff, and when at 
 last she was pronounced out of danger, there was a gen- 
 eral feeling of relief that the natural curiosity she had 
 aroused would be at last satisfied, and that she would 
 soon be able to give an account of herself. 
 
 But the patient seemed in no hurry to do this ; she lay 
 perfectly quiet, watching all that went on around her 
 with great hazel-brown eyes, which, now that the fever 
 had left them, showed languidly beautiful under her 
 finely penciled brows. She accepted all that was done for 
 her with the gracious courtesy of a queen, and asked no 
 questions as to how she came there or who those around 
 her were, and after a few unavailing attempts to arouse 
 her to talk about herself, the nurses left her to be inter- 
 viewed by the Sister Superintendent. This dignitary 
 finding her one morning sufficiently strong to bear the 
 effect of conversation, sat down by her bed, and con- 
 gratulated her on her improved appearance. 
 
 "I dare say, my dear child," she went on, "y u would 
 like to let your friends know where you are. I'm afraid 
 they must have been very anxious about you, but as we 
 could find nothing to give us a clue to your name and 
 address, we could not communicate with them. Now if
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL 149 
 
 you will tell me I'll write at once to them, and they can 
 come and see you." The sick woman flushed a little 
 during the Sister's speech, and her thin fingers fidgeted 
 the wedding-ring they had noticed on her left hand, but 
 when she answered it was in a quiet level voice, "I thank 
 you very much, Sister, but there is no one to write to. 
 I am quite alone in the world since I lost my husband." 
 She caught her breath a trifle before the last words, and 
 the Sister looked a little keenly at her, but it did not seem 
 to embarrass her in the least, and she went on after a 
 moment's pause, "I'm afraid I have been ill here a long 
 time, and I am so grateful to you all for your goodness 
 and care of me. The last thing I remember was being 
 so tired and so miserable, and hoping that I might go 
 to sleep and not awake again, and now I am so com- 
 fortable and this is so resting and peaceful, I'm glad and 
 thankful to be alive still. You won't send me away just 
 yet will you?" "Send you away! Why, my dear, you 
 won't be fit to be moved for another three weeks, and 
 then you will have to be looked after very carefully. 
 .What is your name?" 
 
 "Miriam." 
 
 "And your surname?" 
 
 The patient did not reply for a moment, and then look- 
 ing at her questioner almost defiantly said, "Barton, 
 Miriam Barton" but next minute with a smile which 
 would have disarmed a much more touchy person than 
 the good Sister, she added, "Please don't ask me any 
 more, now. I'm so happy to be here." And somehow all 
 attempts at solving the mystery of Miriam's past life 
 ended in a like unsatisfactory manner. 
 
 She rapidly became convalescent, and as soon as she 
 was up began to make herself useful to the nurses, and 
 to enliven and cheer the other patients. She seemed to 
 possess an unending store of anecdotes and stories, and 
 as she grew stronger might be heard singing to herself 
 in a sweet mellow voice like a thrush in springtime ; but, 
 although many of her stories were personal experiences, 
 no one gained any knowledge of her antecedents beyond
 
 150 THE INN OF REST 
 
 the fact that she had led a rather wandering life, and 
 had been pretty well all over England. The chaplain 
 made an attempt to gain her confidence, but at the con- 
 clusion of a long conversation, could only report that her 
 views were those of an excellent Churchwoman, and that 
 he quite believed her when she assured him earnestly 
 that she had no relations or friends to whom she was 
 accountable, and both he and the Sister Superintendent 
 were only too glad to support the petition she made to 
 the hospital Committee to be allowed to stay on and 
 qualify as a nurse when she had quite recovered her 
 strength, and, be it added, her beauty. For, as her health 
 returned it dawned on every one, from the visiting physi- 
 cian to the boy who cleaned the boots, that Nurse Miriam 
 was what the former denominated "a very fine woman," 
 and the latter a "stunner!" She was rather above the 
 middle height, with a figure that asserted its claim to 
 admiration even in the straight-cut hospital uniform, 
 and she moved as a poor German patient described it, 
 "Wei eine Gottin." Her prettily shaped head was a 
 mass of golden brown curls that refused to be entirely 
 hidden away under her white cap, and her almost clas- 
 sic features were redeemed from severity by the sweet- 
 ness of her laughter-loving mouth. She would have 
 been almost worth keeping as an ornament, but to the 
 delight of the doctors and sisters she showed a distinct 
 genius for nursing, unbounded energy, unflagging pa- 
 tience, and with the most sympathetic nature had nerves 
 of steel. 
 
 She had become a treasure in the hospital, and the 
 doctor's promise to appoint her head of the accident ward 
 was a source of intense gratification to the Superinten- 
 dent. 
 
 The dull miserable afternoon wore on, and presently 
 a knock at the door interrupted the Sister's accounts, 
 and at her "Come in," Nurse Miriam entered dressed for 
 walking. "Do you want anything in the town, Sister; 
 I'm going in to do some shopping I want the exercise 
 I shall be back by tea-time?"
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL 151 
 
 Of course there were a few trifles to purchase, and the 
 messages to be left, and then, after a recommendation 
 not to be out in the fog too late, and to be sure to take 
 a 'bus home, Miriam started on her walk. It was not a 
 cheerful road to the town, leading as it did past brick 
 fields and desert places waiting the advent of the jerry- 
 builder, nor did it look even its evil best on this yellow, 
 misty winter's day. Nurse Miriam shivered a little as 
 she plunged into the fog, and drew her long grey cloak 
 more closely round her, but starting at a good swinging 
 pace she soon began to feel exhilarated by her own mo- 
 tion which sent the blood coursing through her veins, 
 and brought a vivid color into her cheeks. The road 
 was not much frequented, only workmen living in the lit- 
 tle settlement that had grown up around the hospital 
 used it morning and evening, going to and fro to their 
 work in the town, or a cart would lumber past at long 
 intervals, and this afternoon the fog had settled down 
 so completely that one could not see a yard ahead. 
 Nurse Miriam walked along revolving in her own mind 
 certain improvements in a system of bandaging now be- 
 ing experimentally tried in the accident ward, when sud- 
 denly the sound of voices young and boyish pierced 
 through the dark air and fell on her ears. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry for the gov'nor; it will mean a 
 dead loss to him having to change the bill to-morrow, 
 but I don't see what else he can do. There's no one in 
 the company to play Rosalind. Can you see Miss Kars- 
 lake in the part? 'Alas the day! what shall I do with my 
 doublet and hose?' in that shrill scolding voice of hers?" 
 
 "Her voice would suit the part about as well as the 
 doublet and hose would suit her figure," was the reply, 
 and the speakers joined in a hearty peal of laughter as 
 they walked past without noticing the grey-clad woman 
 who stood motionless near them, for at their words Mir- 
 iam had stopped dead. A miracle was happening. For her 
 the fog had rolled away, the long straight road had dis- 
 appeared, the sky was bright above, the tender green of 
 the forest of Arden was over her head, the tall ferns
 
 152 THE INN OF REST 
 
 reached to her knees, the spring flowers bloomed at her 
 feet, and rushing to her lips in broken tremulous accents 
 came the sweet womanly words that Shakespeare has 
 put into the mouth of his most winsome, best-loved hero- 
 ine. Speech after speech she recited, at first under her 
 breath with little trembling gestures, such as a dreamer 
 might use, moving a few steps to the right or left as she 
 spoke; then her voice grew gradually clearer, her move- 
 ments more defined, till at last, her long cloak thrown 
 back, her eyes all alight, her lips parted in a laugh, she 
 turned quickly with her arms extended and met not 
 the gnarled oak trunk where Orlando hung his verses, 
 but the grim brick wall of a villa garden! 
 
 She leaned up against it for a moment, pale and trem- 
 bling, half giddy with the sudden consciousness of her re- 
 turn to real life, then she heaved a long sigh as if bring- 
 ing her very soul from another world, and started again 
 on her way with feverish haste, her lips close pressed 
 together, her brow knit. 
 
 Once in town, she became her practical, energetic self 
 ordering, selecting, bargaining, executing all her many 
 commissions, until at last everything being satisfactorily 
 completed, she came out of a shop in the principal street 
 and paused for a moment irresolutely. Facing her was 
 a dead wall on which the light of a neighboring gas lamp 
 fell, covered with advertisements. The merits of the 
 latest improved bicycle were there set forth, the newest 
 baby's feeding bottle, the most stylish three-shilling hat, 
 the forthcoming chapel sale of work was there an- 
 nounced, and in the very centre was a huge orange- 
 colored poster informing the public that Mr. Jebb's cele- 
 brated London Company was engaged in the Theatre 
 Royal for six nights only. 
 
 Nurse Miriam gave one long searching glance at this, 
 and then set off as fast as she could down the street in 
 the opposite direction to her way home. It was a dirty 
 old part of the town where she found herself after a few 
 minutes' rapid walking, but she seemed to Know her way, 
 and taking a turn to the right down a very pokey, dis-
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL 153 
 
 mal alley, she stopped before a small doorway with a 
 lighted gas lamp above it. The door was only half 
 closed, and yielded to her push, and as she entered the 
 narrow badly-lit passage a man's voice came out of the 
 semi-darkness demanding what she wanted. 
 
 "I want to see Mr. Jebb on business, and at once." 
 
 Her imperative manner seemed to impress the guar- 
 dian of the place, for without further ado he called out, 
 "Well you'll find him on the stage, straight on and mind 
 the step ; wait a bit though 'e's a-coming out," and as he 
 spoke an elderly man stout and clean-shaved with a 
 rather crumpled appearance, and a hat on the back of his 
 head, came quickly down the passage to where the 
 nurse stood. 
 
 "Here, Moxon, what does this lady want? Oh! a 
 nurse, eh ! My dear madam, if you've come to ask for a 
 benefit for the hospital or anything of that kind, I'm 
 exceedingly sorry, but " 
 
 "But I haven't come to ask for anything, Mr. Jebb," 
 said Miriam, her voice trembling, "I've come to know 
 whether you'd like me to play Rosalind for you to-mor- 
 row ; and oh ! my dear old friend, surely you haven't quite 
 forgotten me?" 
 
 She held out her hands as she spoke to the astonished 
 manager, and the eyes she raised to his were full of 
 tears. He caught her wrists and drew her under the 
 light. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed, "it's Miriam Durand. 
 Why, my dear child, you've come to save me ; know you, 
 indeed, as if I shouldn't know you anywhere. Where on 
 earth have you come from, and what are you doing in 
 this get up? Here, you there, what's-your-name, give me 
 back those notices for the press, we'll play 'As You Like 
 It' to-morrow, and if we don't knock 'em my name's not 
 Walter Jebb. I'll have a poster out in the morning that 
 will make them sit up, I know. There, there, my dear, 
 why what's the matter?" for Miriam had hidden her face 
 on her old friend's shoulder, and was sobbing as if her 
 heart would break. 
 
 "Now don't cry, for Heaven's sake don't cry ; here come
 
 154 THE INN OF REST 
 
 round with me to the Missus, and have a bit of something 
 to eat and a cup of tea, and you'll be all right. We've 
 no show to-night, and our diggings are close by, so you'll 
 spend the evening with us. Why, my dear, you've come 
 like an angel at the very nick of time ; there's nothing to 
 cry about." And, talking all the time, the good-natured 
 old fellow led Eis companion through one or two little 
 winding streets to his lodgings. 
 
 Mrs. Jebb's astonishment was as great as her hus- 
 band's, and even more voluble, and having first enveloped 
 Miriam in a vast embrace and then wept freely over 
 her, she was at last persuaded by the manager to sit 
 down to her meat, tea, and explanations. 
 
 "To begin at the beginning," asked she, "where's your 
 husband, and what have you been doing these last three 
 years, and why are you dressed as a nurse?" "And can 
 you rehearse at ten to-morrow?" interrupted her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "I'll rehearse whenever you please, Mr. Jebb, and I 
 only hope I have not forgotten everything I ever knew, 
 but I haven't played since I left you, and I didn't know 
 I should ever play again. I thought that part of my life 
 was all done with and put away, but to-day I heard some 
 one say a line of Rosalind's, and I felt as if I were raised 
 from the dead. I couldn't stay another moment, and when 
 I found it was your company here I came straight to the 
 theatre, and please take me and let me go back to the 
 dear old times," and as she finished Miriam left her seat 
 and came up to Mrs. Jebb and put both arms round her 
 neck. 
 
 "Take you back, my dear, why of course he will, and 
 glad enough to have you," said the old lady, "we've 
 never got used to being without you; but, Miriam, my 
 dear, when you left us you were to be married. Didn't 
 that fellow keep his word?" 
 
 Miriam pulled off her left glove and showed her ring. 
 "He was a scoundrel, Mrs. Jebb, but not so bad as that ; 
 but when after a year's misery he deserted me, I was 
 ashamed to let you or any of my old friends know. I
 
 NURSE MIRIAM'S CALL 155 
 
 somehow found my way here, fell ill, and was taken to 
 the hospital " 
 
 "Where they made a nurse of you?" 
 
 "And where I ought to be at this very moment !" cried 
 Miriam. "To think that I could have forgotten my work ! 
 What will the Sister say?" And she hurried off regard- 
 less of her friends' remonstrances. What the Sister did 
 say when she heard Miriam's story proved her, as I have 
 said, a clever as well as a good woman. "My dear, good 
 actresses are much rarer than good nurses; God bless 
 you, and when you come to the town next time give us 
 a benefit for the hospital." Which Nurse Miriam never 
 fails to do.
 
 HALF-AN-HOUR'S CHAT WITH 
 THE HOSPITAL NURSE 
 
 The Rev. Algernon C. E. Thorold, M.A.
 
 HALF-AN-HOUR'S CHAT WITH A HOSPITAL 
 
 NURSE. 
 
 O THE gentle art of nursing there is no royal 
 road; those who to-day are fitted for the charge 
 of sick-rooms and hospital wards acquired their 
 skill alone through the long vigil of night-ser- 
 vice and the hours of daily routine. 
 
 Among all the handmaidens of human kindness none 
 are called upon to qualify themselves more strictly than 
 the brave women who from time to time enroll themselves 
 in the noble army of nurses, and who, at the instant and 
 often sad summons of the telegraphic message, set out, 
 not thinking of themselves, in response to the distant 
 voice of weeping: "Come over and help us." 
 
 Perhaps few more genuine surprises meet any novice 
 than those which await the entry of the hospital proba- 
 tioner upon her duties ; and the real nature of the work, 
 as a rule, comes so forcibly that even if the "new pro." 
 does not seek a very early interview with the Sister to 
 ask that her name be withdrawn, the first three months 
 is in general a time of many tears out of hours. 
 
 "Imagination and reality are then so different?" I sug- 
 gested to my friend, a hospital nurse. 
 
 "Yes. Many of those who come in think they are 
 only wanted to sit by bedsides and attend to the small 
 needs of the patient ; but when they find that all the hard 
 work and running about is their duty also, and that they 
 have to learn and to obey, they think they had better not 
 stay." 
 
 "Is not the first real hospital-morning very trying?" 
 
 "Yes, the ordeal is severe, especially if the round is in 
 the surgical ward. The dressing of wounds, the bandag- 
 ing, and so forth bring hitherto unknown and unex- 
 pected feelings. The doctor and the staff-nurse know
 
 160 THE INN OF REST 
 
 well, of course, the reality of the probationers' suffering, 
 and often make excuses for their temporary absence 
 from a bedside ; but as a rule when the rounds have been 
 made a few times confidence and self-control are soon 
 gained." 
 
 "There are grades among the probationers, no doubt?" 
 
 "Yes. After six months a probationer becomes quali- 
 fied for night-duty, when the responsibility of her po- 
 sition is of course increased the Sister and staff-nurse 
 not being at hand; but by this time she will have ac- 
 quired some of the most important qualifications for her 
 post self-reliance and promptitude of action." 
 
 "And how long is the entire course?" 
 
 "Two years, during which many divisions are passed 
 through medical and surgical in both men's and wo- 
 men's wards, the Eye Hospital, the Children's, the In- 
 fectious, and the Convalescent." 
 
 "The discipline is very strict, no doubt, in hospital 
 life?" 
 
 "Yes, almost martial! Method, order, and neatness 
 are primary virtues. Nor are delinquences when discov- 
 ered left to be spoken about till next day; the penalty 
 follows immediately upon the fault. Our lodgings in 
 connection with the hospital were seven minutes' walk 
 distant, yet at times the telephoned message would come, 
 'Send back probationer So-and-so,' who on arrival 
 would be requested, with becoming gravity or displeas- 
 ure, to 'put that bottle in its proper place in the cup- 
 board,' and told that then she could go home again !" 
 
 "Hospital life is never dull at all events," I said. 
 
 "No indeed. We have experiences of all sorts some 
 humorous, some tragic. Convalescence often leads to 
 complications, and turns a quiet patient into an intract- 
 able one. When the turn comes a good appetite soon 
 follows, and the niggardly allowance ordered by the doc- 
 tor is badly received. Of course the nurse comes in 
 for all this, and she has to promise to persuade the doc- 
 tor to allow more. 'Can No. 12 have something solid?' 
 the nurse asks one morning. 'He says he is starving.'
 
 A CHAT WITH A HOSPITAL NURSE 161 
 
 'Well, yes,' says the doctor ; 'let him have some bread and 
 butter/ The patient is radiant at the thought, and the 
 next meal is awaited in anxiety. 'Ah, nurse !' he says as 
 he sees a plate arriving, 'is that the bread and butter?' 
 'Yes,' says the nurse; 'here it is.' 'Hullo!' exclaims the 
 patient as he sees a very thin slice put before him, 'is that 
 the bread and butter? Well look here, nurse; if I can't 
 have more than that I'll have none,' and, in a moment 
 whiz goes the plate across the ward, bread and butter 
 and all! The nurse only picks it up quietly, and says, 
 'Very well perhaps you will have it presently/ and after 
 a little back she comes as smiling as ever, and persuades 
 her charge to make a beginning with it. Or perhaps 
 the doctor orders fish instead of the everlasting 'milk 
 diet/ 'Fish? Ah, that will be a change!' sighs the pa- 
 tient. This is before dinner. Then comes dinner-time, 
 and with it the punctual nurse. 'What is this?' queru- 
 lously asks the patient as he sees a suspicious-looking 
 basin in the nurse's hands. 'Soup/ 'Soup? But the 
 doctor said I was to have fish/ 'Ah ! so he did ; but that's 
 for to-morrow. It's soup to-day; will you have some?' 
 'Now look here, nurse/ says No. 12, 'I don't mind a bit 
 of a lark sometimes; but when the doctor says I'm to 
 have fish I'm not one to be put off with soup. Shan't 
 have the soup there/ 'Oh, come/ nurse says, 'the fish is 
 for to-morrow, not to-day; doctor's orders are always 
 like that/ 'No. I was to have fish; shan't have soup. 
 If I can't have fish I won't have anything/ 'Very well/ 
 nurse says quietly, 'you know best ; I'll bring it again at 
 tea-time/ Tea-time comes. 'Well, here's some soup. 
 Will you try it? You must be hungry/ 'No. Take it 
 away ; if I can't have fish I won't have soup/ 'Very well. 
 Perhaps it won't matter, as your case is not a very bad 
 one/ and the soup disappears again. The same occurs 
 at breakfast-time ; and at last comes the doctor. 'Doctor/ 
 says the patient, 'didn't you say I was to have fish for 
 dinner yesterday?' The doctor exchanges glances with 
 the nurse, who says, 'No. 12 has not had anything since 
 yesterday. He would not take his soup/ 'Oh-h!' says
 
 162 THE INN OF REST 
 
 the doctor. Then No. 12 breaks in again : 'Didn't you say, 
 doctor, I was to have fish?' 'Yes; I ordered you fish 
 for to-day; but as you have not had any nourishment 
 since yesterday, fish will not do for you to-day. You 
 must go back to milk-diet again.' 'What! Soup? 
 Never!' 'Very well; if you don't like what we are do- 
 ing you need not stay. There are several waiting for 
 your bed,' and with the parting 'Soup' to the nurse, he 
 walks off. Then there is a general laugh round at the 
 victim; everybody has kept the little secret well, antici- 
 pating the joke of middle-diet punishment." 
 
 "Visitors' days must be somewhat trying?" I said. 
 
 "Yes. Two days a week are generally set apart for 
 visitors, and we nurses resign ourselves to the case as 
 placidly as we can ; and we need patience. A rigid rule 
 says that no one under treatment shall receive things 
 to eat without the consent of the nurse in the ward; 
 this leads to endless inquiries. After a few minutes of 
 arrivals a friend comes to the nurse. 'Well ?' 'Oh, please, 
 nurse, may I give my girl a few grapes?' 'Yes.' A 
 minute or two after the same friend comes again. 'Oh, 
 nurse, I have given her two grapes; may she have any 
 more?' Then another visitor arrives. 'Please, nurse, 
 may my John have an orange?' 'Yes.' 'Thank you, 
 nurse.' After a few minutes: 'Oh, nurse, I have given 
 my John half an orange; may he have the other half?' 
 Then a third comes: 'I say, nurse, Mrs. Jones is sitting 
 on No. 4's bed, and a-crying ever so bad. She's worry- 
 ing him awful'; and nurse has promptly to remove Mrs. 
 Jones, who retires, to recover and return. 
 
 "Visiting days are anxious times very often as well; 
 terrible mischief results sometimes from the mistaken 
 kindness of friends. From behind the screens the nurses 
 at times hear such sentiments as: 'Now, never mind 
 her. They want to keep you in ; but if you have a real 
 hankering after a thing, it won't hurt you my father 
 always said so.' Of course strict orders are given to the 
 visitors: 'Now, Mrs. Jones, you are not to give your 
 husband anything to eat; you understand, don't you?'
 
 A CHAT WITH A HOSPITAL NURSE 163 
 
 'Oh yes, nurse; of course I do. i shouldn't be so soft 
 when it's against the rules.' But next morning, when the 
 doctor comes, perhaps the patient's temperature is much 
 higher than it should be. 'What's this, nurse? He has 
 had something to eat?' 'No; nothing that I know of.' 
 'Well, he has. What have you had, No. 5? What did 
 your wife bring you yesterday?' 'Nothing, sir.' 'Ah, 
 well.' After a little the nurse is tidying, and finds in No. 
 5's locker the remains of a coil of black-pudding! 
 
 "Typhoid patients need great watching. Food, other 
 than ordered, is sometimes sudden death. I remember 
 the case of a little boy under treatment for typhoid who 
 was visited by his mother. 'Now, Mrs. Smith,' said 
 nurse, 'remember, please, you must not give your little 
 boy anything at all to eat. Will you promise me?' 'Yes. 
 Oh, of course not.' Towards evening the nurse in charge 
 noticed a great change in the child's appearance, and at 
 once telephoned to the doctor. The same old question 
 came: 'What has he had to eat?' 'Nothing but or- 
 ders.' 'Well, he has. You can see that for yourself.' 
 But no one knew. 'Well, he is dying. I can't do any- 
 thing. Perhaps the mother may get in time if she comes 
 at once.' When the mother came nurse said: 'You 
 promised me not to give your child anything to eat, 
 didn't you?' 'Yes ; but I only gave him a little bread and 
 butter.' 'Ah, well; you have killed your little boy, Mrs. 
 Smith. Look, he is dying now.' 
 
 "One woman persuaded her husband a typhoid sub- 
 ject to eat the forbidden food, and she was sent for, 
 as his condition was alarming. 'Now, Mrs. Hope, what 
 did you give him when you came this afternoon?' 'Noth- 
 ing; oh dear, no!' 'Well, look here. We think your 
 husband has had something to eat. If you did not give 
 him anything we can't do much for him, and he will 
 die do you understand? But if you can remember what 
 you gave him perhaps we can help him. Now, what did 
 you give him?' 'Oh dear oh dear! Well, some pork 
 pie!' Another day a little girl was to be operated on. 
 'We are going to operate on your little girl to-day, Mrs.
 
 164 THE INN OF REST 
 
 Green. She mustn't have anything to eat/ 'No, nurse.' 
 During the operation a strange change came over the 
 child, and breathing stopped. 'Hullo! she's choking. 
 She has had something to eat.' 'Oh, no/ the nurse said. 
 'Well, stop the operation. We must open her throat.' 
 The result was a large piece of apple. 
 
 "Other visitors come and go, ex officio, without notice. 
 They come into the wards as they like clergymen and 
 ministers of all denominations. They are, of course, well 
 known for their sympathy; but at times they get taken 
 in very much. 'Oh, yes ; he believed it all,' said one pa- 
 tient to another. 'Oh, did he?' said nurse on the other 
 side of the screen, 'well, I don't think you'll get that 
 suit of clothes anyway.' Then there's a laugh, and 'I 
 didn't think you heard, nurse.' 'Ah ! but I did.' Begging 
 characters are soon known in the hospitals, and hints 
 are given to benevolent callers." 
 
 "I suppose it is important to keep the patients cheer- 
 ful?" 
 
 "Yes, though in the surgical ward, where the patients 
 are not bodily ill, it is sometimes almost necessary to 
 restrain them. The patients do not lose interest in out- 
 side matters either, and sometimes things get serious. 
 We were called once by loud cries of 'Nurse' to two 
 angry convalescents talking politics in the balcony, and 
 the excitement between them was so great that in a few 
 minutes more one or both would probably have been 
 lying some distance below on the ground. Next day 
 they both promptly received their discharge. The win- 
 ning candidate came through the wards soon after, talk- 
 ing to the men here and there. One old man wouldn't 
 listen. 'Don't ; stop talking to me. I don't want to hear 
 you. Go on now.' A little later he woke up to find his bed 
 covered with blue bows and ribbons. Presently he called 
 nurse. 'Well?' 'Look here. I'm not going to sleep with 
 these things tied to my bed. I'm a Radical.' 'Oh, it's 
 all right ; its only their joke.' 'I don't care. I'm a Radi- 
 cal. I'll have 'em off if I get out.' 'Oh, go to sleep, and 
 forget them.' After a few minutes the nurse's attention
 
 A CHAT WITH A HOSPITAL NURSE 165 
 
 was called to him again by strange sounds ; and there he 
 was, splints and all, getting out of bed. The bows were 
 soon off all through the ward ; the nurse had seen enough 
 of politics." 
 
 "Real difficulties take place sometimes no doubt?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Those who have laid violent hands upon 
 themselves often give trouble; at times they are quite 
 dangerous in an after-frenzy. One powerful man called 
 the nurse, and then, suddenly springing out of bed, 
 dashed her to the floor. Fortunately one of the other 
 patients was able to help for the moment till he was se- 
 cured. In some hospitals the surgeon will not sign the 
 admission form in these cases when application is made 
 by the friends, unless a policeman is sent in as a special 
 attendant. This is absolutely necessary where there are 
 no men attendants attached to the hospital. The consta- 
 ble's ideas of his duties are sometimes almost comic. Of 
 course, from long practise, a nurse can watch any pa- 
 tient without distressing him; but a policeman's ways 
 are quite different. 'Won't you sit here, constable?' the 
 nurse says; gently hinting, 'he'll go to sleep I expect, 
 and you will be more comfortable.' 'No, thank you miss, 
 I'll keep handy.' All the time the policeman is sitting 
 close by the bedside and staring at his charge. Perhaps 
 the nurse makes another attempt: 'Do you know, I am 
 sure it will be better not to touch him?' Probably the 
 constable has actually his hand on the man's arm ! 'Well, 
 miss, there's no knowing what he'll do. I think I'll be 
 near him.' It is found advisable at times to get the con- 
 stable to take a little walk for a change. 'Nurse,' says the 
 miserable patient, 'I promise not to move if you will 
 only get that man away. I can't bear it any longer.' 
 One patient, suddenly frantic, made a rush for the win- 
 dow, leaving half his garments in the brave nurse's hands 
 as she tried to stop his flight through the air." 
 
 "Are the patients, as a rule, grateful for all you do for 
 them?" 
 
 "Well, sometimes they are too grateful, and their feel-
 
 166 THE INN OF REST 
 
 ings run away with them, with inconvenient hints and 
 interesting offers." 
 
 "What do you do?" 
 
 "Oh, we stony-hearted nurses have only one rule. The 
 grateful patient is removed into an inner chamber where 
 another hand does duty, but the patient and his old 
 nurse meet no more. But, then, sometimes they are 
 hardly grateful enough. When they leave, the secretary 
 asks them, among other questions, 'Have you any com- 
 plaint to make?' This gives an opportunity sometimes 
 for grumbling. One old woman answered, 'Well, I don't 
 think the doctors did all they ought to have done for 
 me.' 'Oh,' said the secretary, 'that's your complaint, is 
 it? Well, come with me; there's a Board meeting on 
 now. Oh yes, you must come, please' ; and almost before 
 she knew it she was standing in the boardroom, before 
 all the doctors. 'No. 10 has a complaint to make.' 'Oh 
 yes. Well, what is it?' But her courage had vanished. 
 'Oh dear, no ; thank you. I don't wish to make any com- 
 plaint at all. I think this a very wonderful institooshun. 
 Let me go, please.' 'Good-morning.' " 
 
 Sunday comes week by week in the hospital ward as 
 everywhere else, and with it the chaplain's ministrations. 
 Everybody knows the soporific influences about on any 
 Sunday afternoon; but in the hospital I found that the 
 spirit of slumber at times is very assertive indeed. I was 
 not surprised, therefore, to hear that even patients suf- 
 fering all things draw the line at the sermon, and that 
 over-tired nurses accept those minutes as an offering to 
 their weariness, and are not always ready when the sig- 
 nal for the close comes. 
 
 "Well," nurse said, not wishing, I could see, to hurt 
 my feelings, "I think we all used to go to sleep on Sun- 
 day afternoons, but then Mr. Blank was very Low 
 Church."
 
 THE HOSPITAL MISTLETOE 
 
 Joseph Ration
 
 THE HOSPITAL MISTLETOE. 
 
 IHAT is that faded branch?" you ask. A sprig 
 I of mistletoe. It is the token of our love. 
 
 "How sentimental !" you exclaim. No ; it is 
 not culled from the bough under which I kissed 
 her. Ours was not a match of the common kind ; it was 
 not inaugurated with blindman's-buff and kiss in the 
 ring. "The mistletoe hung in the castle hall?" No, my 
 friend ; you are quite wrong. There were no merry guests 
 going hither and thither under that treasured sprig of 
 the mysterious parasite. Tell you the story? I will. It 
 happened in this wise. 
 
 I was the house-surgeon of the Severnshire Hospital. 
 One autumn day a patient was brought into the accident 
 ward. He was a gentleman. No one in the town knew 
 him. He was traveling through the county. In the high 
 street of the city he had been thrown from his horse. 
 When he was picked up, he said, "Take me to the hos- 
 pital; I am a gentleman, and will pay for attention; but 
 I prefer the hospital." So they brought him to us. He 
 was very seriously hurt internally. George Gregory 
 Newbold was his name. 
 
 "I don't live anywhere in particular," he said, a week 
 after he was brought in. "I am a traveler ; I have been 
 in nearly every nation of* the world. I can refer you to 
 the Bank of England. I have property in Hertfordshire. 
 I am very comfortable here, and grateful for the kind- 
 ness you have shown me." 
 
 He was a handsome man, with a tender, sympathetic 
 gray eye, and a soft musical voice. There was some- 
 thing about him that excited interest at once. It was 
 an honest, open, candid face, with lines of care and 
 trouble about the eyes. 
 
 "Yes, you are right, doctor," he said to me one Novem-
 
 170 THE INN OF REST 
 
 ber day, when he appeared to have rallied considerably. 
 "I have had a great deal of trouble ; not the sort of trouble 
 which usually knocks a man up not money anxiety, 
 nothing of the world's worry, in truth. Yet I have suf- 
 fered tortures almost beyond endurance." 
 
 "Can I be of any service to you, Mr. Newbold, beyond 
 the poor professional services which it has been your 
 misfortune to require here?" 
 
 "No, thank you, I think not. I often think I shall 
 never recover. If I could see my sister again, I could 
 die happy ; that is, as happy as man can die, when death 
 separates him from the only being whom he loves, and 
 whose protective hand she may need. I will tell you my 
 story, doctor. You are a good man; I know that by 
 your face, and by your great kindness to me, a stranger." 
 
 "I trust I should be none the less attentive to any pa- 
 tient," I said; "although I confess that you have inter- 
 ested me much." 
 
 "You are very good," said Mr. Newbold ; "heaven will 
 reward you. When I was an infant, my father died, and 
 left myself and sister to the care of our mother. It is 
 only doing the memory of my mother ordinary justice 
 to say that she was as good as she was beautiful. She 
 died ten years ago. For five years we lived in the old 
 house, my sister and myself. We had no cares, no 
 troubles; life with us was a continual summer; to make 
 each other happy was our only anxiety. It had occurred 
 to me more than once many times, indeed that Lucy 
 might marry and leave me. I should have regretted this 
 for myself, but not if it secured and perpetuated Lucy's 
 happiness. One day it only shows how blind we men 
 are Lucy told me she was in love." 
 
 "You are faint, Mr. Newbold," I said ; "rest awhile." 
 
 "No, no ; I am stronger than you think," he said, smil- 
 ing and waving me to be silent. "It was a young fellow 
 who had often been to the house. I ought to have 
 known. When Lucy told me, I could see how indis- 
 creet I had been. He had neither friends nor position. 
 I did not forbid the match, but I discountenanced it, ex-
 
 THE HOSPITAL MISTLETOE 171 
 
 postulated with Lucy, and privately expressed myself in 
 severe terms to her lover. If it were not that he believed 
 Lucy would deeply feel his leaving her, he said he would 
 go away, since I questioned his honor and his love. My 
 selfishness was awakened; I urged him to go, implored 
 him, gave him money; and he left Lucy to her brother 
 in the old house that we had known since infancy. When 
 Lucy discovered the cause of her lover's desertion, she 
 upbraided me, calling me cruel and selfish, and a month 
 afterwards she was missing. I have never seen her 
 since." 
 
 Here my poor patient fell back upon his pillow. I 
 gave him a stimulant; and by and by, when he looked up 
 with his gray eyes expressing an apology for his weak- 
 ness, I confess to sensations of sympathy which I had 
 never felt before. 
 
 "I thought I was stronger," he said; "pray forgive me. 
 Let me finish my story; it will do me good to tell you 
 my troubles. I would give the world to see her once 
 more, for the sake of my poor dear mother, who loved 
 her so much. I found traces of her. She had had a 
 letter from her lover, bidding her good-bye for ever. It 
 was believed that he had enlisted for a soldier. A de- 
 tective officer whom I employed fancied he traced them 
 to India. His name was not to be found on the lists of 
 any regiment at home or abroad. 
 
 "This is the story of my life; this is. the story of my 
 wanderings. I am in search of my sister, in search of 
 them both Lucy and her husband. I have forgiven 
 them long ago. What right had I to stand between her 
 and the man she loved ? Heaven forgive me !" 
 
 The season of Christmas came, with its kindly 
 thoughts, its Christian-like feelings, its genial associa- 
 tions. We always decorated the hospital for Christ- 
 mas-Eve. The patients all seemed to get better in pres- 
 ence of the little excitement of the time. Every ward 
 had its bit of holly and mistletoe. The nurses rivaled 
 each other in the making of festal wreaths. Friends of 
 the patients brought in contributions from the country;
 
 172 THE INN OF REST 
 
 winter evergreens from their little gardens, holly from 
 rural hedge-rows, and luxuries of mince-pie and plum- 
 pudding which it was hard to interdict. There were 
 some poor creatures whom nothing could injure; these 
 had their beef and pudding, their pies and wine. Poor 
 Mr. Newbold, he was among these hopeless cases. But 
 no friend brought gifts to lay beside his bed. He had 
 thanked me, however, for a handful of mistletoe and 
 holly, which I hung up in his ward with my own hands, 
 wishing at the same time all the best wishes of the sea- 
 son. 
 
 "I don't make a complaint, my dear friend," he said; 
 "but I have a small request to prefer. I am very trouble- 
 some, I am sure, very; and it is hard for my nurse not 
 to have a change to some other ward. Will you find me 
 another nurse a woman with a softer voice, dear friend 
 a softer voice?" 
 
 He was very ill; he had grown weaker and weaker; 
 his end was drawing near. She was a querulous but most 
 reliable woman, the nurse attached to his ward. She 
 had replaced an attendant who had obtained leave to 
 spend Christmas at home. Poor Newbold was very 
 sensitive, and the loud voice and somewhat demonstra- 
 tive manner of the new woman jarred upon his nerves. 
 I went to the matron. 
 
 "There is a young woman sent here through Florence 
 Nightingale a most respectable kind-looking person," 
 said the matron. "She has only been here a week; but 
 I don't doubt for a moment she will turn out to be the 
 best nurse in the hospital. Shall I send her to you?" 
 
 "Thank you very much; pray do," I said. "Send her 
 up to the ward at once." 
 
 The Christmas bells were ringing; you could hear the 
 music wandering up and down the streets, carried hither 
 and thither by the wind. Visitors had all left the wards 
 for the night; the patients lay there listening to the 
 melody of the bells, and thinking of other days ; the light 
 of the Christmas candles fell upon the dark leaves of 
 the holly ; here and there the white berries of the mistle-
 
 THE HOSPITAL MISTLETOE 173 
 
 toe reflected back the subdued glimmer. It is a sad pic- 
 ture, a hospital on Christmas-Eve; the shadows of the 
 place seem so insignificant such tender memories hover 
 about the narrow beds. 
 
 The new nurse came into the ward while I sat there. 
 It was a sweet face, as I saw it with the soft light upon 
 it a kind, sad, pitying face. Newbold looked at her 
 curiously as she entered. Then he raised himself up 
 suddenly, and before I hardly knew what had happened, 
 he was locked in her arms. 
 
 "Lucy, Lucy, my dear, dear sister!" he was saying, 
 his voice nearly drowned in the sobs of the woman whose 
 face was lying upon his shoulder. 
 
 The bells appeared to receive new strength just at that 
 moment. It was the wind which brought the sound 
 close up to the windows on its way down the river. 
 "Thank God!" I exclaimed and my heart leaped with a 
 strange joy. I felt like a child ready to weep. It was as 
 if I had been reading some pitiful story. I walked out 
 into the corridor, opened a window, and put my head 
 into the frosty air. The stars crowded the sky, and the 
 bell-music seemed to belong to their purity. I was never 
 fit for a hospital-surgeon; my feelings were always too 
 little under control. When I went back into the ward, 
 she was sitting by his side holding his hand. His face 
 was full of peace and happiness. It was as if an angel 
 had been there. 
 
 We buried him on New Year's Day. 
 
 Her story is soon told. She lost her husband in the 
 Crimea. After that she joined Florence Nightingale's 
 band of nurses, and eventually came back to England. 
 Providence sent her to the Severnshire Hospital on that 
 Christmas-Eve sent her, that George Newbold's last 
 hours might be solaced with her tender words and happy 
 memories of the Christmas-days that were gone. If it 
 were not next to impious to think that what befell after- 
 wards was anything but accidental, I could fancy that 
 some special consideration for the poor hospital-surgeon 
 also filled up the providential design. The spring came
 
 174 THE INN OF REST 
 
 and the summer, and the stars shown once more above 
 the bell-music that the wind carried down to the river. 
 It we had been young people, and without a chastened 
 sorrow in our hearts, the bells might have rung afresh 
 in the summer that followed; for the house-surgeon 
 married the heroine of this sad story, and she sits by his 
 side with her sweet sympathetic smile, while he tries to 
 tell you, without faltering, the history of those withered 
 leaves. 
 
 And now let us put back the Christmas treasure. If 
 you will rummage over the contents of old cabinets, you 
 must come upon skeletons. Close the drawer, shut down 
 the ancient lid, look out through the western window, 
 and yonder you may see the sun making "a golden set" 
 behind the towers of the County Hospital, in Sabrina's 
 classic valley.
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN DISPENSARIES 
 AND HOSPITALS
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN DISPENSARIES AND HOSPITALS. 
 
 |HE impression that hospitals are a Christian in- 
 novation is much more widely spread than per- 
 sons competent to judge of its legitimacy might 
 suppose. Canon Farrar, in a "Life of Christ," 
 which has acquired some popularity, says, "Amidst all 
 the boasted civilization of antiquity there existed no 
 hospitals, no penitentiaries, no asylums." Professor 
 Lightfoot stated, at the opening of a hospital last year, 
 that hospitals were "a creation of Christianity." It may, 
 therefore, be of some interest to trace the history of the 
 rise of hospitals in the nations of antiquity ; and to show 
 that they have not been confined to any one age or na- 
 tion, and that they are the natural outcome of that tender 
 compassion for suffering humanity which is character- 
 istic of all civilizations and of every cultured religion. 
 
 The hospital is simply the development of the dis- 
 pensary, which is a necessary requirement of the medical 
 officer appointed and paid by the state for the relief of 
 the sick poor. Some room is required by the medical 
 officer in which to see his patients and dispense the 
 drugs, and this room naturally developed into the hos- 
 pital ward, where the patients could be continuously un- 
 der his eye, and be more carefully attended than in their 
 own homes. It is therefore in the medical officer ap- 
 pointed and paid by the state that we are to find the ear- 
 liest germ and first idea of tfie vast network of hospitals 
 which has spread over the civilized countries of the world. 
 
 These medical officers were an institution in Egypt 
 from a remote antiquity, for in the eleventh century B. C. 
 there was a College of Physicians in the receipt of public 
 pay, and regulated by law as to the nature and extent of 
 their practice. At Athens, in the fifth century B. C., 
 there were physicians elected and paid by the citizens;
 
 178 THE INN OF REST 
 
 there were also dispensaries in which they received their 
 patients, and we find mention made of one hospital. In 
 the fourth century B. C. an edict was promulgated in 
 India by King Asoka, commanding the establishment 
 of hospitals throughout his dominions; and we have. di- 
 rect proof that these hospitals were flourishing in the fifth 
 and in the seventh centuries A. D. There was probably 
 a leper-house outside the walls of Jerusalem; and medi- 
 cal officers were attached in early times to the Temple, 
 and in later times to the synagogues. Among the Ro- 
 mans under the Empire, physicians were elected in every 
 city in proportion to the number of inhabitants, and they 
 received a salary from the public treasury. And the 
 ancient Mexicans had hospitals in the principal cities "for 
 the cure of the sick, and the permanent refuge of dis- 
 abled soldiers." Army-surgeons are of very remote an- 
 tiquity, for we read of them in Homer ; and they won the 
 admiration of Plato, because "they were heroes as well as 
 physicians"; but there is no notice of the military hos- 
 pital before the reign of Hadrian. Hospitals exclusively 
 for the treatment of the insane are of comparatively mod- 
 ern growth, and are first found among the Mohamme- 
 dans ; they afterwards spread among Christian countries, 
 the earliest being found in Spain, the country most in- 
 fluenced by Mohammedan thought. 1 
 
 It was around the temples that the early medical 
 schools centered, for it was natural to regard the "di- 
 vine art of healing" as a gift of the gods. 2 It is 
 Brahma who writes the Ayur-Veda, the Science of Life ; 
 it is ^Esculapius who appears in human form at Epi- 
 daurus and extends his saving right hand over all the 
 earth to heal the souls that are in error and the bodies 
 that are diseased; 3 and Prometheus in the midst of his 
 sufferings declares that he has gifted mankind with the 
 true science of medicine. 4 The priests were the 
 first physicians ; and on the walls of the temples of Egypt 
 and of Greece were suspended the observations and the 
 votive tablets of the cures they effected. These tablets 
 are very curious, because they are a strange medley of
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 179 
 
 rational medical treatment with the superstition of 
 charms and incantations; and they are most important, 
 because they not infrequently enable us to trace the 
 rise of scepticism in the charm and incantation, and the 
 struggle between the waning power of the priest and the 
 increasing skill of the physician. 
 
 The Babylonians and Assyrians alone, among the 
 great nations of antiquity, had no physicians. The sick 
 man was laid on a couch in the public square, and the 
 passers-by were required to ask him the nature of his 
 disease, so that if they or any of their acquaintance had 
 been similarly afflicted, they might advise him as to 
 the remedies he should adopt. 5 This custom com- 
 mended itself to Herodotus, who thought it almost as 
 wise as their other custom of selling the girls of the vil- 
 lage in marriage, so that the "fairer maidens portioned 
 off the plainer." As a consequence, incantations to drive 
 out the evil spirit of disease were in much request, and 
 the nature of their operations may be gathered from the 
 following tablet : 
 
 "God shall stand by his bedside ; those seven evil spir- 
 its He shall root out and expel from his body ; those seven 
 shall never return to the sick man." 8 
 
 [1.] Egypt claimed the invention of medicine. 7 
 This claim is partially recognized in Homer, when Poly- 
 damna gives medicinal herbs to Helen in Egypt, a coun- 
 try producing an infinite number of drugs, and where the 
 physician possesses knowledge above all other men ; 8 
 and is fully' endorsed by M. Chabas after a careful com- 
 parison of the medical papyrus at Berlin with the best 
 medical works of Greece and Rome. 9 
 
 The extreme antiquity of medical science in Egypt 
 may be inferred from the fact that the medical papyrus ' 
 at Berlin, fourteenth century B. C., contains a copy of a 
 treatise on inflammation (ouchet) which was found "writ- 
 ten in ancient writing, rolled up in a coffer under the feet 
 of an Anubis in the town of Sokhem (Letopolis), in the 
 time of his sacred majesty Thot the Righteous. After his 
 death it was handed on to King Snat on account of its im-
 
 180 THE INN OF REST 
 
 portance. It was then restored to its place under the 
 feet of the statue, and sealed up by the sacred scribe and 
 wise chief of the physicians." 10 
 
 Medical science attained so high a degree of perfec- 
 tion in Egypt, that there were specialists in the different 
 branches of the art, and the physician was only allowed 
 to practise in his own branch. There were oculists and 
 dentists, those who treated mental disorders, and those 
 who investigated obscure diseases aide TOV afaveuv vobcuv. lx 
 There are medical papyri which treat of these sev- 
 eral diseases. In the Hermaic books a whole chapter 
 is devoted to diseases of the eye, and mummies have 
 been found in Thebes with their teeth stopped in 
 gold. 12 Athothos, son and successor to Menes, the 
 first king of Egypt, wrote a book on anatomy. 13 The 
 medical papyrus at Berlin contains a treatise on mid- 
 wifery, and not less than 170 prescriptions for the cure of 
 diseases, of which the diagnosis is carefully recorded. 1 * 
 In these treatises diseases are regarded as enemies, not 
 simply to be cured, but to be attacked, destroyed, 
 driven forth; 15 a vestige, apparently, of the ancient 
 superstition that diseases were devils which possessed 
 the patient. 
 
 To guard the people against quacks and the rash ex- 
 periments of young doctors, the Egyptian physicians 
 were required to follow the rules laid down in the medical 
 treatises preserved in the principle temple of each city; 
 the idea being that the old must be better than the new. 10 
 Aristotle, however, says that they were allowed to 
 alter the orthodox treatment; yet if they did so, it was 
 at their peril, as their own lives were forfeit for the life 
 of the patient." This rule, when followed, secured 
 the physicians of Egypt from the accusation which Pliny 
 brings against the profession in his day : "It is at the ex- 
 pense of our perils that they learn, and they experiment- 
 alize by putting us to death. The physician is the only 
 person allowed to kill with impunity, the blame being 
 thrown on the sick man who is dead and gone." 18 
 
 In Egypt, about the eleventh century B. C, there was
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 181 
 
 a College of Physicians, 19 who seem to have belonged to 
 the sacerdotal caste, as did also the embalmers who are 
 styled "physicians" in Genesis. They were not confined 
 to one sex; the sculptures confirm Exodus 1, 15, women 
 practised medicine. 
 
 The physicians were the paid officers of the state, and 
 we may therefore conclude that they were required to 
 treat the poor gratuitously; 20 and as they were not 
 likely to attend the sick in their own houses, except in 
 extreme cases, we may further assume that, as in the 
 case of Athens, there were official houses to which the 
 sick poor repaired at fixed times, which correspond to 
 our medical dispensaries. Although paid by the state, 
 they were allowed to receive fees. 21 This care for the 
 sick poor is a trait of character we might naturally ex- 
 pect from a people on whose sarcophagi we meet with 
 inscriptions which tell how the deceased "succored the 
 afflicted, gave bread to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, 
 clothes to the naked, shelter to the outcast; that he 
 opened his doors to the stranger, and was a father to the 
 afflicted." 
 
 In the time of Herodotus "every place in Egypt was 
 full of doctors," whence Pliny concluded that no country 
 was so unhealthy ; yet Herodotus says that few countries 
 were so salubrious, which he attributes to the uniformity 
 of the climate. 22 
 
 Although the older papyri show that the medical treat- 
 ment of disease was rational, post-mortems even being 
 made to discover the source of disease, 23 yet charms 
 and incantations were by no means excluded ; and dreams 
 were granted to devout souls who had consulted physi- 
 cians in vain, and the votive offerings of arms, ears, eyes, 
 etc., which still adorn the ancient temples, 24 show 
 how readily the superstitious element found its place in 
 Egypt, as it afterwards did in Greece and Rome, 25 
 and as it does to this day in many European Christian 
 countries. 
 
 There is a curious inscription in the temple of the god 
 Chonson at Thebes, which points to a struggle between
 
 183 THE INN OF REST 
 
 reason and faith, between the skill of the physician and 
 the prayer of the priest. Rameses XII. summons before 
 him the "Scribe of the Houses of Life," and orders him 
 to select one who shall be "a man of an intelligent heart 
 and skilful fingers," that he may be sent to cure the 
 young Princess of Bouchten. She is the "little sister" 
 of the royal wife, and bears the Semitic name Bentrash. 
 The physician fails to cure the damsel, for she is pos- 
 sessed with an evil spirit. Then the god Chonson is sent 
 from Thebes to Bouchten in a great barge, escorted by 
 five smaller barges on the river, and by nobles, with the 
 god's chariot and horses, along the banks. When the 
 god arrives, he communicates to the Princess "his virtue 
 of life," and the evil spirit comes forth. 28 We unfor- 
 tunately, only possess the priests' version of the story; 
 but it points to a rivalry between the rational science of 
 the physicians and the superstitious faith of the priests. 
 
 The fame of the medicine of Egypt spread to all lands. 
 Cyrus the Persian hears of it, and sends to King Amasis 
 of Egypt for an oculist. 27 Darius the Great had at 
 his court "certain Egyptian physicians, whom he reck- 
 oned the best-skilled physicians in the world." 28 The 
 Hebrew prophet Jeremiah says, "O virgin daughter of 
 Egypt, in vain shalt thou use many medicines ; thou shalt 
 not be cured." 29 It lasted until the time of the Anto- 
 nines, so that Galen, the "wonder-worker," thought it no 
 small gain to have studied in the schools of Alexandria ; 30 
 and it is preserved to our own day, wrapped up like 
 one of its own mummies, in the words chemistry, al- 
 chemy, which tell us that the cradle of medical science 
 was in the land of the great god Chemmis, who had given 
 to Egypt its ancient name, Chemi. 31 
 
 [2.] A story told by Herodotus of the Egyptian phy- 
 sicians at the court of Darius will serve to carry us from 
 the school of Egypt to the schools of Greece. One day, 32 
 when mounting his horse, Darius sprained his foot. 
 The Egyptian physicians thought it was a dislocation, 
 and put the king to such pain by the violence of their 
 treatment, that for seven days and nights his sleep went
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITAES 183 
 
 from him. On the eighth day some of the courtiers told 
 him of a Greek prisoner among the slaves of Oroetes, 
 named Democedes, who came from the famous medical 
 school of Crotona. In such haste was Democedes sum- 
 moned into the king's presence that he appeared "just 
 as he was, clanking his fetters and wearing his rags." 
 He reversed the treatment of the Egyptians, and cured 
 the King. From that day no one stood so high in the 
 favor of Darius as Democedes. He also cured a sore 
 in the breast of Atossa, daughter of Cyrus and wife to 
 Darius, and she rewarded him by aiding him to make 
 his escape to Greece; whence he returned to Crotona, 
 and married the daughter of his fellow-townsman, Milo 
 the Wrestler, who had carried off the prize six times at 
 the Olympic and seven times at the Pythian games (sixth 
 century B. C). Crotona was celebrated quite as much 
 for her athletes as for her physicians; indeed, it was a 
 proverb that the last among the wrestlers of Crotona 
 were the first among the other Greeks. 33 This is a 
 point of extreme interest ; the same place that produced 
 the best trainer of athletes would naturally produce the 
 best physician, 8 * because the healthy condition of the 
 man's body was the aim of both; and as the trainer 
 would soon learn not to trust in charms and incanta- 
 tions as preparations for the games, so would the physi- 
 cian learn to distrust charms, and to strive after a ra- 
 tional system of medicine. The physicians of Crotona 
 would have agreed with Plato that the art of the physi- 
 cian was to cure the sickness and the wounds of men of 
 good constitutions only, and to leave the weak and sickly 
 to their fate; and applaud him when he quoted the tra- 
 dition that JEsculapius had been struck by lightning be- 
 cause he so far forgot the sacred obligations of his art 
 as to allow himself to be bribed to heal a rich man who 
 was at the point of death. Indeed Plato complained of 
 what he calls "our present system of medicine" as being 
 calculated to "educate diseases," and as opposed to the 
 old practise of the Guild of ^Esculapius. He lays the blame 
 at the door of Herodicus, a trainer who had a sickly
 
 184 THE INN OF REST 
 
 constitution: "He, by a happy combination of training 
 and doctoring, found out the way of torturing, first and 
 principally himself, and secondly the rest of the 
 world, by the invention of a lingering death." 35 Plato 
 might laugh at Herodicus, nevertheless he was the mas- 
 ter of Hippocrates, the "Father of Medicine" fifth cen- 
 tury B. C. 
 
 All medical science before the time of Hippocrates was, 
 says Pliny, "lost in the densest night ; he was the first to 
 compile a code of medical precepts," 36 derived partly 
 from the traditions of the family of the Asclepiadse to 
 which he belonged, 37 and partly from the study of 
 the votive tablets in the great temple at Cos. 38 Dion 
 Cassius says that Democedes of Crotona and Hippocrates 
 of Cos were the two most distinguished physicians of an- 
 tiquity. 39 Galen tells as that the Asclepiadse founded 
 the three great medical schools of Rhodes, Cnidos, and 
 Cos. These were Doric settlements, 40 and we find 
 that their influence survived as late as the fifth century 
 B. C. by the use of the Doric dialect both in medical con- 
 versation and prescriptions, 41 and also in the prose 
 oracles given at Delphi, which were so largely consulted 
 by the sick. 42 
 
 At Athens in the time of Plato, we find that some of 
 the physicians were elected by the people and paid from 
 the public treasury. Socrates, for instance, speaks of one 
 "desiring to obtain a medical appointment from the gov- 
 ernment" tarpiKov tyov* 3 and there was a technical term 
 applied especially to physicians who practised with 
 a public salary dvpooiEiciv.** These state physicians, after 
 they had been elected in the Ecclesia or other as- 
 sembly, 45 appear to have appointed slave doctors 
 under them to attend on the poor, while they attended 
 on the rich, and either by their own or the eloquence of 
 some friendly rhetorician, 46 persuaded the patient to 
 drink the medicine or to submit to the knife and the hot 
 iron. Indeed this system of persuasion as a part of the 
 medical art became at last ridiculous: "Foolish fellow! 
 you are not healing the sick man, you are educating him ;
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 185 
 
 and he does not want to be made a doctor, but to get 
 well"; 47 and in the next generation it was completely 
 exploded; for, as Aristotle says, the duty of a physician 
 is simply to prescribe. 48 
 
 Very different is the off-hand manner in which the 
 slave doctors treated their patients ; they waste no words 
 with them, but run about from one patient to another, 
 and dose them as they think proper; or they "wait for 
 them in their dispensaries," n> r. larpeioif.* 9 This pas- 
 sage clearly shows that there were at Athens, in the 
 fifth century B. C, dispensaries to which the sick poor 
 repaired to be treated for their diseases; not indeed by 
 the most skillful physicians, but by physicians paid by 
 the state to look after their ailments. These dispensaries 
 varied in number according to the prevalence of dis- 
 ease: "Where diseases increase in a state, then larpeia 
 are always being opened." 50 
 
 The temples of ./Esculapius were, however, the schools 
 in which the students who had taken the noble Hippo- 
 cratic oath studied, partly from the votive tablets, and 
 partly from the treatment of the patients who resorted 
 thither. That patients did resort to the temples is evi- 
 dent from the amusing scene described by the slave who 
 attended Plautus when he went to the temple to be cured 
 of his blindness. When night came on, all were com- 
 manded to keep silence, and not to move should they 
 hear the god passing before the altars. The slave peeps 
 through a hole in his threadbare cloak, and sees the priest 
 "consecrate into a sack" the offerings of cakes and dried 
 figs made by the sick. 51 Afterwards there followed 
 the mixing of the drugs with the pestle and mortar, and 
 the anointing the eyes with the ointment. The patients 
 were of both sexes, for it was an old woman whose savory 
 posset excited the cupidity of the slave Cario. 62 
 
 There is one, though we regret to say only one, hos- 
 pital (iraiuvuw) mentioned in Greek literature, and that 
 only by one author, the comic poet Crates, middle of the 
 fifth century B. C. It was situated probably in the 
 
 Piraeus cm
 
 186 THE INN OF REST 
 
 The state physician did not receive private fees, but 
 their state emoluments may be guessed by the pay of 
 Democedes before he was carried prisoner to the king- 
 dom of Darius. He fled from his father, who was a cele- 
 brated physician of his day at Crotona, and came to 
 ^Egina, where his skill caused the state to hire him at 
 243, 15s. a year; in the next year the Athenians engaged 
 him at 406, 15s.; in the next, Poly crates obtained him 
 for 487, 10s. 54 The first payment made to him by 
 Darius was a pair of golden fetters, to remind him, per- 
 haps, that although he would now be laden with honors 
 and wealth, yet he was to remain a prisoner, exiled from 
 his native land. 
 
 [3.] Hitherto we have met only with state physicians 
 and dispensaries, and but one hospital; it is to India we 
 must turn to see a system of hospitals spreading over 
 the country. 
 
 When Brahma took compassion on the weakness and 
 suffering of mankind, and wrote for them the commen- 
 tary on the Vedas, he devoted one treatise to the science 
 of medicine. Hence it was that the ancient Hindus 
 ascribed to the medical art a divine origin, and that the 
 Brahmans were the first physicians. Fragments only of 
 this Ayur-Veda remain, but they are sufficient to show an 
 advanced knowledge of the art, in that they treat both of 
 surgery and the practice of medicine. 55 
 
 Soon after the conquests of Alexander the Great, Meg- 
 asthenes the Greek was sent on an embassage to the 
 court of Sandrocottus, where he resided for some years. 
 Among his notes, preserved by Strabo, we find that "next 
 in honor to the Sramanos were the physicians, for they 
 apply philosophy to the study of the nature of man.* * * 
 They cure diseases by diet rather than by medicinal reme- 
 dies." 56 The grandsen of Sandrocottus was the cele- 
 brated King Asoka, 325-282 B. C, one of the greatest 
 monarchs who ever graced the throne. He embraced the 
 religion of Buddha, and almost immediately afterwards 
 promulgated a series of edicts, some score of which still 
 exist inscribed on pillars and graven in the living rock.
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 187 
 
 Among them there occurs the following, as translated by 
 Mr. Prinsep : "Everywhere within the province of Piya- 
 dasi (Asoka), the beloved of heaven, as well as in the 
 parts occupied by the faithful* * *and moreover within 
 the dominion of Antiochus the Greek (the Bactrian king- 
 dom)* * *every where the heaven-beloved Piyadasi's 
 double system of medical aid is established both medi- 
 cal aid for men and medical aid for animals together 
 with medicaments of all sorts which are suitable* * * 
 and where they are not, they are to be prepared, and to be 
 planted, both root-drugs and herbs." 57 There is also 
 a legend that Asoka, seeing how people often died from 
 diseases and sores which were at first simple and easily 
 cured, established public dispensaries at the four gates 
 of Patna. 88 In the year 400 A. D., seven hundred 
 years after Asoka's edict, the Chinese pilgrim, Fa-Hian, 
 visited India, and casually mentions in his Travels that 
 he found hospitals in complete working order at Asoka's 
 own city of Patna. "The nobles and landowners of this 
 country have founded hospitals in the city, to which the 
 poor of all countries, the destitute, the cripples, the dis- 
 eased, may repair for shelter. They receive every kind 
 of requisite help gratuitously. Physicians inspect their 
 diseases, and according to their cases order them food and 
 drink, decoctions and medicines, everything, in fact, 
 which may contribute to their ease. When cured, they 
 depart at their own convenience." 59 
 
 Two hundred and fifty years later (648 A. D.), another 
 Chinese pilgrim, Hiouen-Thsang, visited India, and men- 
 tions hospitals at several places. At the Port of the 
 Ganges "les rois qui aiment a faire le bien, y ont etabli 
 une maison de bienfaisance, qui est pourvue de mets 
 recherches et de medicaments de tout genre, pour donner 
 1'aumone aux veufs et aux veuves, et secourir les orphe- 
 lins." Elsewhere he says : "Les grands personnages des 
 cinq Indes* * * *ont tabli des maisons de bienfaisance, 
 ou Ton distribue des boissons, Ais Vivres, et des medi- 
 caments pour secourir les pauvres et les malades." "Ily 
 avait jadis dans ce royaume une multitude de maisons de
 
 188 THE INN OF REST 
 
 bienfaisance, on Ton secourait les malheureux." 80 
 These houses were hospices as well as hospitals at the time 
 of Hiouen-Thsang's visit. 
 
 At the commencement of the present century there still 
 flourished at Surat a hospital set apart for the treatment 
 of animals. It covered twenty-five acres, and was divided 
 into courts and wards for the accommodation of the dumb 
 patients. When an animal broke a limb, or was other- 
 wise disabled, the owner brought it to the hospital, where 
 it was received without regard to the caste or the nation 
 of its master, and was treated with the greatest care; 
 and if need be, found a peaceful asylum for the infirmities 
 of old age. 61 "If proper inquiry were directed to this 
 building," says Mr. Prinsep, "I dare say it would be dis- 
 covered to be a living example the only one that has 
 braved twenty centuries of the humane acts of Asoka, 
 recorded at no great distance on a rock in Guzerat." 
 
 Further investigation will doubtless bring to light 
 many other instances of this wise and compassionate 
 edict of Asoka having been put in force over the whole 
 country; for, quite recently, Major Kittoe (1852) found 
 in the course of his excavations at Sarnath, "a large 
 quadrangle or hospital, with pestles and mortars, etc." 62 
 
 The great interest of these hospitals lies not only in 
 the large-hearted toleration which opened them "to the 
 poor of all countries," and in the liberality which supplied 
 "help to all gratuitously," first fruits of that noble-minded 
 charity which knows no distinction of race or creed in the 
 presence of suffering humanity, and which found so ten- 
 der an illustration in Christ's story of the Good Samari- 
 tan, but also in the fact that these hospitals are an evo- 
 lution such as we might naturally expect from the teach- 
 ing of the religion of Buddha, which Asoka had adopted. 
 The central point round which all the ethics of Buddhism 
 revolve the doctrine which imparts to it so great a vi- 
 tality and strength is the law of self-sacrifice carried 
 to the point of complete devotion, so that a man should 
 lay down his life for his fellow-men, and in certain ex- 
 treme cases for the lower animals. Moreover, the problem
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 189 
 
 of existence which Buddha endeavored to solve is the way 
 by which mankind may be saved from disease, decay, and 
 death. The life of the founder was in itself the highest 
 ideal of his religion, for Buddha was manifested in the 
 form of man because his exceeding love moved him with 
 compassion for the sons of men; 63 and he left the 
 home of his reputed father to live among the poor and 
 wretched, in order that he might bring back those who 
 have wandered from the right way, that he might en- 
 lighten those who are living in darkness and gloomy er- 
 ror, and that he might remove from the world all sources 
 of pain and suffering and sorrow."* 
 
 [4.] On passing from the East to the extreme West, 
 we find that the ancient Mexicans had hospitals in the 
 principal cities, "for the cure of the sick, and for the 
 permanent refuge of disabled soldiers." Surgeons were 
 placed over them, who were "so far better than those in 
 Europe," says the old chronicler Torquemada, "that 
 they did not protract the cure in order to increase the 
 pay." 65 
 
 This care for the sick and disabled might naturally be 
 expected from a people who were accustomed to hear the 
 form of absolution which followed on the confession of 
 their sins close with the words : "Clothe the naked, feed 
 the hungry, whatever privations it may cost thee;" 66 
 and who worshiped God as "The merciful and long- 
 suffering, the enjoiner of charity." 67 
 
 [5.] The history of medicine may be traced with tol- 
 erable clearness in the Hebrew nation. 
 
 So long as diseases were regarded as put upon and 
 taken off men by Jehovah as, for instance, in the pas- 
 sage, "I will put none of these diseases upon thee, that I 
 put upon the Egyptians, for I am Jehovah that healeth 
 thee," 68 the priests, as Hi's representatives were the 
 physicians to afflict and to cure. The fame of King Solo- 
 mon as a physician still holds its place in the traditions 
 of the East and the Talmud assigns to him a "volume of 
 cures." After his time, when the priestly power declined 
 before the majesty of the prophetic, the influence which
 
 190 THE INN OF REST 
 
 medical skill gives among a rude people was eagerly 
 grasped by the prophets, and medicine was taught in 
 their "schools." Their sacred scriptures record that the 
 prophets struck men with two of the most terrible dis- 
 eases of the nation, leprosy and blindness, and that they 
 cured the sick, and even raised the dead to life. At a 
 prophet's word a king's hand is withered as he stands 
 before the altar surrounded by his court; at the same 
 word the hand is restored to its former strength. The de- 
 cline of the healing power among the priests is probably 
 marked by the chronicler's lament that King Asa, in his 
 disease, "sought not to Jehovah, but to the physicians." 
 
 On the return of the exiles from Babylon, the medical 
 art passed into the hands of the new power in the state 
 the scribes. They raised the dignity of the physician to 
 a high pinnacle, and the knowledge of medicine became 
 an essential qualification for membership in the Great 
 Sanhedrim : "Honor a physician with the honor due un- 
 to him for the use ye may have of him ; for the Lord hath 
 created him* * * *He shall receive honor of the King." 89 
 The art reached its fullest developments among 
 the Essenes, a Jewish sect who lived an ascetic life, 
 ruled by love to God and man. They studied the sacred 
 books for the service of God, and medicine for the ser- 
 vice of man. 
 
 The surgeon and the physician are treated as distinct 
 functionaries of the Mishna. 70 We read of surgery 
 in the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel, and curiously 
 enough in connection with Egypt: "I have broken the 
 arm of Pharaoh, King of Egypt ; it shall not be bound up 
 to be healed, to put a roller to bind it." 71 Rollers to 
 bind are used to this day. The apothecary's trade is 
 frequently mentioned; for instance, "The Lord hath cre- 
 ated medicines out of the earth* * * *with such doth He 
 heal men and taketh away their pains ; of such doth the 
 apothecary make a confection." 72 Josephus mentions 
 female physicians. 7 * 
 
 Physicians had from early times been a necessity to 
 the nation. Manetho's account of the Hebrew slaves in
 
 190 ' R j 
 
 &f a rude vas eagerly 
 
 and W84 taufr 
 
 acred scripturer 
 ; ;th two of the - 
 
 sy and s, and that 
 
 -n raised th> dead to life, 
 tig's hand is withered as he st 
 rounded by his court ; at the s 
 restored to itr- former strength. Tht 
 ig power among the priests is prob; 
 hfoniclers lament that King Asa, in 
 t not to Jehovah, but to the physicians." 
 i of the exiles from Babylon, the medical 
 he hands of the new power in the state 
 :ey raised the dignity of the physician to 
 cle, and the knowledge of medicine became 
 qualification for membership in the Great 
 "Honor a physician with the honor due un- 
 se ye may have of him ; for the Lord hath 
 
 twELHjffb&k&P&niteXV f * h King."" 
 
 hed its fullest developments among 
 
 w*w. a Jewish sect who lived an ascetic life, 
 
 : to God ami man. They studied the sacred 
 
 c service of God, and medicine for the ser- 
 
 ron and the an are treated as distinct 
 
 f-.i'S' of the Mi*hna. T * We read of surgery 
 
 >'*wk of the Prophet Ezekiel, and curiously 
 
 ction with Egypt: "I have broken the 
 
 it shall not be bourn' 
 
 t ** T put a roller to bind il 
 
 btk! t*c ^5-*^ to this day. The A\ 
 ; >iu-J ; for instance, ' 
 
 at^l tt .. at of the earth* * * i He 
 
 btiii met? *f- away their paiV h the 
 
 |x,-r r;^.' f7iake a confection." 7 * Josephuu mentions 
 
 Pity si. mi early times been a necessity to 
 
 >'s account of the Hebrew slaves in
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 191 
 
 Egypt is, that they were driven away by the king be- 
 cause they defiled the land with their leprosy. This dis- 
 ease became so identified with the nation, not only in 
 their neighbors' eyes but in their own, that to the ques- 
 tion asked in the Talmud, "What is the name of the Mes- 
 sias?" the answer is, "The Leper." 7 * This singular 
 identification of the Messiah with the characteristic dis- 
 ease of the people obtained a place among the Christian 
 legends of the Middle Ages. When for instance, St. Fran- 
 cis d' Assissi dismounts from his horse to succor a leper, 
 he finds in the leper the Christ. 75 This strange idea 
 was probably founded on the Vulgate rendering of 
 Isaiah IV., 4, "Nos putavimus eum quasi leprosum." 
 The ceremonial observances which required the lepers to 
 "show themselves to the priest," assumes a knowledge 
 of medicine in some officials connected with the priestly 
 order. Accordingly we find that physicians were in later 
 times attracted not only to the temple but also to the 
 synagogues. They were elected, as were the Greek state 
 physicians, by the voice of the people, to whom they 
 were responsible. 76 The physicians in all times, 
 whether priests, prophets, or scribes, received fees 77 
 in early times, "bread and cakes and honey" from the 
 poor, camel-loads of stuffs, with gold and silver, from 
 the rich; in later times, "such things as were com- 
 manded." 
 
 The contagious nature of leprosy required that the 
 wretched patients should dwell apart from the abodes 
 of men; so we read of them herded together in miser- 
 able groups, prowling about the outer gates of cities, 
 or wandering over the country, always raising their 
 weird cry, "Unclean, unclean!" and standing afar off 
 when they saw their fellow-men approaching. It is pos- 
 sible that houses may have been erected for their ac- 
 commodation outside the city walls of some of the larger 
 towns. Of one such house we read, but as in the case 
 of ancient Greece, of one only, the "several house" into 
 which King Uzziah retired when the "leprosy mounted 
 into his forehead," and the priests with indecent haste
 
 192 THE INN OF REST 
 
 thrust out from the sacred precincts of the temple the 
 sorrow-stricken leper, who himself "hasted to go out." 
 Ewald, Gesenius, and other great scholars, see in this 
 "several house," or "house of separation," or "free 
 house," a hospital corresponding to the leper hospitals 
 of later times. It may have been in this house of sepa- 
 ration that some leper wrote the touching "Prayer of 
 Grevious Complaint," in which he cries aloud to Jehovah ; 
 "I am counted with them that go down into the pit, free 
 among the dead. Lover and friend hast Thou put from 
 me, Thou hast made me an abomination unto them. I 
 am shut up, I cannot come forth." 78 
 
 Care for the sick, a characteristic of the Jews to this 
 day, is what we might look for in the nation whose sacred 
 writings inculcate as the highest religion love to God 
 and love to man; and whose greatest rabbis taught, "Be 
 not slow to visit the sick, for that shall make thee to be 
 beloved," 79 and raised the kindly act towards the 
 sick man to the dignity of a deed done to God, for "the 
 glory of God hovers over the couch of the sick." 80 
 
 [6.] The elder Pliny tells us that for 600 years the 
 Romans had shown a repugnance to the art of medicine, 
 and he boasts that medicine is the only one of the arts 
 of Greece which the Romans refuse to cultivate. It was 
 on this account, he says, that the temple of ^Esculapius 
 was built, in the first instance, outside the city walls, 
 and was afterwards removed to an island in the Tiber. 
 Plutarch revenges himself by saying that the temple was 
 built in imitation of the famous temple at Epidaurus, 
 which was situated at a distance of five miles from the 
 city for the sake of the fresh air and change of scene. 
 
 Pliny is probably correct in stating that in the earlier 
 days of the Republic physicians were unknown, and that 
 for some time afterwards they were confined to foreign- 
 ers, chiefly Greeks 81 and Egyptians, and to slaves. 
 The first physician who came from Greece to Rome, in 
 219 B. C., had a surgery (taberna) provided for him at 
 the public cost, at the Acilian crossway; the Romans 
 called him Vulnerarius, the wound-curer ; but he hacked
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 193 
 
 and cauterized his patients so mercilessly, that his name 
 was changed to Carnifex, the executioner. 82 Cato 
 hated the Greek physicians because they spoke of the 
 Romans as "barbarians" and "clodhoppers"; and he be- 
 came possessed with the idea that they meant to poison 
 the Romans wholesale with their drugs. The use of 
 Latin by physicians in our day in their prescriptions may 
 be a survival of the idea, which is by no mean confined 
 to Pliny's time, that "people lose confidence in that which 
 is intelligible to them"; for, as he says, even the few 
 Romans who studied medicine thought it necessary to 
 write their prescriptions in Greek, for "if they should 
 attempt to treat of the disease in any other language, 
 they will certainly lose all credit, even with the ignorant 
 who do not know a word of Greek." Slaves skilled in 
 medicine were attached to all the great houses, and Jus- 
 tinian allows the maximum price of sixty gold pieces to 
 be paid for both male and female. 88 
 
 Pliny accuses the physicians of extreme avarice. In- 
 deed, their gains were so large that skilled artisans boot- 
 makers, carpenters, tanners, and even gravediggers be- 
 came doctors, and unsuccessful doctors sank back into 
 the humbler trades. 
 
 "Nuper erat medicus, nunc est vespillo Diaulus, 
 Quod vespillo facit, fecerat et medicus." 84 
 
 Their charlatanism, bad manners, and ignorance were 
 so great that Galen says the greater part of them could 
 read only with difficulty, and he counsels his colleagues 
 to be on their guard lest they should make grammatical 
 blunders when conversing with their patients ; and he 
 moreover complains that at the bedside of the patient the 
 rival doctors so far forget themselves that they abuse 
 each other, put out their tongues, and even come to 
 blows. 85 Pliny laments that there is no law to pun- 
 ish their ignorance, and he chuckles over the well-known 
 epitaph, "Turba medicorum perii." Under those circum- 
 stances, one is not surprised to find ex votos of arms and 
 legs, ears and eyes, and tablets commemorative of suc- 
 cessful dreams, adorning the temples both at Rome and
 
 194 THE INN OF REST 
 
 in the provinces. One tablet reminds us of the story of 
 the cure of the young Egyptian princess by the god after 
 the failure of the physicians; it is the tablet of a blind 
 slave at Rome to Minerva Medica, the "good goddess," 
 for the restoration of sight; "after he had been given up 
 by the physicians, he was cured by the grace of our lady 
 and the use of her medicines." 86 It was this super- 
 stitious element which caused the miraculous cures of 
 the Emperor Vespasian at Alexandria to be attested by 
 many among the great multitude who beheld them, even 
 after the Flavian line had become extinct, and nothing 
 was to be gained by falsehood. 87 
 
 Physicians and surgeons followed each their own func- 
 tions, and we read of specialists, oculists, dentists, 
 aurists (auricularii) , etc.; there were court physicians, 
 among whom we read of one who was above the others 
 (supra medicos') ; and women (medicd) were employed for 
 diseases of women and children. 
 
 In the time of the Antonines we read of a "chief of the 
 physicians," i ap^wzrpof. 88 Archiatri populares were pro- 
 vided for every city according to its size; they formed 
 a College of Physicians, and seem to have held a sort 
 of examination of persons qualified to practise. They 
 were elected by a vote of the citizens, and received a 
 salary from the public treasury. They were required 
 to treat all the sick who came to them free of charge, 
 but they were appointed primarily for the sake of the 
 poor. 89 
 
 It is, however, at Epidaurus that we find a house which 
 was one of the noblest expressions of the tender feel- 
 ing and gentle sympathy with suffering humanity which 
 in the second and third centuries of our era were be- 
 coming such marked characteristics of the cultivated Ro- 
 man gentleman. Many cultured Romans took the same 
 tour as that described by Livy; ^Emilius Paulus went 
 to Athens, "filled with the decayed relics of ancient 
 grandeur"; thence to Corinth, with its beautiful views 
 and busy modern life; and thence to Epidaurus, famous 
 for its temple of ^Esculapius, "then rich in offering's,
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 195 
 
 which the wealthy had dedicated to the Deity in ac- 
 knowledgment of the remedies which had restored them 
 to health, but now," he adds sorrowfully, "filled only 
 with their traces, showing whence they have been torn 
 away." 80 As the tourist of the time of the Antonines 
 approached the walls which surrounded the temple, the 
 sacred grove, and the massive buildings (whose ruined 
 mounds to this day attest their former magnificence,) 01 
 he would see a house built before the entrance to the 
 gate to shelter the aged, and the delicate women, who 
 were forbidden to tarry within, lest the sacred precincts 
 should be defiled by those who were entering and by those 
 who were leaving life. That house had been erected by 
 Emperor Antoninus, who won from the Roman Senate 
 and the people that most touching of all the titles of 
 antiquity, The Pius. 92 
 
 [7.] We read of military surgeons as early as the 
 time of Homer. "In those days," says Plato, "the sons 
 of Asclepios were heroes as well as physicians ; for when 
 the arrow of Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they sucked 
 the blood out of his wound, and sprinkled soothing reme- 
 dies (il. iv. 218) : these remedies they thought to be 
 enough to heal any man whose constitution was healthy 
 and sound." 98 The state physicians of Egypt were 
 forbidden to take fees when attached to the army in the 
 time of war. 9 * Cyrus employed surgeons to march 
 with his army; so did the Spartans. Among the Ro- 
 mans, soldiers dressed each other's wounds until the 
 time of Augustus, when we first hear of military sur- 
 geons. The Grecian army wives and mothers "did not 
 fear to search for and count the gashes" of the wounded 
 heroes whom they had accompanied to the battle. 95 
 
 It is not, however, until the reign of Hadrian that we 
 find the military hospital, which is called valetudinarium. 
 It was under the control of the prefect of the camp, 
 whose duty it was to see that the surgeons visited their 
 patients. 98 These valetudinaria were always attached to 
 the winter quarters, and those generals who visited the 
 sick and wounded are applauded. 97
 
 196 THE INN OF REST 
 
 We have already seen that the ancient Mexicans had 
 hospitals for the care of the sick, and as a refuge for 
 disabled soldiers, institutions which may have fore- 
 shadowed our Chelsea Hospital and Les Invalides at 
 Paris. 
 
 The most remarkable instance of a military hospital 
 was one in Ireland. The palace of Emania was founded 
 about 300 B. C. by the Princess Macha of the Golden 
 Hair, and continued to be the chief royal residence of 
 Ulster until 332 A. D., when it was destroyed. To this 
 palace were attached two houses, one the house in 
 which the Red Branch Knights hung up their arms and 
 trophies ; the other, in which the sick were cared for and 
 the wounded healed ; this latter was called by the expres- 
 sive name, Broin Bearg. The House of Sorrow. 98 The 
 institution of The House of Sorrow spread through Ire- 
 land under the influence of Christianity, and the ancient 
 laws sanction the right of distress to provide for the 
 sick "a physician, food, proper bed-furniture, and a pro- 
 per house." 99 
 
 [8.] Such was the progress made by some of the 
 great nations in the noble effort to ameliorate the condi- 
 tion of the sick and suffering, when, towards the close 
 of the fourth century after Christ, Christianity inspired 
 the world with the enthusiasm of humanity. A noble Ro- 
 man lady, Fabiola, devoted her princely patrimony to 
 build, in a salubrious quarter near the city, a house for 
 the reception of the sick and the infirm who were found 
 homeless and without shelter in the streets. This, says 
 St. Jerome, was the first voacwo/zcZov. 100 The fame of 
 this institution spread throughout the Roman Empire, 
 "from the Egyptians and the Parthians to the Isle of 
 Britain." The work was carried on by St. Basil, who 
 built outside the walls of Csesarea in Cappadocia, prob- 
 ably on the site of an earlier hospital, 101 the massive 
 pile of buildings which, says St. Gregory Nazianzen, 
 "rose to view like a second city, the abode of charity, 
 the treasury into which the rich poured of their wealth 
 and the poor of their poverty. Here disease is investi-
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 197 
 
 gated "( ^^oao^etTot ) and sympathy proved." No build- 
 ing of antiquity seemed to him to equal this hospital, 
 not even "Thebes with its hundred gates, nor the walls 
 of Babylon, not the pyramids of Egypt, nor the Colossus 
 of Rhodes, nor the tomb of Mausoleus." "My brother's 
 hospital," he says, "is a tabernacle of witness to the 
 world, like unto that of Moses." 102 
 
 St. John Chrysostom found at least one hospital al- 
 ready existing when he went to Constantinople, and he 
 built many more on the plan of the Basileas. We may form 
 some idea of the number of hospitals at Alexandria from 
 a law of Honorius which mentions no less than six hun- 
 dred nurses, parabolani, 103 who were placed at the dis- 
 posal of the bishop for the nursing of the sick "ad cur- 
 anda debilium aegra corpora." 
 
 Noble ladies like Fabiola gave themselves up to the 
 work of nursing the sick. The Empress Placilla visited 
 the sick in their own homes and in the public hospitals, 
 she stood at the bedside, she tasted the broth, handed 
 the food, washed the cups, and performed other offices 
 with her own hands, such as the meanest servants or- 
 dinarily did. 104 The aged Bishop of Carthage, Deo- 
 gratias, having sold the church-plate to ransom the cap- 
 tive Christians, lodged them in two large churches, and 
 every hour by night and day he visited them, with the 
 physicians, and went from bed to bed to know of what 
 each stood most in need. 105 In the great plague at 
 Alexandria (A. D. 260-268) many of the brethren nursed 
 the sick in the height of the disease; they saved many 
 by their care, who rose from their beds to life, while 
 they themselves fell struck by the plague unto death; 
 "They saved others, themselves they could not save." 108 
 This work of the Christians excited the emulation 
 of the Emperor Julian: "These impious Galileans give 
 themselves to this kind of humanity," and although he 
 thought their motive base, 107 yet he orders Arsacius 
 to "establish abundance of hospitals in every city, that 
 our kindness may be enjoyed by strangers, not only of 
 our own people but of those who are in need." 108
 
 198 THE INN OF REST 
 
 To the great hospital at Csesarea there was attacheH 
 a "house of separation" for the lepers, of whose wretched 
 condition St. Gregory of Nyssa gives such an appalling 
 account. They wandered in troops over Cappadocia in 
 search of food, and exposed to the inclemency of the sea- 
 sons. They resembled corpses before death. Clothed in 
 rags, supported by a staff fastened with a string, not to 
 the hands, which had been eaten away by disease, but 
 to the stumps of the arms which were left, driven from 
 the towns and the assemblies of men, tracked as hunters 
 track wild beasts, they did not dare even to approach 
 the wells and fountains on the roadside to quench their 
 burning thirst. "Basil it was who persuaded men not to 
 scorn them, not to dishonor Christ the Head of all by 
 their inhumanity towards human beings." 10 ' 
 
 Most if not all of these early Christian institutions 
 were hospices as well as hospitals the home of the stran- 
 ger no less than the home of the sick. It is interesting 
 to note the difficulty of finding a word to express these 
 new buildings. St. Jerome uses a Greek word, voaoKo^lav 
 for the house built by the gentle lady who her- 
 self cared for the sick whom she received. St. Basil 
 evidently felt a difficulty in finding a name for his in- 
 stitution. In one letter he speaks of it as the support of the 
 poor, TTToxoTpvteiov, in another as a place of lodg- 
 ing, Karaywywv 111 open to strangers passing through the 
 country, and to those who need (eepaneias) peculiar 
 treatment by reason of the state of their health; while 
 Sozomen falls back upon its popular name, Basileas, 
 "that most famous lodging for the poor founded by Basil, 
 from whom it received the appellation which it still re- 
 tains." 112 It was reserved for later times to take one 
 of the most sacred of ancient names, "hospitality," and 
 inspiring it with the spirit of Christianity to enshrine it 
 for future ages in the home which is open to all who are 
 suffering from sickness and from pain: "Go out into the 
 streets and lanes of the city, and bring in hither the poor, 
 and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind,* * * *that 
 my house may be filled."
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 199 
 
 Thus we see that the glory of Christianity does not 
 lie in having originated the idea of hospitals, but in hav- 
 ing seized it, like the runners the torch in the ancient 
 games, and carried it forward with brighter flame and 
 more intense enthusiasm. The fame of Fabiola and St. 
 Basil has been immortalized by St. Jerome and the Greg- 
 orys; the edict of Asoka is graven with a pen of iron in 
 the rock, a living witness to the noble thoughts of his 
 kingly mind; the House of Sorrow, which was built 
 within the ancient rath that exists to this day, speaks of 
 the tenderness of the Princess Macha; but no trace re- 
 mains of the names and titles of the men and women who 
 built the solitary hospital on the sea-shore in the Piraeus, 
 who founded the house-of-separation for the lepers in 
 Judaea, and the home of the disabled soldiers in Mexico; 
 or of those, even more illustrious, who in ancient Egypt 
 conceived the idea of the physicians paid by the state to 
 tend the poor an idea which contains the germ that has 
 borne fruit in the vast network of hospitals which are 
 rapidly spreading over the continents of Europe and 
 America. Their names may be forgotten, but their deeds 
 are immortal; they have joined 
 
 "That choir invisible, 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world." 
 
 A Jewish legend, preserved in the Haggadah, tells us 
 that Abraham wore upon his breast a jewel "whose light 
 raised those who were bowed down and healed the sick" ; 
 and that when he died, it was placed in heaven where it 
 shone among the stars. Countless as the stars of heaven 
 and as the sand on the sea-shore are the men and women 
 of all countries and of all creeds who have worn next 
 their hearts the patriarch's jewel of light. 
 
 EXPLANATORY NOTES 
 
 (1.) Demaisons, Des Asiles d'Alienes en Espagne, Paris, 
 1859. W. E. H. Lecky, Hist, of European Morals, ii. 85 sq. 
 
 (2.) Cicero, Tusc. Dis., iii. 1. Pliny, Nat. Hist, xxix. l. 
 
 (3.) Emp. Julian contr. Christ. 
 
 (4.) yEsch, Prometheus, 467 sq. 
 
 (5.) Herod, i. 197, iii. 129. Strabp, xvi. c. 1. 
 
 (6.) H. F. Talbot, Assyrian Talismans and Exorcisms. Cf. 
 St Matthew, xii. 45.
 
 200 THE INN OF REST 
 
 (7.) Pliny, Nat. Hist, vii. 56. 
 
 (8.) Od., iv. 229. 
 (9.) --- 
 
 Melanges Egypt. La Medicine des Anciens Egyptiens. 
 
 (10.) Ibid. 
 
 (11.) Herod., ii. 84. See Sir G. Wilkinson's valuable note, 
 also Ancient Egyptians, iii. 388-397. 
 
 (12.) A skeleton was found at Quito with false teeth secured 
 with gold-wire. Bollaert, Antiquities of N. Granada, p. 83. 
 
 (13.) Manetho, quoted in Brugsch, Histoire d'Egypte. 
 
 (14.) Translated by Brugsch, Notice raisonne d'un Traite 
 medical datant du xivme Siecle avant notre ere; and Chabas, 
 Melanges Egypt, i. 
 
 (15.) Chabas, i. 79. 
 
 (16.) Diod. Sic., i. 82. 
 
 (17.) Pol. iii. 11. 
 
 (18.) Nat. Hist., xxix. 1. 
 
 (19.) Brugsch, Hist. d'Egypte, c. ix. 
 
 (20.) Sir. G. Wilkinson in Herod., loc. cit. 
 
 (21.) Diod., i. 82. 
 
 (22.) Herod., ii. 84. 
 
 (23.) Pliny, xix. 5. 
 
 (24.) Wilkinson gives some of these ex votos in vol. iii. p. 
 395 
 
 (25.) Friedlander, iv. 239. 
 
 (26.) Brugsch, Hist. d'Egypte, c. ix., Berlin, 1859. 
 
 (27.) Herod., iii. 1. 
 
 (28.) Herod., iii. 131, 132. 
 
 (29.) Jer. xlyi. 11. 
 
 (30.) Friedlander, lib. ii. c. 4. 
 
 (31.) Chabas, Papyrus Hierogl., p. 55. For some time in 
 England there were two ill-omened days in each month called 
 "Egyptian days," supposed to be prescribed by the Egyptians 
 as unwholesome for bleeding. (Dean Stanley's Westminster 
 Abbey, p. 53. n.) 
 
 (32.) Herod., iii. 131. 
 
 (33.) Strabo, vi. 1, 13. 
 
 (34.) Aristotle, in Grote's History of Greece, iii. 342-344, ed. 
 1862. Ouvres d'Hippocrate, Introd. pp. 22, 23, Littre. 
 
 (35.) Rep., iii. 406, ed. Jowett Cf. the Jewish saying, "Death 
 is better than a continual sickness." Ecclus, xxx. 17. 
 
 (36.) Nat. Hist, xxix. 2, xxvi. 6. 
 
 (37.) Littre, Ouvres d'Hippocrate, introd. 
 Strabo, xiv. ii. 19. Cf. viii. vi. 15. 
 Dion Cassius, xxxviii. 18. 
 
 C. Muller, The Dorians, i. 114. The Rhodians spoke 
 Doric in the time of Tiberius. Sueton., Tib., 56. 
 
 (41.) "Medicos dorice loquentes." Meineke, Frag. Com. 
 Grace., ii. 249. 
 
 (42.) C. Muller, on the Doric Dialect, ii. 439. 
 
 (43.) Xen., Mem., iv. ii. 5. 
 
 (44.) Liddell and Scott, Lex. 
 
 (45.) Gorg., 456. 
 
 (46.) Ibid. 
 
 (47.) Laws., 857. , 
 
 (48.) Pol., iv. 2. 
 
 (49.) Laws., 720. 
 
 (50.) Rep., 405. 
 
 (51.) Cf. Hist of Bel and the Dragon, c. i. 
 
 (52.) Aristophanes, Plautus.
 
 PRE-CHRISTIAN HOSPITALS 201 
 
 (53.) Meineke. Comic. Grace. Frag. Qvp- ii. "Hujus noscpmei 
 publica fortasse auctoritate constituti, nullus praeterea scriptor 
 memoriam servavit" (vol. ii. p. 239). 
 
 (54.) Boeckh, Public Economy of Athens, i. 160, London, 
 1828. 
 
 (55.) T. A. Wise, Review of the History of Medicine, vol. i., 
 London, 1867. 
 
 (56.) India, xv. i. 36. 
 
 (57.) Edict. II. 
 
 (58.) Spiers, Ancient India, p. 319. 
 
 (59.) Fa-Hian's Travels from China to India, Beal's transl., 
 p. 107. 
 
 (60.) Memoires sur les Contrees Occidentales, par Hiouen- 
 Thsang, en A. D. 648, translated by Stanislas Julien, ii. 190, 231; 
 iii. 174, 215. Paris, 1857. 
 
 (61.) Hamilton's East India Gazetteer. Surat is a very an- 
 cient town, for it is mentioned in the Ramayana. Scavoneur, 
 Voyages, ii. 489. 
 
 (62.) Cunningham's Archl. Survey of India, i. 125. 
 
 (63.) Catena of Buddhist Scriptures, by Rev. S. Beal, p. 15. 
 
 (64.) Romantic History of Buddha, Beal, p. 143. 
 
 (65.) Prescott, History of Conquest of Mexico, i. 40. 
 
 (66.) Ibid. 
 
 (67.) Kingsborough, Antiquities of Mexico, ix. 179. 
 
 (68.) Exod. xv. 26. Carmoly translates, "L'Eternal est le 
 medecin du peuple." Histoire des Medecins Juifs, Bruxelles, 
 1844. 
 
 (69.) Ecclus. xxxviii. 1. 
 
 (70.) R. J. Wunderbar, Biblisch-Talmudische Medicin, Leip- 
 zig, 1865. 
 
 (71.) Exod. xxx. 21. Nothing can exceed the skill with 
 which the limbs of the Egyptian mummies are bound. 
 
 (72.) Ecclus. xxxviii, 4, 7, 8. 
 
 (73.) Vita, 37, tf iorptwy, v e d. Haverc. 
 
 (74.) Pearson, Creed, iv. 226 n. 
 
 (75.) Stephen's Eccl. Biog., p. 64. 
 
 (76.) Rev. A. L. Green's letter to "Jewish World," October, 
 1875. 
 
 (77.) In Exod. xxi. 9, the Ixx. reads tarpeia. May not this 
 word which, as v/e have already seen, occurs in Plato, have 
 reference to dispensaries, similar to those with which the Sev- 
 enty were familiar in Alexandria? 
 
 (78.) Ps. Ixxxviii. 
 
 (79.) Ecclus. vii. 35. 
 
 (80.) Talmud. 
 
 (81.) Nat. Hist., xxix. The oculists, whose names we find on 
 their seals, were most of them of Greek origin. Teuffel, Hist. 
 Rom. Lit, i. 45. 
 
 (82.) Nat. Hist, xxix. 6. 
 
 (83.) Code, vii. 7, 1, 5. 
 
 (84.) Martial. 
 
 (85.) Com. in Hipp. iv. 9, quoted by Friedlander. 
 
 (86.) Friedlander, iv. 235-241. 
 
 (87.) Tacitus, Hist, iv. 81. 
 
 (88.) A title which St. Jerome applies to Christ, Horn, in 
 St. Luc., xiii. 
 
 (89.) Dumas, Des Secours Publics en usage chez les An- 
 ciens, p. 136, Paris, 1813. 
 
 (90.) Lib. Ixv. 27, 28.
 
 202 THE INN OF REST 
 
 (91.) The sacred character is preserved in its name of H-ieron, 
 the sanctuary; and the village is called Koroni, evidently from 
 Koronis, the mother of Asclepius. 
 
 (92.) Pausanias, ii. 27. Champagny, Les Antonins, torn. ii. 
 p. 183. 
 
 (93.) Rep., iii. 406. 
 
 (94.) Diod., i. 82. In the smaller temple at Aboo Simbel, in 
 Nubia, a surgeon is seen dressing a wound in the foot of a sol- 
 dier. Edwards, A Thousand Miles up the Nile, p. 438. 
 
 (95.) Tacitus, Germ., 7. 
 
 (96.) Fl. Vegetius, de re Milit, ii. 10. 
 
 (97.) Dumas, Des Secours Publics, iv. 1. 
 
 (98.) Sir. W. Wilde, Note on Census for Ireland, Fart iii., 
 Parl. Papers, 1854, vol. Iviii. 
 
 (99.) Sanchus Mor, p. 123, Dublin, Thorn, 1865. 
 
 (100.) Ep. 77, c. 6 ("prima omnium instituit")- 
 
 (101.) See Ep. 94, ad Heliam. 
 
 (102.) Orat. 20, ed. Colon. 
 
 (103.) Cod. Just, i, 3, 18. Strictly speaking, nurses in in- 
 fectious diseases, for they cast themselves into hazard of their 
 lives with a recklessness which is divine. 
 
 (104.) Theod., Hist. Eccl. v. 18. 
 
 (105.) Victor. Utic., De Pers. Vand. 
 
 (106.) Euseb., Hist. Eccl., vii. 22. Cave, Primitive Chris- 
 tianity, III. ii. 390. 
 
 (107.) Frag. 305, Rheinwald, Kirchliche Archaologie. 
 
 (108.) Epist, 49. 
 
 (109.) A. Tollemer, Des Origines de la Charite Catholique, 
 Paris, 1863. Martin-Doisy, Historic de la Charite, Paris, 1848. 
 
 (110.) Ep. 176. 
 
 (111.) Ep. 94. 
 
 (112.) Hist. Eccl., vi. 34,
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 
 
 Anna H. Drury
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR. 
 
 I. 
 
 |HE great surgeon's holiday was nearly over. A 
 little more than three weeks had been spent in 
 Scotland, and at the urgent entreaty of his old- 
 est friend, Colonel Tyrwhitt, he stopped on his 
 way home to spend three days with him in Midlandshire. 
 Three days, and no more. Those who knew Everard 
 Luttrell understood what that meant. He was as de- 
 cided in his holiday movements as in the treatment of 
 his patients, sometimes to their extreme dissatisfaction. 
 For one thing, nobody could be certain when Everard 
 Luttrell would take his holiday. It was no use calcu- 
 lating on its being the height of the season, when the 
 great men are so overwhelmed with work that they have 
 hardly time to live. Sometimes he went away in May, 
 sometimes in June, sometimes when people were just 
 settling down in town again for the winter. And it was 
 no use pleading urgency, or hinting at unlimited remun- 
 eration. If the patient's need did not move him, no 
 cheque would be able to prevail. As he once observed, 
 "They would manage without me if I were dead and 
 buried, and they must manage while I am away. My 
 own case is the one I have to think of now." 
 
 Only a very few intimate friends one, his trusted 
 medical adviser knew what there was in his own case to 
 require exceptional care. An active, wiry man of fifty- 
 three, he rarely had a day's illness ; but he was liable to 
 fits of dangerous depression, whose premonitory symp- 
 toms, he had learned to know too well, and which, with 
 all his watchfulness, would sometimes take him by sur- 
 prise. When ordinary measures would not suffice, he 
 applied the one sure remedy, and gave himself leave of
 
 206 THE INN OF REST 
 
 absence for a month. Sport of every kind was his de- 
 light, and the more out-of-door exercise he could ob- 
 tain, the quicker, as a rule, came the convalescence. The 
 amount of suffering he bore during the attack, while ap- 
 parently absorbed in amusement, was known only to 
 himself. 
 
 His Highland visit to a grateful patient's moor had 
 been a success ; and he had not been idle during the two 
 days just passed at his friend Colonel Tyrwhitt's place, 
 the Combe. 
 
 The September weather was perfect, and the visitor's 
 eye and hand had been in excellent form. To his friend's 
 wife and daughters the eldest of the three girls was his 
 godchild he had been most agreeable, entering with in- 
 terest into their pursuits, and charming them by his con- 
 versation; and all were of the same mind in wishing he 
 would prolong his stay. But the Colonel forbade re- 
 monstrance. If Luttrell said he must go, go he would; 
 and worrying him about it might prevent his ever com- 
 ing again. 
 
 He had done his best, both for his visitor and his 
 neighbors, giving up the third day to a "big shoot" on 
 the estate of a brother squire, who was anxious to do 
 honor to the occasion, and gathered a party on purpose. 
 The sport had been good during the morning, and the 
 distinguished guest sustained his reputation, not only 
 with the birds before luncheon, but at the luncheon 
 itself, which the ladies from Knighton Hall came to 
 join. Never had the Colonel, who watched him anx- 
 iously, heard him converse more brilliantly, or tell better 
 anecdotes, keeping every one round him amused ; the one 
 thing wanting was the appetite due after his morning's 
 work. Not a bite did he put into his own mouth, while 
 assiduously supplying others. Something was wrong, the 
 Colonel feared ; a fit of depression was coming on ; and 
 his fears were too well grounded. 
 
 Mr. Knighton's plan was that after luncheon the sports- 
 men should proceed to a distant part of his property, 
 where still better shooting was always to be had ; and the
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 207 
 
 arrangements were being made when Everard drew his 
 friend aside. 
 
 "I have had enough of this, Tyrwhitt. Make my ex- 
 cuses to Mr. Knighton. I am going for a tramp by my- 
 self." 
 
 "Just as you like, old fellow," said the Colonel, more 
 cheerfully than he felt; "I'll settle all that. But, I say, 
 look here if you feel overdone, why not slip home and 
 let my wife make you comfortable? She knows what a 
 fellow wants when he is beat no one better " 
 
 "I am sure of it ; but what I want she cannot give me. 
 When I am fit to talk to her, I'll find my way to your 
 house. Yes, thanks, I know my bearings, and shall keep 
 out of the way. You can tell me all about it at dinner." 
 
 He was gone without another word, and Colonel Tyr- 
 whitt was staring after him with so perplexed a look in 
 his face that one of the young Knightons came up to ask 
 if anything was the matter. 
 
 "To tell the truth, Ronald, I am not happy in my mind 
 about my friend Luttrell. He is not well, and I fancy 
 he has done too much this morning; but those medical 
 bigwigs are so despotic, I could do nothing with him. 
 He is bent on walking off his indisposition, whatever it 
 is ; but I hate his being alone somehow." 
 
 "All right, Colonel; I'll shadow him stalk him as he 
 did the stag he told us of. He shall not see me unless 
 I have to be useful, and then I shall only be rabbiting, 
 you know. I'll take my gun as a proof." 
 
 "Well, if you can, without his finding it out, I shall be 
 much obliged to you, my boy ; but you will be losing all 
 the afternoon. And the ladies I understood some of 
 them meant to walk with us and see the fun what will 
 they say to your not being in attendance?" 
 
 "Never mind about what they say. The only one I 
 should care to attend upon is not here, and you know 
 that as well as I do." 
 
 "I know nothing of the sort, you impudent young dog ! 
 We hear all sorts of stories about you at the Combe, and 
 the sooner they are contradicted, the better for your
 
 208 THE INN OF REST 
 
 credit. If you succeed in stalking Luttrell and, mind 
 you, he'll never forgive you if he finds you out, or me 
 either you may as well come and meet him at dinner. 
 He goes to-morrow." 
 
 "I shall be delighted," said the young man heartily, and 
 the glow on his cheeks testified to his truth. If the 
 valued guest had suddenly felt better, and come back to 
 rejoin the party, it is to be feared the young gentleman 
 would have felt rather disappointed. 
 
 There was little difficulty in the pursuit at first. Ever- 
 ard Luttrell had struck across the open, evidently mak- 
 ing for a wooded hill beyond; and as it never occurred 
 to him that he might be followed, he never looked back. 
 The pace, Ronald thought, was surprising for a Londoner 
 out of condition ; he had to do all he knew to keep him in 
 sight; but when the wood had been gained by the pur- 
 sued, the pursuer changed his tactics. 
 
 "He seems to know the country means, perhaps, to 
 rest a bit in the wood. It won't do to run up against 
 him there. I must keep outside, and view him when he 
 breaks cover. He means to take the round by the lane 
 to the village ; I suppose. A tidy spin for a doctor out of 
 sorts. I wonder if he gives this prescription, as a rule, 
 to seedy patients? It would be a splendid cure for the 
 gout!" 
 
 It was well for all concerned that he refrained from 
 investigating the wood. Everard had entered it for the 
 sake of solitude and silence ; and had he caught sight of 
 any one just then, he would have hurried on in his fever- 
 ish impatience till he actually dropped from exhaustion. 
 He made his way along a track that led to a clearing in 
 the heart of the wood, and there sat down on a log, 
 with his head on his hands, and allowed the wave of his 
 soul's anguish to roll over him unresisted. 
 
 The first phase was the easiest to bear ; it was a rush 
 of tender memories that brought with it the relief of 
 tears. No one was near to see them or to witness the 
 deep sobs that heaved his breast, and he gave way the 
 rather that he knew the softening would not last. The
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 209 
 
 torment of these dark hours was in the thoughts he ab- 
 horred, but could not put aside. He knew they were 
 coming felt their hot breath, so to speak, on his spirit, 
 and braced himself, as he had often before, to wrestle 
 until they were overcome as a man must who realizes 
 the danger of defeat. And wrestle he did in the quiet 
 shade of the trees, till he was shaken and trembling all 
 over wiping the dew from his forehead, and glad that 
 his flask had not been left behind with his gun. 
 
 It was over, he knew, for the time, and when he had 
 sufficiently recovered he proceeded on his walk, as young 
 Knighton had conjectured. He was one who never for- 
 got his way, and though he had not been in that part 
 lately, there had been few alterations, and he went on 
 without pause or check, across country towards a wind- 
 ing road, or rather lane, by which he knew he should 
 reach the village. The church tower was in sight as he 
 descended the hill, and the nearest lodge of the Combe 
 was about a mile beyond ; but he had had time to realize 
 that it was a long round altogether before his solitude 
 was broken upon by an unexpected meeting. 
 
 A turn of the endless lane showed him the light figure 
 of his god-daughter, Cecile Tyrwhitt, mounted on a lively 
 little chestnut mare, and followed by a very small boy 
 on an old grey pony. The meeting was equally unex- 
 pected on her part, and with an exclamation of joy she 
 drew in her rein. 
 
 "This is a piece of good fortune indeed ! But why are 
 you alone, godpapa? Nothing the matter I hope?" 
 
 He reassured her with a brief explanation, and turned 
 to walk by her side. 
 
 "I might inquire why you did not come to the luncheon. 
 I heard you asked for." 
 
 "Who asked for me?" The question was sharply put. 
 "A young lady Miss Bellamy I think her name was, 
 who came with Mrs. Knighton's party, and evidently ex- 
 pected to meet you there." 
 
 "I dare say; but there were very good reasons why 
 she did not. Would you mind walking on with me
 
 210 THE INN OF REST 
 
 while Jack rides into the village to leave a basket for me 
 with a friend? I was going there myself, but I would 
 much rather have a talk with you. It is what I have 
 longed for ever since you came." 
 
 "I'm at your service, my dear. Give your orders, and 
 I will be Jack's deputy in his absence." 
 
 "Mother does not like me to ride quite alone," Cecile 
 explained, as her small escort rode away; "unless I am 
 on the old pony, and I very much prefer Pamela, though 
 she does dance and prance sometimes. In the shooting- 
 season there is no one available but Jack, and I believe 
 in his heart he would rather be with the shooters. You 
 had good sport, I hope?" 
 
 "Excellent." 
 
 "And you admired Maud Bellamy? All the gentle- 
 men do." 
 
 "So I should suppose, for they seemed to gather 
 round her directly." 
 
 "I know I know. I am going to make you a grievous 
 confession. We were friends once-^-now I hate her!" 
 
 '"Not because she is admired?" 
 
 "No; I could admire her myself if she would not al- 
 ways make me feel miserable and cross and resentful; 
 so that I have been obliged to say I would not go any- 
 where to meet her. Now, look here should you care to 
 meet a person, passing as your friend, who always pre- 
 tended to misunderstand what you said, making out that 
 it was something quite different, and extremely foolish 
 who never let you enjoy a talk with any one you liked, 
 but contrived to strike in and draw* him away who 
 could not be contented without being, not only the first, 
 but the only person attended to and thought of, and who 
 wouldn't scruple to say anything, true or untrue, that 
 would move a hindrance out of her way? I am sure 
 you would not; and neither do I." 
 
 He looked up at her rather sadly. Only seventeen, 
 with a face like a rose and giving out such bitterness! 
 That something was wrong with her, he had divined 
 from the first ; her spirits had struck him as rather forced
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 211 
 
 and he had noticed an anxious watching in the mother's 
 eyes. And now he felt convinced there was more to 
 come, which he must not check by any reproving word. 
 
 He had made a pet of her from her childhood. Though 
 rarely meeting, his name had from the first been associ- 
 ated in her mind with delightful surprises, charming 
 birthday presents, amusing letters and kind interest in 
 all her being, doing, and suffering. It was natural, there- 
 fore, that where the last was concerned she should tell 
 him what she would have allowed no one to ask. But 
 he was not prepared for her next piece of confidence. 
 
 "I want to ask your advice and help. Mother said I 
 might, and that I could not have a safer adviser. You 
 see she knows nothing about it herself, because in her 
 young days things were different." 
 
 "Not so different as you young people are apt to sup- 
 pose, Cecile." 
 
 "Well, everybody says that the changes in the last 
 twenty years have been very great. I mean, about what 
 women may do, and learn, and all that. You have no 
 old world prejudices about women, have you?" > '..* 
 
 "My prejudices, such as they are, are mostly in their 
 favor especially at sweet seventeen. What do you want 
 to do?" 
 
 "I want to be a nurse. Stop don't begin by telling 
 me I have duties at home. Father and mother will object 
 to nothing that you approve, and they both say they 
 only want me to be happy. Now, I am not happy, and 
 I am determined not to pretend that I am. About nurs- 
 ing I have heard a great deal from a particular friend of 
 mine living here, who went through exams without end, 
 and got certificates, and was regularly employed in Lon- 
 don. She and her husband he is our doctor have in- 
 valids sometimes to board with them, whom nobody else 
 can manage ; and it is wonderful what she does with dif- 
 ficult cases.'* 
 
 "I can quite believe it. Some of our best nurses are 
 ladies." 
 
 "Then being a lady you do not consider an objection?"
 
 212 THE INN OF REST 
 
 "On the contrary; given the other qualifications, the 
 better the lady the better the nurse. You want my as- 
 sistance in becoming one your parents' approval taken 
 for granted?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed I do. It will be so kind !" 
 
 "Then I shall begin with a piece of advice, more im- 
 portant than you suppose." 
 
 "Stop one minute. I know what it is. You want me 
 to think it well over, and make sure I can put up with 
 sharp words from superiors, and being set to do hard 
 work, cleaning and scrubbing and all that. I assure you, 
 my friend's own experience is like a manual. She has 
 made me see the very worst side of a nurse's life, and 
 it has not changed my mind in the least." 
 
 "So much the better for your purpose, but she has not 
 taught you one thing to wait till you have heard the 
 doctor speak before you answer him. You may have 
 gone through all you tell me, and more, and yet be un- 
 fit for a nurse, if part of your equipment is a grievance. 
 Let nothing induce you to suppose that change of scene, 
 change of occupation, and all the rest of it, will stop 
 the mischief. A nurse's cheerfulness is part of her 
 stock-in-trade, and, like other stock, ought to be genuine ; 
 and the cheerfulness that is only put on with your cap 
 and apron will be as great a sham as your skill would be 
 under the same circumstances. Here you are, dear child, 
 with these thorns in your heart the friend who is play- 
 ing you false the estrangement from somebody that 
 she has brought about, the sense of being laughed at, or 
 whatever the annoyance may be; and you think that 
 when you are away from home they will not rankle as 
 they do now. You are quite mistaken. There are times, 
 again and again, when a trained nurse has to fall back 
 upon her own thoughts for solace and occupation while 
 remaining perfectly still. If such thoughts as those 
 keep her company then her nerves must suffer, and 
 nerves mean temper. To feel your temper failing you 
 
 is bad enough in our profession. It is ten times worse 
 
 in a nurse's."
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 213 
 
 His tone impressed her more than his words; it 
 brought back a vague recollection of something sad hav- 
 ing happened to him years ago, when she was supposed 
 to hear nothing. A longing to cheer his spirits made her 
 press the hand he had laid on the pommel of her saddle. 
 
 "I am sure of one thing, my dear godfather, that you 
 have had no experience of that kind." 
 
 "God forbid, my dear," was his answer, "that any ex- 
 perience of yours should ever be like mine !" Then, with 
 a quick change of voice "Pull up, Cecile! Your pony 
 is limping. A stone in her shoe most likely. This road- 
 mending plays sad tricks with the horses." 
 
 He picked up a good-sized pebble as he spoke, and 
 gently stroking down the slender leg took the hoof in 
 his hand, Cecile saying soft things to her pet the while, 
 telling her how honored she ought to be at having such 
 first-rate attendance. A dexterous tap or two had just 
 remedied the evil, when the report of a gun behind the 
 hedge made the nervous creature start in terror, lash out 
 wildly, and bound forward several yards before her rider 
 could recover control of the bridle. In fact, if she had not 
 been a good horsewoman, she must have been thrown. 
 As it was, she did not know what had happened till she 
 had quieted and turned Pamela around, and then saw 
 Everard Luttrell lying motionless on his face. 
 
 The shriek that burst from her lips was heard by two 
 persons. Jack, having accomplished his errand, came 
 cantering up in consternation ; and bursting through the 
 hedge, his gun in one hand and a rabbit in the other, Ron- 
 ald Knighton sprang into the lane. 
 
 "Cecile! My darling! What is it? Are you hurt?" 
 
 He had caught the rein, and his arm was round her as 
 she slipped from her saddle. 
 
 "Oh, no, no but he is! Look there! Oh, what shall 
 we do?" 
 
 However great his consternation, he did not lose his 
 presence of mind. The hunting-field had taught him 
 something about accidents, and a brief inspection of the
 
 214 THE INN OF REST 
 
 injured man convinced him that the case required both 
 skill and care. The least jolt in moving him might be of 
 serious consequence. Dr. Cameron's was the nearest 
 house, and Jack must go there at once for help. If the 
 doctor was out, he must ride after him; but meanwhile 
 the patient must be carried to his house. Mrs. Cameron 
 would know what was required ; she was nearly as good 
 a doctor as her husband. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, my darling," he went on, as poor 
 Cecile, sick and faint, sat down on the ground, just cap- 
 able of holding Pamela's bridle, but about as unfit for a 
 nurse's duties as Pamela herself. "He has had a nasty 
 kick, but men get those constantly without being much 
 the worse in the end." 
 
 It was a bold assertion, but ignorance is not critical. 
 Cecile was still at the innocent stage of belief in the 
 superior knowledge of man; and her hope revived, 
 though not her self-respect. 
 
 "I had just been telling him I wanted to be a nurse. I 
 shall never dare to say so again after this." 
 
 "Of course not ; your duties lie in a different direction, 
 as I shall be happy to point out. It is I who have to re- 
 proach myself for my unlucky shot." 
 
 And while doing all he could venture for the uncon- 
 scious sufferer, he explained in a few words how he had 
 been tracking him at her father's request, and had shot 
 the rabbit by way of excuse should he have been acci- 
 dently discovered. 
 
 "I had no idea you were with him ; I shall hate the 
 sight of my gun if it has really brought you sorrow." 
 
 "Oh, I hope I must hope, or I should hate poor Pam- 
 ela. It was no fault of yours ; you you are always kind." 
 It was a strange time for explanr t: ' terrible pos- 
 
 sibility in front, and at the best, a lact whose conse- 
 quences no one could foresee ; but when Cecile in after life 
 recalled that hour of misery, it was strangely mixed with 
 a memory of sweetness beyond compare. Her dear 
 friend was in danger, her dream of useful womanhood
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 215 
 
 had been rudely dispelled ; but Ronald had come to help 
 and comfort her, and things might have been oh, so 
 much worse.
 
 216 THE INN OF REST 
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR. 
 II. 
 
 F YOU please, Mrs. Cameron, you're wanted at 
 home directly, ma'am. Colonel Tyrwhitt's boy has 
 come on the pony to find you, and the Doctor says 
 it's most particular, if you please." 
 
 "At home, did you say, or at Colonel Tyrwhitt's?" 
 
 "At home, ma'am. It's a gentleman as has been took 
 there; a bad accident, the boy says. He don't think 
 he'll ever get over it." 
 
 "Then he had better keep his thoughts to himself. Tell 
 him to go back and say I am coming." 
 
 The doctor's wife was as well known among the vil- 
 lage patients as himself; her skill as a trained nurse 
 making her exceedingly popular. Calmly as she had re- 
 ceived the summons, she did not lose a minute in obey- 
 ing it, taking a short cut across the church meadows, 
 only available on foot. They kept a room reserved for 
 patients, and it was seldom vacant for long ; more, people 
 were too apt to say, on her account than on his. The 
 reception of these boarders was an essential part of their 
 small income, for Dr. Cameron was not a popular man. 
 Devoted to his profession, he loved experiments and in- 
 vestigations more than the whims or woes of sick people ; 
 the practise he had bought had proved less lucrative than 
 had been represented, and he had been disappointed 
 whenever he had been a candidate for anything in the 
 neighborhood worth having. And as nothing succeeds 
 like success, so nothing is a greater hindrance than being 
 spoken of as "not getting on." 
 
 But he had one strong point, and he knew it ; that was 
 his wife. 
 
 Miriam Cameron, as she came along the short cut 
 across the church meadows that September afternoon, 
 with a step so easy and elastic that its swiftness was
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 217 
 
 scarcely perceptible, might have been taken as a fair 
 specimen by the advocates of modern training. The in- 
 tellect in brow and eye had been allowed ample culture, 
 and the well-knit frame ample exercise. She had in fact, 
 been allowed from her early teens, to follow her own bent 
 both in study and recreation; and having worked her 
 way, satisfactorily, through classes and examina- 
 tions, and trained hand, and foot, and eye, in a variety of 
 pastimes, had taken up nursing as a profession, with all 
 its preliminary discipline. And before she had been a 
 nurse very long she married a physician which, some 
 lazy people suggested, she might have done without all 
 that trouble. But no keen observer of countenances, who 
 studied hers, could fail to see how the grinding of the 
 wheel had brought out the polish of the gem. There was 
 a latent sense of power in her features which had im- 
 pressed Cecile's young mind unawares; and part of her 
 secret attraction lay in the sadness that in thoughtful 
 moments would soften her dark eyes. The experience 
 which had ripened her understanding had not been with- 
 out cost. 
 
 As she reached her own door there seemed to be a 
 little crowd gathered around it; Cecile on Pamela, with 
 Ronald Knighton holding her bridle Jack behind on the 
 grey pony ; and two or three laborers, who had been help- 
 ing to carry the patient, were lingering to hear the last 
 report ; but she allowed no time for questions. Her hus- 
 band was on the watch, and his call was imperative. She 
 was with him in an instant, and saw him so strongly 
 agitated that she took care to look just the reverse. 
 
 "Is it a bad case, dear? The room was all ready and so 
 am I only sorry you had to send after me. Any one I 
 know ?" for there was an indescribable something in his 
 face, as if he wanted to prepare her for a shock. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, almost in a hoarse whisper. "I 
 dare say you would have known him though he looks 
 much older than when I saw him last. Miriam, it is 
 Everard Luttrell." 
 
 She was but a woman, for all her certificates. He put
 
 218 THE INN OF REST 
 
 her into a chair, and hurried for a restorative, watching 
 in silence till her lips regained their color. Then, in 
 answer to her look, for she could not articulate, he told 
 what he knew of the case, the treatment to be carried 
 out, and the probabilities as far as he had had time to put 
 them together. 
 
 She could understand and appreciate, if she could not 
 talk ; and when he paused she bent her head in assent, and 
 rose to prepare for immediate service. Not till she was 
 safe in her own room would she venture to relax her self- 
 control, and then only for a few minutes. By the time 
 she had assumed her place in the patient's chamber she 
 was outwardly herself again. 
 
 That such an event as Luttrell's accident should be 
 discussed in the papers was only to be expected. He was 
 far too popular and too necessary to be thus suddenly 
 laid by without causing a great deal of anxiety 
 and excitement. The local and county papers found 
 themselves quite in request ; and emissaries from London 
 journals haunted the village, waylaid the servants at the 
 Combe and tried desperately to get inside Dr. Cameron's 
 door. So many telegrams had to be received and an- 
 swered that Cecile's offer of help was accepted, and she 
 was at the house every day; her father consenting the 
 more readily, that it was impossible to move the patient 
 to his house. Curiously enough, Cecile's visits were gen- 
 erally at the same hour that Ronald Knighton came over 
 for a bulletin. His help, of course, was invaluable, and 
 they really got through a good deal of work during the 
 first days of alarm, while the patient hovered between 
 life and death. The whole neighborhood, for miles round, 
 wanted to be equally useful, and enough game, fruit, and 
 jelly to supply a sick ward were sent in before any could 
 be of avail to the unconscious Everard. It was part of 
 the young people's work to carry shares of these dainties 
 to patients "whom nobody cared about" a slight com- 
 pensation for the absence of Mrs. Cameron, whose whole 
 strength and time were required by her charge. 
 
 No small excitement was caused one day by the ar-
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 219 
 
 rival of an eminent brother-surgeon, popularly supposed 
 to be intensely jealous of his rival, and eager to profit by 
 the golden opportunity. As a matter of fact, he would 
 have given more gold than he had ever received to have 
 seen Everard Luttrell at work once more; and he did 
 all in his power. Dr. Cameron, with whom he had a 
 long consultation, received his suggestions as something 
 beyond price; but the great man's face was very grave 
 when he took leave, with strict injunctions that he was to 
 be sent for should there be any change for the worse. 
 
 "Much will depend," he told Mrs. Cameron at parting, 
 "on the state of his brain when he regains consciousness. 
 Very likely he will wander a little never mind that. 
 The great point is that his mind should not be distressed. 
 There has been too much of that already." 
 
 "It shows what opinion Sir Niel Kenton has of you 
 as a nurse, Miriam," was her husband's comment, "that 
 he should tell you that so plainly. I noticed a change in 
 his manner directly he knew that I had worked under 
 poor Luttrell, and been at one time his pupil. Shouldn't 
 wonder if he gave me a lift up the hill; a word from a 
 man like that would be the making of a fellow. If only 
 we can pull through this !" 
 
 "If only !" was her reply; "we could then afford to 
 wait for the rest." 
 
 Sir Niel's forecast was soon verified. Miriam had been 
 lying down for a short interval, when her husband came 
 in to report the important change. Luttrell had recog- 
 nized him, without appearing surprised; only fancied 
 they were watching a case together, and that he had 
 been allowed to sleep too long. 
 
 "I quieted him with a promise to call him up if there 
 was any change; and now he is asleep again, and much 
 will depend on his next waking." 
 
 "I shall be there," was her answer; and in a few min- 
 utes she was again at her post, from which indeed she 
 was never absent a minute longer than she could help. In 
 point of fact, as Cecile told Ronald in confidence, Miri- 
 am's theory was one thing and her practise another. She
 
 220 THE INN OF REST 
 
 had maintained that a nurse must lose her efficiency if 
 she neglected the rules about rest, diet, and exercise ; and 
 here she was setting them all at defiance. 
 
 "And if one says a word, she looks so sad one can say 
 no more. If nursing is really this sort of thing, I am 
 afraid it would never do for me." 
 
 "No, my darling," was Ronald's answer, "and nobody 
 ever thought it would. The only patient it would be safe 
 for you to meddle with would be myself. But Mrs. 
 Cameron knows what she is about, and, depend upon it, 
 she has her reasons." 
 
 She had stronger reasons than he imagined. Even 
 her husband, who might have known more, did not guess 
 how deeply she was feeling how the whole of her fu- 
 ture life's peace seemed to hang on what the sick man's 
 wakening might bring. Never, perhaps, in the whole 
 of her past had her eyes been such "homes of silent 
 prayer" as during that afternoon's vigil, when the prac- 
 tised quiescence of the body was in such contrast with 
 the restless activity of the mind. The room had been 
 necessarily kept in semi-darkness on the patient's ac- 
 count, and as the autumn day faded it would have been 
 difficult for an unaccustomed watcher to distinguish the 
 pale face from its pillow. Even she was just consider- 
 ing whether it were safe to draw the curtain a little 
 more from the window, when there was a slight move- 
 ment in the bed, the heavy eyelids were lifted, and the 
 eyes rested on hers. Then, with a pleased look of sur- 
 prise, such as we have all felt in our time, when a dream 
 returns, of which we say to ourselves, "This time it is 
 real !" came the low, glad words, "Why, Mary !" 
 
 His nurse's heart gave a bound that almost turned her 
 faint, but she smiled in answer to his smile, smoothed 
 the quilt, and moistened his lips. He made a feeble at- 
 tempt to take her hand, and when she gave it to him, 
 drew it to his cheek with a sigh of comfort and relief. 
 
 "I really thought I must have dreamed you 
 were " 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished, but the happy look
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 221 
 
 lasted while she gave him the appointed spoonfuls, and 
 lingered on his face after he had again dropped into a 
 doze. And that doze became the most natural, healthy 
 sleep he had had yet. Now and then, at first, his lips 
 moved ; and more than once her ear would catch the mur- 
 mur of pleasure, almost like that of a child, "My Mary 
 my own !" 
 
 "Oh, God!" prayed the nurse, as the tears ran noise- 
 lessly down her cheeks, "if Thine angel be indeed present, 
 let it be with healing in her wings !" 
 
 Whatever brought the healing, it was certainly there. 
 He improved from that hour up to a certain point. How 
 long the sweet dream lasted they never knew; Miriam 
 believed she could detect a look that was again surprise, 
 without the joy; but, as nothing was said, she could 
 not be certain. His mind cleared itself by degrees, and 
 he could converse for a while with Dr. Cameron, and 
 take some professional interest in his own case. Then 
 he was able to ask after his friends, take account of time, 
 and express gratitude for what had been done for him. 
 Then he was moved to a sofa, and then into a sitting- 
 room. And people began to speculate how soon he would 
 be considered quite well. 
 
 As a step to that desired end, Sir Niel Kenton came 
 down again, and remained with him some time alone. 
 Before taking leave, he said a few words to Dr. Cameron 
 that delighted him extremely, as well they might; and 
 then begged to have a few more with his wife. A brief 
 but earnest conversation followed, and the great sur- 
 geon drove away to catch his train. 
 
 Husband and wife watched the departure, and turned 
 to exchange confidences. 
 
 "I told you, Miriam, it would be the making of us. 
 Luttrell has got him to give me his vote and interest for 
 
 the next vacancy it must come soon at hospital, 
 
 the very thing I most wished for. What did he tell you 
 that makes you look like that?" 
 
 For instead of the delight he expected, her face was 
 troubled and anxious.
 
 222 THE INN OF REST 
 
 "He told me," he said slowly, "that unless he was 
 roused now that he has reached this point, either his 
 mind or his body would sink he feared for the mind." 
 
 "Do you see your way to doing it?" almost whispered 
 the doctor. 
 
 "I see one way only one. If it fails, I can do no 
 more." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Cecile, my dear, your godfather has asked for you 
 and I promised you would go this afternoon." 
 
 Colonel Tyrwhitt had been allowed to visit his friend, 
 and had derived but small comfort from the interview. 
 
 "Aye," he went on, in answer to his daughter's in- 
 quiry, "they say he is recovering; but I don't like the 
 looks of him. He begins to talk like his old self, and then, 
 all in a minute his mind seems miles away, and there is 
 a sad look in his eyes that breaks your heart. He gives 
 me the idea in spite of his good sense and ability of 
 a man who does not think it worth his while to get bet- 
 ter. I have known more than one poor fellow in hospital 
 lose his number for no other reason." 
 
 "But, dear papa, are you sure my visit will do him no 
 harm?" faltered Cecile. 
 
 "Sure ? No ; but a little idle chatter will make a change ; 
 only mind you are perfectly natural, and at your ease, 
 or you may do more harm than good." 
 
 "Easier said than done," thought poor Cecile, but she 
 went, resolved to do her best, and was agreeably sur- 
 prised by his quiet, affectionate greeting. 
 
 The room where he now passed most of the day, on a 
 sofa, was always kept in a sort of twilight, and a screen 
 protected his eyes from the bright little fire that the 
 shortening afternoons made necessary. His watchful 
 nurse, who could knit in any light, not to say dark- 
 ness, sat quietly employed, where she could observe 
 him without appearing to do so; and her cheerful way 
 of talking helped the younger visitor to overcome the 
 lump in her throat, and do as her father had told her. 
 
 "You owe me a good turn, my dear Cecile," said the
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 223 
 
 invalid, as she drew a low chair near his sofa, and took 
 his hand. "No hospital training would do for you what 
 Mrs. Cameron's example and instructions may, if you are 
 in a teachable frame. Such a nurse does not cross one's 
 path every day." 
 
 "I know that; but I have learned my lesson. I look 
 upon good nurses with reverence perhaps with envy 
 but I am not fitted to be one of them." 
 
 "Is the grievance still so heavy?" A faint smile had 
 flickered over his face which grew stronger as the color 
 flew into hers. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, I have no grievance now except in- 
 deed" as if an after-thought "your being laid up like 
 this through Pamela's fault, or mine." 
 
 "No one's fault, my dear; these things happen every 
 day, only the objects of your envy are not always so near 
 at hand." He inclined his head to Miriam as he spoke, 
 and she saw the opportunity for which she had been 
 waiting. 
 
 "We are not always to be envied," she said as she laid 
 down her knitting, moved to the window, and having re- 
 arranged the curtain, slipped into a seat where her face 
 was almost hidden. "I could tell you a story, Cecile, of 
 my own experience, that would give you quite another 
 impression." 
 
 The dreaded shadow was coming over his eyes, and she 
 durst not wait for encouragement. Cecile, however, 
 while stroking her godfather's hand, discovered that his 
 attention was caught directly the story began. 
 
 "I was called in to nurse a lady once under unusual 
 circumstances. Her husband, one of the rising surgeons 
 of that day, had been summoned into the country to a 
 most urgent and difficult case; and soon after his de- 
 parture she met with an accident that disabled her right 
 arm. Her husband's colleague and former pupil at- 
 tended her, and as I had worked under him already, he 
 sent for me, her servants having no idea of nursing. It 
 was a simple case, but required care, and she was as fra- 
 gile as she was beautiful."
 
 224 THE INN OF REST 
 
 Cecile felt the thin fingers tighten on her own, but he 
 made no other sign. The speaker's voice went on, after 
 a moment's pause, with bell-like distinctness: 
 
 "At that time you were too young to know much 
 about it there was a great talk among medical men of 
 a new treatment for consumption that was to work won- 
 derful cures. The same thing has occurred since and 
 become widely known; this was .the dream of a few 
 months only. The doctor was keen about it, and I soon 
 found that my sweet patient had her own reasons for 
 sharing his enthusiasm. She was doomed, and she knew 
 it ; and in the sleepless hours of the night she confided to 
 me her passionate longing to try the new remedy, so as 
 to give herself the chance of a few more years with her 
 husband. She had begged him to give it her in vain 
 the first thing he had ever refused her. Either he doubted 
 the treatment or feared the risk. His very affection stood 
 in the way; but if it were done in his absence, and he 
 found her with a new lease of life on his return, what 
 reward would he think too much ? And then, with what 
 confidence would he carry to other despairing households 
 the deliverance accomplished in his own! 
 
 "My better judgment was against her, but before I 
 had time to remonstrate she was weeping on my shoul- 
 der, imploring me to give her just this chance of life. 
 
 "I was wrong, Cecile, and I make no excuse; but I 
 could not resist those tears, those eyes, that pleading 
 voice. I helped her to overcome the doctor's scruples 
 scruples on his friend's account, for he was sanguine as 
 to the result and the attempt was made. 
 
 "All seemed going well at first ; then we were obliged 
 to own her husband had known best, and he was sent for, 
 but came too late. 
 
 "She had said to me, just before becoming unconscious, 
 'It was my one disobedience ask him to forgive me/ 
 
 "I was too ill at the time to give the message, and after- 
 wards he would not see me ; a letter I wrote came back 
 to me unopened. So it has waited all these years to be 
 given at last!"
 
 NURSE AND DOCTOR 225 
 
 With the two closing words the clear voice dropped, 
 and silence fell upon the darkening room. 
 
 Then Cecile felt the grip on her hands relax, and the 
 invalid rose from the sofa and crossed over to Miriam's 
 chair. 
 
 "Mrs. Cameron" she hardly knew the voice, it was 
 so full of intense feeling "I never imagined this ; I have 
 done you cruel injustice, and this is your revenge. For 
 pity's sake, say that you forgive me ! You would, if you 
 had ever felt for one hour the agony of being unable to 
 forgive !" 
 
 His hand grasped hers, and as he felt her tears fall 
 upon it his own burst forth like rain such rain as sweeps 
 away the germs of death and brings health both to body 
 and soul. 
 
 Later on, when he could talk quietly with his hosts 
 about the past, he touched on what had been the burden 
 of his solitary years the morbid tendency to brood over 
 his loss as an unavenged wrong. Knowing what mad- 
 ness lay that way, he had done his best to fight it down ; 
 but had never felt secure that the bitterness would not 
 return. With Cameron he had broken from the first, and 
 had never heard whom he had married. His private 
 belief had been that nurse and doctor had either per- 
 suaded or deceived his poor Mary between them. How 
 difficult it was to resist her entreaties no one knew better 
 than himself. 
 
 With the interchange of pardon his peace of mind re- 
 turned, never to be lost again; and in due time his 
 strength also. 
 
 His gratitude was of the enduring character natural to 
 such a man, and in proportion to the suffering from 
 which he had been relieved. 
 
 It was not only his former pupil who might date the 
 period of Everard's accident as the turning-point in his 
 own career, largely as he and his benefited by the friend- 
 ship thus happily restored. When able to hear the whole 
 story of his own adventure, Luttrell insisted on the point, 
 disputed as it might be, that his real benefactor was the
 
 226 THE INN OF REST 
 
 lad who had shadowed him. But for his shooting that 
 rabbit, he might never have known what he knew now. 
 
 And, being thus burdened with obligation, it was 
 needful to take Cecile into his confidence as to the best 
 method of discharging it. 
 
 How much the parents of both parties had surmised 
 before was never quote clear; what they were certain 
 about was, that a younger son, with no profession, was 
 not to be encouraged to engage himself, however charm- 
 ing the young lady. How this objection was overcome 
 would take too long to explain ; but the fact that during 
 that winter a Government appointment was procured for 
 Ronald Knighton, from a distinguished patient of Ever- 
 ard's, coupled with an assertion that, as Cecile's god- 
 father, he had a right to see that she had enough to live 
 upon, will perhaps be considered to explain itself. 
 
 When he pleaded his own lost happiness, and his long- 
 ing to see its image in the lives of others, little was left 
 for prudence or scruples to reply. 
 
 Had that face, so dearly loved, indeed visited his pillow, 
 a messenger from Heaven to lead him back to life and 
 usefulness? Had she longed, even in her sweet rest, for 
 an assurance that he did forgive, or was it only the 
 half-waking dream of weakened nerves, to be put aside 
 as unworthy a serious thought? 
 
 He never spoke of it, but he never put it aside.
 
 HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS 
 
 Walt Whitman
 
 HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS 
 
 PATENT-OFFICE HOSPITAL. 
 
 EBRUARY 23, 1863. I must not let the great 
 hospital at the Patent-Office pass away without 
 some mention. A few weeks ago the vast area 
 of the second story of that noblest of Washing- 
 ton buildings was crowded close with rows of sick, badly 
 wounded, and dying soldiers. They were placed in three 
 very large apartments. I went there many times. It 
 was a strange, solemn, and, with all its features of suf- 
 fering and death, a sort of fascinating sight. I would go 
 sometimes at night to soothe and relieve particular cases. 
 Two of the immense apartments are filled with high and 
 ponderous glass cases, crowded with models in minia- 
 ture of every kind of utensil, machine, or invention it 
 ever entered into the mind of man to conceive ; and with 
 curiosities and foreign presents. Between these cases are 
 lateral openings, perhaps eight feet wide and quite deep, 
 and in these were placed the sick, besides a great long 
 double row of them up and down through the middle of 
 the hall. Many of them were very bad cases, wounds and 
 amputations. Then there was a gallery running above the 
 hall in which there were beds also. It was, indeed, a 
 curious scene, especially at night when lit up. The glass 
 cases, the beds, the forms lying there, the gallery above, 
 and the marble pavement under foot the suffering, and 
 the fortitude to bear it in various degrees occasionally, 
 from some, the groan that could not be repressed some- 
 times a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and 
 glassy eye, the nurse by his side, the doctor also there, 
 but no friend, no relative such were the sights but 
 lately in the Patent-Office. (The wounded have since 
 been removed from there, and it is now vacant again.)
 
 230 THE INN OF REST 
 
 AN ARMY HOSPITAL WARD. 
 
 Let me specialize a visit I made to the collection of 
 barrack-like one-story edifices, Campbell hospital, out 
 on the flats, at the end of the then horse railway route, 
 on Seventh Street. There is a long building appropri- 
 ated to each ward. Let us go into ward 6. It contains 
 to-day, I should judge, eighty or a hundred patients, 
 half sick, half wounded. The edifice is nothing but 
 boards, well whitewashed inside, and the usual slender- 
 framed iron bedsteads, narrow and plain. You walk 
 down the central passage, with a row on either side, their 
 feet towards you, and their heads to the wall. There are 
 fires in large stoves, and the prevailing white of the walls 
 is relieved by some ornaments, stars, circles, etc., made 
 of evergreens. The view of the whole edifice and oc- 
 cupants can be taken at once, for there is no partition. 
 You may hear groans or other sounds of unendurable 
 suffering from two or three of the cots, but in the main 
 there is quiet almost a painful absence of demonstra- 
 tion; but the pallid face, the dulled eye, and the mois- 
 ture on the lip, are demonstration enough. Most of 
 these sick or hurt are evidently young fellows from the 
 country, farmer's sons, and such like. Look at the fine 
 large frames, the bright and broad countenances, and the 
 many yet lingering proofs of strong constitution and 
 physique. Look at the patient and mute manner of our 
 American wounded as they lie in such a sad collection; 
 representatives from all New England, and from New 
 York, and New Jersey, and Pennsylvania indeed from 
 all the States and all the cities largely from the West. 
 Most of them are entirely without friends or acquain- 
 tances here no familiar face, and hardly a word of judi- 
 cious sympathy or cheer, through their sometimes long 
 and tedious sickness, or the pangs of aggravated wounds. 
 
 MY PREPARATION FOR VISITS. 
 
 In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the sim- 
 ple matter of personal presence, and emanating ordinary 
 cheer and magnetism, that I succeeded and helped more
 
 HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS 231 
 
 than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts of money, 
 or anything else. During the war I possessed the per- 
 fection of physical health. My habit, when practicable, 
 was to prepare for starting out on one of those daily or 
 nightly tours of from a couple to four or five hours, by 
 fortifying myself with previous rest, the bath, clean 
 clothes, a good meal, and as cheerful an appearance as 
 possible. 
 
 AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS. 
 
 June 25, Sundown. As I sit writing this paragraph I 
 see a train of about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used 
 as ambulances, filled with wounded, passing up Four- 
 teenth Street, on their way, probably, to Columbian, Car- 
 ver, and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the 
 men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost 
 always in these long, sad processions. Through the past 
 winter, while our army lay opposite Fredericksburg, the 
 like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence 
 along Seventh Street, passing slowly up from the steam- 
 boat wharf, with loads from Aquia Creek. 
 
 HOSPITAL ENSEMBLE. 
 
 Aug., Sep., and Oct., '63. I am in the habit of going to 
 all, and to Fairfax Seminary, Alexandria, and over Long 
 bridge to the great Convalescent camp. The journals pub- 
 lish a regular directory of them a long list. As a speci- 
 men of almost any one of the larger of these hospitals, 
 fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of 
 ground, on which are grouped ten or twelve very large 
 wooden barracks, with, perhaps, a dozen or twenty, 
 and sometimes more than that number, small buildings, 
 capable altogether of accommodating from five hundred 
 to a thousand or fifteen hundred persons. Sometimes 
 these wooden barracks or wards, each of them perhaps 
 from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet long, are 
 ranged in a straight row, evenly fronting the street; 
 others are planned so as to form an immense V; and 
 others again are ranged around a hollow square. They
 
 232 THE INN OF REST 
 
 make altogether a huge cluster, with the aHditional tents, 
 extra wards for contagious diseases, guard-houses, sut- 
 ler's stores, chaplain's house; in the middle will prob- 
 ably be an edifice devoted to the offices of the surgeon 
 in charge, and the ward surgeons, principal attache's, 
 clerks, etc. The wards are either lettered alphabetically, 
 ward G, ward K, or else numerically, 1, 2, 3, etc. Each 
 has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. Of course, 
 there is, in the aggregate, quite a muster of employes, and 
 over all the surgeon in charge. 
 
 Here in Washington, when these army hospitals are 
 all filled (as they have been already several times), they 
 contain a population more numerous in itself than the 
 whole of the Washington of ten or fifteen years ago. 
 Within sight of the capitol, as I write, are some thirty 
 or forty such collections, at times holding from fifty to 
 seventy thousand men. Looking from any eminence and 
 studying the topography in my rambles, I use them as 
 landmarks. Through the rich August verdure of the 
 trees, see that white group of buildings off yonder in the 
 outskirts; then another cluster half a mile to the left of 
 the first; then another a mile to the right, and another 
 a mile beyond, and still another between us and the first. 
 Indeed, we can hardly look in any direction but these 
 clusters are dotting the landscape and environs. That 
 little town, as you might suppose it, off there on the brow 
 of a hill, is indeed a town, but of wounds, sickness, and 
 death. It is Finley hospital, northeast of the city, on 
 Kendall green, as it used to be called. That other is 
 Campbell hospital. Both are large establishments. I 
 have known these two alone to have from two thousand 
 to twenty-five hundred inmates. Then there is Carver 
 hospital, larger still, a walled and military city regularly 
 laid out, and guarded by squads of sentries. Again, off 
 east, Lincoln hospital, a still larger one; and half 
 a mile further Emory hospital. Still sweeping the eye 
 around down the river toward Alexandria, we see, to the 
 right, the locality where the Convalescent camp stands, 
 with its five, eight or sometimes ten thousand inmates.
 
 HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS 233 
 
 Even all these are but a portion. The Harewood, Mount 
 Pleasant, Armory-square, Judiciary hospitals, are some of 
 the rest, and all large collections. 
 
 HOSPITAL PERPLEXITY 
 
 To add to other troubles, amid the confusion of this 
 great army of sick, it is almost impossible for a stranger 
 to find any friend or relative, unless he has the patient's 
 specific address to start upon. Besides the directory 
 printed in the newspapers here, there are one or two 
 general directories of the hospitals kept at provost's 
 headquarters, but they are nothing like complete; they 
 never are up to date, and, as things are, with the daily 
 streams of coming and going and changing, cannot be. 
 I have known cases, for instance, such as a farmer com- 
 ing here from northern New York to find a wounded 
 brother, faithfully hunting around for a week, and then 
 compelled to leave and go home without getting any 
 trace of him. When he got home he found a letter from 
 the brother giving the right address. 
 
 ARMY SURGEONS AID DEFICIENCIES. 
 
 I must bear my most emphatic testimony to the zeal, 
 manliness and professional spirit and capacity generally 
 prevailing among the surgeons, many of them young men, 
 in the hospitals and the army. I will not say much about 
 the exceptions, for they are few ; (but I have met some of 
 those few, and very incompetent and airish they were). 
 I never ceased to find the best men, and the hardest and 
 most disinterested workers, among the surgeons in the 
 hospitals. They are full of genius, too. I have seen many 
 hundreds of them and this is my testimony. There are, 
 however, serious deficiencies, wastes, sad want of system, 
 in the commissions, contributions, and in all the volun- 
 tary, and a great part of the governmental nursing, edi- 
 bles, medicines, stores, etc. (I do not say surgical atten- 
 dance, because the surgeons cannot do more than human 
 endurance permits.) Whatever puffing accounts there 
 may be in the papers of the North, this is the actual fact.
 
 234 THE INN OF REST 
 
 No thorough previous preparation, no system, no fore- 
 sight, no genius. Always plenty of stores, no doubt, but 
 never where they are needed, and never the proper ap- 
 plication. Of all harrowing experiences, none is greater 
 than that of the days following a heavy battle. Scores, 
 hundreds of the noblest men on earth, uncomplaining, lie 
 helpless, mangled, faint, alone, and so bleed to death, or 
 die from exhaustion, either actually untouched at all, or 
 merely the laying of them down and leaving them, when 
 there ought to be means provided to save them. 
 
 BURIAL OP A LADY NURSE. 
 
 Here is an incident just occurred in one of the hos- 
 pitals. A lady named Miss or Mrs. Billings, who had 
 long been a practical friend of soldiers, and nurse in the 
 army, and had become attached to it in a way that no one 
 can realize but him or her who has had experience, was 
 taken sick, early this winter, lingered some time, and 
 finally died in the hospital. It was her request that she 
 should be buried among the soldiers, and after the mili- 
 tary method. This request was fully carried out. Her 
 coffin was carried to the grave by soldiers, with the usual 
 escort, buried and a salute fired over the grave. This 
 was at Annapolis a few days since. 
 
 FEMALE NURSES FOR SOLDIERS. 
 
 There are many women in one position or another, 
 among the hospitals, mostly as nurses here in Washing- 
 ton, and among the military stations ; quite a number of 
 them young ladies acting as volunteers. They are a help 
 in certain ways, and deserve to be mentioned with re- 
 spect. Then it remains to be distinctly said that few or 
 no young ladies, under the irresistible conventions of 
 society, answer the practical requirements of nurses for 
 soldiers. Middle-aged or healthy and good conditioned 
 elderly women, mothers of children, are always best. 
 Many of the wounded must be handled. A hundred 
 things which cannot be gainsaid, must occur and must 
 be done. The presence of a good middle-aged or elderly
 
 HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS 235 
 
 woman, the magnetic touch of hands, the expressive fea- 
 tures of the mother, the silent soothing of her presence, 
 her words, her knowledge and privileges arrived at only 
 through having had children, are precious and final quali- 
 fications. It is a natural faculty that is required; it is 
 not merely having a genteel young woman at a table in 
 the ward. One of the finest nurses I met was a red- 
 faced, illiterate old Irish woman ; I have seen her take the 
 poor wasted naked boys so tenderly up in her arms. 
 There are plenty of excellent clean old black women that 
 would make tip-top nurses. 
 
 WOUNDS AND DISEASES. 
 
 The war is over, but the hospitals are fuller than ever, 
 from former and current cases. A large majority of the 
 wounds are in the arms and legs. But there 
 is every kind of wound, in every part of the body. I 
 should say of the sick, from my observation that the 
 prevailing maladies are typhoid fever and the camp 
 fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal affections and bron- 
 chitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. These forms of sick- 
 ness lead; all the rest follow. There are twice as many 
 sick as there are wounded. The deaths range from 
 seven to ten per cent, of those under treatment. 
 
 HOSPITALS CLOSING. 
 
 October 3. There are two army hospitals now remain- 
 ing. I went to the largest of these (Douglas) and spent 
 the afternoon and evening. There are many sad cases, 
 old wounds, incurable sickness, and some of the wounded 
 from the March and April battles before Richmond. Few 
 realize how sharp and bloody those closing battles were. 
 Our men exposed themselves more than usual ; pressed 
 ahead without urging. Then the Southerners fought with 
 extra desperation. Both sides knew that with the suc- 
 cessful chasing of the rebel cabal from Richmond, and the 
 occupation of that city by the National troops, the game 
 was up. The dead and wounded were unusually many. 
 Of the wounded the last lingering driblets have been 
 brought to hospitals here. I find many rebel wounded
 
 236 THE INN OF REST 
 
 here, and have been extra busy to-day 'tending to the 
 worst cases of them with the rest. 
 
 Oct., Nov., and Dec., '65 Sundays. Every Sunday of 
 those months visited Harewood hospital out in the woods, 
 pleasant and recluse, some two and a half or three miles 
 north of the capitol. The situation is healthy, with 
 broken ground, grassy slopes and patches of oak woods, 
 the trees large and fine. It was one of the most extensive 
 of the hospitals, now reduced to four or five partially oc- 
 cupied wards, the numerous others being vacant. In 
 November, this became the last military hospital kept 
 up by the government, all the others being closed. Cases 
 of the worst and most incurable wounds, obstinate ill- 
 ness, and of poor fellows who have no homes to go to, are 
 found here. 
 
 Dec. 10 Sunday. Again spending a good part of the 
 day at Harewood. I write this about an hour before sun- 
 down. I have walked out for a few minutes to the edge 
 of the woods to soothe myself with the hour and scene. 
 It is a glorious, warm, golden-sunny, still afternoon. The 
 only noise is from a crowd of cawing crows, on some trees 
 three hundred yards distant. Clusters of gnats swim- 
 ming and dancing in the air in all directions. The oak 
 leaves are thick under the bare trees, and give a strong 
 and delicious perfume. Inside the wards everything is 
 gloomy. Death is there. As I entered, I was confronted 
 by it the first thing; the corpse of a poor soldier, just 
 dead, of typhoid fever. The attendants had just straight- 
 ened the limbs, put coppers on the eyes, and were laying 
 it out. 
 
 The roads. A great recreation, the past three years, has 
 been in taking long walks out from Washington, five, 
 seven, perhaps ten miles and back ; generally with my 
 friend Peter Doyle, who is as fond of it as I am. Fine 
 moonlight nights, over the perfect military roads, hard 
 and smooth or Sundays we had these delightful walks, 
 never to be forgotten. The roads connecting Washing- 
 ton and the numerous forts around the city, made one 
 useful result, at any rate, out of the war.
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 
 
 Isabel Hampton Robb
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION. 
 
 HAT you may better understand the conditions 
 now existing in the hospital and nursing world, 
 I shall first briefly sketch some of the devious 
 ways by which modern nursing has come to its 
 present status, worthy to be ranked as an art and a pro- 
 fession. A full consideration of the entire range of this 
 subject would far exceed the possibilities of a single chap- 
 ter. The ancient history of hospitals and their methods 
 of dealing with their sick, both before and during the 
 early days of Christianity would by itself afford abun- 
 dant material for an interesting volume, while a sec- 
 ond might deal with the rise and growth of the multi- 
 tudes of monasteries and religious sisterhoods, which be- 
 gan in the middle ages and have lasted down to our own 
 times. But although these events are full of intense in- 
 terest from a historical standpoint, they had little to do 
 in leading up to the present methods in hospitals and 
 nursing. Only it may be remembered that one founder, 
 among the many, seems to have spoken with prophetic 
 voice of things to come, when he ordained for the Sisters 
 of Mercy of St. Vincent de Paul: "They shall have no 
 monasteries but the house of the sick, no cells but a hired 
 room, no cloisters but the streets of a town and the wards 
 of the hospital, no inclosure but obedience, and for con- 
 vent bars only the fear of God ; for a veil they shall have 
 a holy and perfect modesty; and while they keep them- 
 selves from the infection of vice they shall sow the seeds 
 of virtue wherever they turn their steps." Hundreds of 
 years have passed since those words were spoken, but 
 they perfectly picture the ideals of the sisterhood of 
 trained nurses at the close of the ninteenth century. And 
 what more beautiful inspiration need a woman have to 
 join forces to make such ideals daily facts?
 
 240 THE INN OF REST 
 
 Let us then, leave nursing with its ancient and medieval 
 conditions and confine ourselves to a consideration of 
 what has been done during the last hundred years. It 
 would seem that the first quarter of the century found a 
 condition of affairs that in point of degradation could 
 hardly be conceived possible. The hospitals stood for all 
 that was bad ; they were lazar-houses not only of physi- 
 cal horrors, but also of moral iniquity; the nursing was 
 relegated to those among women who were not con- 
 sidered of sufficient respectability to be entrusted with 
 the most menial of domestic work, and whose moral tur- 
 pitude was equaled only by their incompetence. But dur- 
 ing these years there were born into the world four peo- 
 ple who lived to bring light into dark places and who by 
 example and precept brought about a revolution. There 
 is no need for me to speak to you at length of Elizabeth 
 Fry and her work in prisons and hospitals, of Charles 
 Dickens and his inimitable writings, of Pastor Fliedner, 
 the founder of the order of German Deaconesses, and last 
 but not least, of our own beloved Miss Nightingale. 
 Their names will live forever in our hearts and in the 
 hearts of those who come after us. 
 
 With the last two, however, we have more to do just 
 now, since they were practically the founders of the 
 present system of nursing the sick. Theodore Fliedner 
 was born in the year 1800, in the small village of Epp- 
 stein on the frontiers of Hesse and Nassau, where his 
 father was the parish clergyman. At the age of 20 he 
 himself became the pastor of the little town of Kaiser- 
 werth on the Rhine, which has become famous for all 
 time on account of the great work which he established 
 there. On an income of $125 a year he managed not 
 only to exist, but also to help his parishioners, who were 
 in a condition of extreme poverty, and a prey to dirt 
 and disease. Before he had lived there very long, even 
 this income became diminished owing to the failure of the 
 velvet manufactories which supplied work to most of the 
 parishioners. As a result he was obliged to cast about 
 to save his church and help his neighbors in their dis-
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 241 
 
 tress, and with this object in view he made journeys 
 through Germany, Holland, and England, pleading his 
 cause with more or less success. But from these jour- 
 neys was realized something of far more value than the 
 money he raised. He brought back with him an experi- 
 ence and knowledge of what was being done in other 
 countries in the way of charitable enterprise. While in 
 England he encountered Elizabeth Fry, and as a result 
 his attention became directed towards prison reform. On 
 his return to Germany, he set about founding an asylum 
 for discharged women prisoners and appealed to Chris- 
 tian womanhood to support him in his work. In 1833 
 the first woman prisoner, who later became the first 
 deaconess, arrived at Kaiserwerth. At the same time 
 Fliedner founded his hospital, beginning with a single 
 patient. But even for this one patient a nurse was neces- 
 sary. The recognition of this need led to the founding, 
 or rather the reviving of the order of Deaconesses, 
 which the church in its early days had established as 
 necessary to its successful working, but which as time 
 went on had been allowed to disappear. How the im- 
 provements thus instituted by Pastor Fliedner have ad- 
 vanced still further until they have spread all over the 
 world, I need not mention in detail. I will only refer to 
 the way in which his work was brought into direct con- 
 nection with the system of modern nursing through Flor- 
 ence Nightingale, the founder and heroine of hospital 
 nursing as it now exists and the patron saint of nurses. 
 
 Miss Nightingale was born at Florence, Italy, in 1820, 
 her parents being English gentle people of influence and 
 wealth. A natural philanthropist, while still a very 
 young woman, she was stirred in her inmost soul by the 
 deplorable care given to the sick both inside and out- 
 side of hospitals. Urged on by an intense desire to do 
 something towards removing this reproach to the in- 
 telligence and humanity of the nineteenth century, she 
 left her home and went from place to place in Europe 
 examining the different systems employed in the various 
 countries and comparing one with the other. As the
 
 242 THE INN OF REST 
 
 fruit of these pilgrimages we have her book entitled 
 "Notes on Hospitals" rich in suggestions for practical 
 reforms. In these she laid particular stress upon sanitary 
 construction in hospitals, and to what she then wrote we 
 owe the attention that, from that time on, began to be de- 
 voted to sanitation and hygiene, the perfection of which 
 we now find in new hospitals the world over. But Miss 
 Nightingale recognized that in order to do effective work 
 in bettering matters, it was necessary to supplement her 
 theoretical knowledge by a practical acquaintance with 
 the subject. As the result of several months spent at 
 Kaiserwerth on two different occasions, she was able to 
 write : "I at once recognized what I had so long sought 
 a spirit of devotion, of order and unity of purpose. It 
 was impossible not to be impressed with the air of purity 
 and deep, unaffected piety which pervaded the whole 
 place ; and yet there was no asceticism ; it was the world, 
 and yet not the world in the ordinary sense of the word. 
 There was the mother, Madame Fliedner, the pastor's 
 wife, mother of his large family, laying no claim to the 
 dignity of "Lady Superior," but a plain Christian wom- 
 an, who had not found the duties of wife and mother in- 
 compatible with spiritual cares, when both alike were ex- 
 ercised under one and the same guide and director, her 
 husband. There were the young deaconesses with their 
 intelligent animated countenances, no mere instruments 
 yielding a blind and passive obedience, but voluntary 
 and enlightened agents, obeying, on conviction, an in- 
 ward principle." 
 
 In 1849 Miss Nightingale enrolled herself as a volun- 
 tary nurse in this establishment, and thus became prac- 
 tically acquainted with the various forms of disease and 
 a good system of nursing. It seems needless to re- 
 capitulate here what the world owes to her for her work 
 during the Crimean war. How she sped is a matter of 
 universal knowledge. Upon her return to England a 
 grateful English public placed at her disposal contri- 
 butions to the amount of 50,000. With this fund she 
 founded the Nightingale Training School for Nurses, the
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 243 
 
 first of its kind, so soon to be duplicated in the United 
 Kingdom and thence throughout the world. In 1873 Sis- 
 ter Helen, a Nightingale Sister or Trained Nurse, came 
 over to America and started the New York Training 
 School for Nurses in connection with Bellevue Hospital, 
 in the City of New York. Somewhat later in the same 
 year similar schools were opened in New Haven and 
 Boston. The conditions existing in hospitals at that time 
 in this country were very little, if at all, better than 
 those abroad, and one would have supposed that a re- 
 spectable, intelligent class of women, offering themselves 
 for hospital work, would have been received with open 
 arms. Unfortunately, such was not the case. Months or 
 years of hard physical and mental work, before she could 
 obtain her certificate, represented but a small part of the 
 struggle through which, a quarter of a century ago, or 
 even less, a woman had to pass before she could estab- 
 lish her claim to share in hospital work as a trained 
 nurse. It was a long while, indeed, before even the 
 medical profession as a body regarded her with favor. 
 But after physicians had once begun to realize that with 
 trained nursing it was possible to have their orders in- 
 telligently carried out, that chaos and dirt gave way to 
 order and cleanliness, that the percentage of deaths de- 
 creased and of recoveries increased; lastly, when once 
 for all they learned to recognize the fact that their own 
 particular province was in no danger of invasion, they 
 finally accorded to the trained nurse her professional 
 recognition. 
 
 The history of the education of the people at large 
 upon this point forms an interesting chapter in sociology. 
 The care or perhaps we might say the criminal negli- 
 gence accorded to poor patients in hospitals in days 
 gone by had made the name "hospital" a by-word and 
 a term of reproach, which is not yet wholly eradicated 
 from the minds of the ignorant and even of those who 
 should be better informed. The prevailing type of at- 
 tendants upon the sick in the early years of the century 
 had accustomed people to regard paid nurses as self-
 
 244 THE INN OF REST 
 
 seeking menials, engaged in something far lower than 
 domestic work, and whose only object was to benefit 
 by other's misfortunes at the least expenditure of care 
 and trouble on their own part. It is true that in all ages 
 we have had noble women who devoted their whole life 
 to their religion and to the care of the sick, and hence 
 there has existed at all times another class of nurses, 
 many of noble birth, all of noble souls, whose memory 
 must ever be held in respect and honor. But here again 
 too often the will was taken for the deed. It was ap- 
 parently only necessary to wish to take proper care of the 
 sick and to proceed at once to do so. Hence resulted a 
 sad waste of much well-meant energy and too little prog- 
 ress so far as the welfare of the sick was concerned. But 
 the views of the people were gradually growing broader. 
 From regarding nursing the sick as an occupation for 
 paid menials, or as a service of sacrifice and self-abnega- 
 tion, to be shrouded in the garments of a religious sister- 
 hood, they gradually reached the idea that widows and 
 unmarried women of a certain age and experience might 
 also find here a field of work. But to a public, educated 
 up to even this pitch, it still came as a shock to find re- 
 spectable women young and unmarried willing to give 
 up two years of their life in a hospital to learn how to 
 take care of the sick and to claim their right to establish 
 the profession of trained nursing. Nevertheless, despite 
 prejudices, institution? for instruction in nursing were 
 established which were educational as well as humanitar- 
 ian in their principles. 
 
 Unfortunately at first the number of competent women 
 who were willing to enter the training schools was some- 
 what limited and these institutions were, therefore, 
 obliged to offer a certain amount of monetary induce- 
 ment in order to secure pupils in sufficient numbers. This 
 fact is much to be regretted, since it has emphasized the 
 commercial and the manual side at the expense of the 
 educational standpoint of such schools. 
 
 The movement, once started, spread with great rapid- 
 ity, schools grew up on all sides, and as might have been
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 245 
 
 expected, the competition for pupils was for a time so 
 great that educational requirements for admission were 
 kept unduly low. This feature has proved detrimental 
 to the best interests of nursing in many ways. For the 
 average nurse a preliminary education little beyond that 
 furnished by the public schools has been demanded. It 
 is true that in the better schools preference is given to 
 applicants of superior education and cultivation and that 
 not a few trained nurses are women of considerable at- 
 tainments. But this low standard of requirement has 
 increased the tendency of the public to regard the skill 
 of the trained nurse as largely mechanical and her work 
 as almost wholly manual, affording but little scope for 
 a trained intellect. Again, it must be confessed that 
 much has been done to justify this opinion by the appal- 
 lingly long hours of practical work which have been and 
 are still required, in too many hospitals, of the pupil 
 nurse. Certainly, after nine or sometimes twelve or thir- 
 teen hours spent in the wards, little time and still less 
 brain power is left for theoretical study, and even to the 
 most intelligent and earnest mind fatigue is almost the 
 only sensation left. 
 
 The question as to the social status of the trained 
 nurse is also of interest. At one time it required not a 
 little moral courage on the part of a refined woman to 
 take up nursing. Her position had to be maintained day 
 and night under the constant, vigilant, and not always 
 friendly, criticism of the free ward patients, whose ver- 
 dict, like that of the gallery gods judging an artist on the 
 stage, carried weight not only in the hospital, but also 
 in the slums of the city whence the majority of her pa- 
 tients were drawn. For it is the poorest patients who 
 decide in part whether others will avail themselves of 
 the benefits of the hospital ; and every nurse should feel 
 that with her rests to a great extent the power of such 
 institutions to do the greatest good to the greatest num- 
 ber. Again, it was a long time before the young house 
 physician could bring himself to understand that the 
 trained nurse was there as his assistant and not as his
 
 246 THE INN OF REST 
 
 servant. In private families, outside the sick room, it 
 was hard to know what to do with her. She was neither 
 for the kitchen nor for the drawing-room neither fish, 
 flesh, nor fowl and she was often placed in a position 
 that required from her not only tact but a large amount 
 of forbearance. But time has helped to settle the ques- 
 tion and a trained nurse's position now is largely what 
 she herself makes it. Occasionally, one still notices a 
 trace of the old prejudice and of the feeling that a hos- 
 pital nurse is not on an equality with other intelligent and 
 refined women. Occasionally we still find families who 
 consider it below their dignity that one of their mem- 
 bers should enter a training school for nurses. Fortun- 
 ately, however, this is largely a matter of education and 
 I know by personal experience of many fathers and moth- 
 ers, who, when once they had learned to appreciate the 
 aims and duties of the trained nurse, were completely 
 won over and encouraged their daughters when the lat- 
 ter wished to enter upon such a career. 
 
 Briefly, then, these are some of the stages through 
 which the trained nurse has passed in the public estima- 
 tion since she came into existence, until in these last 
 days ot the century, with its scientific medicine and mod- 
 ern hospitals, she is recognized as belonging to a pro- 
 fession, which has for its sphere the care of the sick, her 
 work supplementing, not competing with, that of the 
 scientific physician and surgeon. 
 
 But nurses are still reaching out towards ideals which 
 we trust may be realized in the fullness of time. In 
 speaking of nursing as a profession for women, I have 
 used the term advisedly. Some prefer the term "voca- 
 tion," or the Anglo-Saxon word, "calling." The last, if 
 made to bear the significance of a direct call from God to 
 a consecrated service, would rather suggest, on first 
 thought, a sisterhood with its religious restrictions ; and 
 surely "profession" means all that "vocation" does and 
 more. The work of the clergy, the lawyer, and the physi- 
 cian is spoken of as "a profession" ; the term implies more 
 responsibility, more serious duty, a higher skill and an em-
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 247 
 
 ployment needing an education more thorough than that 
 required in some other vocations of life. Every day these 
 qualities are more and more being demanded of the 
 trained nurse by modern physicians and by exacting 
 laity; and whether we recognize it or not, the fact re- 
 mains that in so far as we fall short of meeting these re- 
 quirements, in just such proportions are we found fault 
 with and severely criticized. 
 
 Nor are the criticisms that we so often hear always 
 unjust, for in glancing over the list of our attainments 
 and summing them up there will be found room for much 
 improvement. I think even the best among us are ready 
 to acknowledge our imperfections, and the steady hard 
 work that has been put into the past ten years in efforts 
 towards improvements, shows a healthy dissatisfaction 
 and augurs well for the betterment of the future nurse. 
 We cannot stand still; in the future the public, both 
 medical men and the laity, will be ever demanding a still 
 more efficient nursing, more uniformity, and a higher 
 order of women to meet these requirements. To be sure 
 there are still to be found among the very conservative 
 those who cannot become accustomed to the new order 
 of things and who are not yet prepared to find the re- 
 fined educated woman in the trained nurse; who do not 
 comprehend the real difference between nursing as an 
 occupation and as a profession. Their attitude would 
 seem to be mainly due to the fact that they still labor 
 under the impression that nursing consists chiefly in 
 manual labor and that there is no necessity or scope af- 
 forded by it for a high degree of education. There are 
 also those who proclaim that the old-fashioned nurse is 
 good enough for them and maintain that nursing has not 
 the first elements of a profession ; they hold that the du- 
 ties required of a nurse are very simple, that her educa- 
 tion is complete when she has learned to make a bed and 
 wash the patient, take the temperature and prepare the 
 food, in fact to perform the ordinary duties for which any 
 of the old-fashioned nurses were qualified. To distin- 
 guish between this popular idea of the care of the sick
 
 248 THE INN OF REST 
 
 and to justify us in our pretensions to the rank of a pro- 
 fession we must consider the demands made by scien- 
 tific medicine of to-day. Its methods are as different 
 from those of the old-time practice as are those of mod- 
 ern nursing from the old-time nursing. Not so long ago 
 neither medicine nor nursing were scientific in character. 
 But the evolution of the one created a necessity for the 
 other. Modern medicine requires a thorough scientific 
 training, and modern methods of treatment require that 
 the work of the physician be supplemented by the con- 
 stant and intelligent service supplied by the trained nurse, 
 who has now her allotted part to perform in helping to 
 carry cases of grave sickness to a successful termination. 
 Thus, for example, it requires more than mere mechani- 
 cal skill on the part of a nurse to follow the preparations 
 for an aseptic operation, full of significance, as it is, in 
 every detail, and the saying that "dust is danger" must 
 have a bacteriologically practical meaning for her. At 
 the present day, in all branches of surgery, the selection 
 of a suitable operating-room nurse is no less important 
 than that of any of the surgeon's staff. Nor can just 
 any one appreciate -the full meaning of the physician 
 when he says "the nursing will be half the battle in this 
 case." Even the general public has come to recognize 
 the important part that skilled nursing plays in such dis- 
 eases as typhoid fever, pneumonia, and other forms of in- 
 fectious disorders, because of the constant and intelli- 
 gent care that must be given such patients. 
 
 To acquire not only the practical but also the theoreti- 
 cal groundwork of her profession, a women must de- 
 vote three of the best years of her life to special prepa- 
 ration and to obtaining a thorough understanding of 
 the principles of nursing. Nothing can take the place 
 of this training. It means all the difference that lies 
 between the skilled practiced worker and the amateur. 
 Nursing has thus become a matter of scientific discipline 
 and is a therapeutic agent of ever increasing importance. 
 It is this education of the intelligence that constitutes the 
 main difference between the trained nurse of to-day and
 
 NURSING AS A PROFESSION 249 
 
 the so-called nurse of former days, and that has rendered 
 nursing worthy to rank as a department in scientific 
 medicine. 
 
 To be sure there is the side to nursing so often spoken 
 of as menial, but nothing dominated by the mind, and 
 dignified by the way in which it is done, can be deroga- 
 tory ; nor need the cultured and trained woman, when the 
 emergency arises, shrink from unpleasant tasks. The 
 spirit in which she does her work makes all the difference. 
 Invested as she should be with the dignity of her profes- 
 sion and the cloak of love for suffering humanity, she 
 can ennoble anything her hand may be called upon to do, 
 and for work done in this spirit there will ever come to 
 her a recompense far outweighing that of silver and gold. 
 
 The trained nurse, then, is no longer to be regarded 
 as a better trained, more useful, higher class servant, but 
 as one who has knowledge and is worthy of respect, con- 
 sideration and due recompense in a certain degree a 
 member of a profession. She is also essentially an in- 
 structor; part of her duties have to do with the pre- 
 vention of disease and sickness, as well as the relief of 
 suffering humanity. In district nursing we are con- 
 fronted with conditions which require the highest order 
 of work, but the actual nursing of the patient is one of 
 the least of the duties which the nurse is called upon to 
 perform for the class of people with whom she meets. To 
 this branch of our work no more appropriate name can 
 be given than "Instructive Nursing," for educational in 
 the best sense of the word it should be. 
 
 These are some of the essentials in nursing by which 
 it has come to be regarded as a profession, but there still 
 remains much to be desired, much to work for, in order 
 to add to its dignity and usefulness. As the standard of 
 education and requirements becomes of a higher char- 
 acter and the training more efficient, the trained nurse 
 will draw nearer to science and its demands and take a 
 greater share as a social factor in solving the world's 
 needs. 
 
 But there is another side to nursing the ethical
 
 250 THE INN OF REST 
 
 without which all the work accomplished would be dead 
 and spiritless, and which is the antidote for a too pro- 
 nounced professional attitude. From this standpoint 
 the nurse's work is a ministry ; it should represent a con- 
 secrated service, performed in the spirit of Christ, who 
 made himself of no account but went about doing good. 
 The woman who fails to bring this spirit into her nursing 
 misses the pearl of greatest value that is to be found in 
 it. Nor do such materialists injure themselves alone, for 
 they are the ones who bring upon our profession the criti- 
 cism, so often heard, that the life is apt to make a woman 
 hard, cold and mercenary. The scientific and educational 
 side is important and should certainly receive its due con- 
 sideration, but none the less should each nurse see to it 
 that the spirit of love for the work's sake is fostered and 
 developed, in order that we may have a professional 
 code of ethics of an eminently practical and helping 
 nature. 
 
 Such, then, are some of the responsibilities and priv- 
 ileges that each graduate assumes. A proper concep- 
 tion of our work carries with it the obligation that each 
 individual nurse, by her actions and by her personal 
 character, should do her part to maintain its dignity un- 
 tarnished. To bring to it any less than the very best that 
 is in us will cause it to sink in the eyes of the public and 
 bring discredit both upon it and upon us. Nothing less 
 than this individual high standard and interest will suf- 
 fice, if we, as trained nurses, hope to finally evolve an 
 organization worthy in all respects to be ranked as a 
 profession.
 
 THE INN O 
 
 . 
 *^d *pkrtk*e and which is 
 
 jfetisional attitude. From this 
 ;*iune's work is <. y; it should represen 
 
 , performed in the spirit of Christ, 
 is?H' of DO account but went about doing g 
 tvoman who fails to bring this spirit into her nursing 
 ;s the pearl of greatest value that is to be found in 
 it. Nor do such materialists injure themselves alone, for 
 they are the ones who bring upon our profession -the criti- 
 cism, so often heard, that the life is apt to make a woman 
 hard, cold and mercenary. The scientific and educational 
 side is important and should certainly receive its due con- 
 sideration, but none the less should each nurse see to it 
 that the spirit of love for the work's sake is fostered and 
 developed, in order that we may have a professional 
 code of ethics of an eminently practical and helping 
 nature. 
 
 Such, then, are some of the responsibilities and priv- 
 ileges that each graduate assumes. ^ proper concep- 
 tion of our work carf$ei^$iti(3 tHe4&%ation that each 
 individual nurse/ by her actions and by her personal 
 character, should do her part to maintain its dignity un- 
 tarnished. To bring to it any less than the very best that 
 is in us will cause it to sink in the eyes of the public and 
 bring discredit both upon it and upon us. Nothing less 
 than this individual high standard and interest will suf- 
 fice, if we, as trained nurses, hope to finally evolve an 
 organization worthy in all respects to be ranked as a 
 profession.
 
 THE RED CROSS NURSE 
 
 The praises of the admirals are ringing everywhere; 
 
 The plaudits of the generals are singing in the air; 
 
 The men who sailed to sink their lives within the Merrimac 
 
 (So dauntless they, that even death was fearful to attack!) 
 
 The hard marines whose tactics knew no signal for retreat, 
 
 In the rain of Mauser bullets and the drench of tropic heat, 
 
 The rough and ready riders in their resolute advance, 
 
 All make our daily records a continuous romance. 
 
 We cry them in our stories; we chant them in our verse, 
 
 But let us sing a stanza for the Red Cross army nurse. 
 
 She is in the foremost battle, she is in the rearmost tents, 
 She wears no weapon of attack, no armor of defense, 
 She is braver than the bravest, she is truer than the true. 
 She asks not if the soldier struck for red and white and blue; 
 She asks not if he fell beneath the yellow and the red; 
 She is mother to the wounded, she is sister to the dead. 
 The victor's cheers ring in her ears, but these she does not heed; 
 The victim's moans and dying groans are given as her meed, 
 And many a suffering hero chokes his blind and sullen curse 
 To smooth it to a blessing for the Red Cross army nurse. 
 
 Work on, O noble army, and the crown of crowns be yours, 
 
 Not always shall destruction be the glory which endures: 
 
 It is coming; it is coming; you are helping on the day 
 
 When we learn the nobler action is to succor, not to slay; 
 
 It is coming; it is coming; you are helping it along, 
 
 When we know the feeblest nation is as potent as the strong; 
 
 It is coming; it is coming! you are bringing it to pass, 
 
 When the ships have shed their armor and the fortresses are 
 
 glass; 
 
 But in the stormy waiting till the armaments disperse, 
 Our blessings on the flower of war the Red Cross army nurse ! 
 
 J. E. V. COOM
 
 THE HUMORS OF HOSPITAL LIFE
 
 THE HUMORS OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 
 
 |F ANY class of human beings see human nature as 
 it really it see their fellow men and women at 
 their best and at their worst, without the varnish 
 of conventionality surely hospital nurses have 
 unrivaled opportunities for this study, though most of 
 them are too busy and too tired to record their impres- 
 sions. 
 
 After twelve years' experience with patients of every 
 grade, I can fully confirm all that is said by the writer of 
 "Clerical Life" about the callousness of the poorer classes 
 with regard to sickness and death. Kind and helpful to 
 each other they undoubtedly are, but their feelings are 
 blunted, possibly by great familiarity and close contact 
 with every form of suffering and disease. The following 
 stories illustrate this condition. 
 
 A hospital sister summoned the wife of one of her pa- 
 tients into her private room, and began to tell the woman 
 gently that the doctors thought very badly of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Well, Miss, that's jest wot I sez to 'im lawst visitin* 
 day. 'Tom,' I sez, 'I think you're breakin' up,' I sez. 'But 
 we'd miss yer wages of a Saturday,' I sez, 'if so be as it 
 pleased the Lord to taike yer.' " 
 
 Another woman, summoned to see her dying husband, 
 who had met with a street accident, showed every sign of 
 grief. She threw herself on the floor and howled at the 
 top of her voice as the man died. Three days afterward 
 she arrived in the ward arrayed in the deepest widow's 
 weeds. 
 
 "Please, I've come for pore Walter's clothes. The 
 Lord's took 'im, but I 'ope, please God, as I'll soon find 
 another." 
 
 The Lowland Scottish peasant has also an extremely
 
 256 THE INN OF REST 
 
 matter-of-fact way of speaking about her relatives' and 
 friends' deaths. A good woman who had lost her aunt 
 remarked to a sympathizing visitor, "Eh, yes, mem, 
 aunty's deid. But she was very auld and frail. She's 
 far better awa' and far haapier in glory, and I got a hun- 
 ner pounds o' a legacy." 
 
 Another woman said, apropos of her husband's death, 
 "Deed aye, Tom's deid. The wee-est thing pits me aboot, 
 ye ken." 
 
 And a servant, who had been many years in one family, 
 lost her only sister. She was allowed to go to superin- 
 tend the funeral arrangements, and returned in the even- 
 ing. "Well, Mary," said her mistress, "this has been a 
 sad day for you, losing your poor sister?" Said Mary, 
 "Me, ah was glad tae git her oot o' the hoose, an' a' the 
 windies opened." 
 
 In a hospital for soldiers' wives in India, a poor woman 
 was about to be invalided home. A lady got her some 
 warm clothing for the voyage. Unfortunately, the pa- 
 tient died before she could be got away. The matron, 
 anxious to improve the occasion, said to the lady who 
 had provided the clothes, "Ah, well, pore soul. She've 
 gorn w'ere she won't never want no more warm cloth- 
 ing!" 
 
 The hero of the following story, however, did not speak 
 of his approaching end in an edifying manner: 
 
 A poor little street Arab was brought into hospital by 
 the police. He had been run over by an omnibus, and 
 was badly injured. The chaplain was sent for, as it was 
 thought improbable that the boy would live many hours. 
 With little tact the chaplain began the interview thus: 
 "My -boy, the doctors think you are very much hurt. 
 Have you been a good little boy?" 
 
 Boy (much bored). You git aout! 
 
 Chaplain (shocked). But I am afraid you are not a 
 good little boy, and you know you may perhaps be going 
 to die. 
 
 Boy (anxious to end interview). Well, t'aint none
 
 THE HUMORS OF HOSPITAL LIFE 257 
 
 o' your business any'ow. Wot's death got to do with 
 you? 'Ave you got a pal in the coffin line? 
 
 It is pleasant to be able to relate that this boy finally 
 recovered. 
 
 Several stories are told about hospital chaplains. No 
 doubt many earnest men are to be found, who fill this 
 difficult position with comfort to their sick parishioners 
 and honor to themselves. But there are others who are 
 lamentably devoid of that most essential of all virtues, 
 the gift of tact. 
 
 Some medical students once averred that the hospital 
 governors, before appointing a chaplain, had advertised 
 thus: "Wanted, a parson of limited intellect and the 
 plainest possible appearance, to officiate as hospital 
 chaplain. Terms very moderate." Certain it is that the 
 gentleman appointed performed his pastoral visits thus: 
 
 "Good-morning, my friend. How are you?" 
 
 Patient. A little better, thank you, sir. 
 
 Chaplain (inspecting diet board). Ah, I see. They 
 have put you on greens. You have much for which to 
 thank your Heavenly Father. Good-morning. 
 
 The same chaplain, when he went to hold the usual 
 weekly service in a ward, noticed that a certain bed was 
 empty. A good old man had occupied the bed, and the 
 chaplain somewhat prematurely jumped to the conclu- 
 sion that the patient had died since his previous visit. 
 So he gave an address on the uncertainty of life, and 
 wound up his remarks thus: "God grant, dear friends, 
 that we may all go whither this our brother has gone," 
 pointing to the empty bed. Unfortunately "this our 
 brother" had been removed to the erysipelas ward that 
 morning, as all the other patients knew. 
 
 But having illustrated the intercourse between pa- 
 tient and chaplain, let us look at the attitude of the pa- 
 tient to his doctor. As a rule, the patient looks up to 
 his medical attendant, especially to the visiting surgeon 
 or physician, with implicit confidence and a good deal 
 of wholesome awe and reverence. 
 
 His anxiety to help the doctor in every way is some-
 
 258 THE INN OF REST 
 
 times unintentionally comic. A senior surgeon was lec- 
 turing to a class of students on different appearances of 
 the teeth. "Here, gentlemen, in these two teeth we 
 have well-marked symptoms of " Patient (interrupt- 
 ing in a deprecating manner), "But please, sir, them two's 
 false 'uns." 
 
 Now and then the doctor is believed to be almost om- 
 niscient. A patient in a military hospital was constantly 
 getting into hot water because he smuggled food into 
 the wards. One morning his medical officer was about 
 to examine his throat with a laryngoscope. Seeing the 
 little mirror all ready for use, the man's chum whispered 
 an anxious warning from the adjoining bed. "I say, 
 Bill, you'd best 'ave a care. 'Ee moight 'appen to see 
 wot yer 'ad for supper lawst noight." 
 
 The dressers in a surgical ward also come in for a 
 share of admiration. Even after a most painful dressing, 
 a small street boy was heard to say in tones of satisfac- 
 tion, "Ah! them's the blokes as makes a pore young 
 man like me sit up. They does know 'ow to do it." 
 
 On recovery the patient's gratitude to the doctor some- 
 times overflows in speeches like the following remark 
 made by a poor woman after a long illness. "I wouldn't 
 never 'ave got over my lawst illness, if it 'adn't bin for 
 Surgeon-Captain Jones and the Lord." 
 
 The subject of gratitude affords some sharp contrasts 
 between the feelings of military and civilian patients. 
 The military patient too often looks upon his nurses as 
 "them gals wot is paid to wait on us." The best efforts 
 of his nurses to provide him with a festive Christmas tea 
 were received on one occasion with solemn silence at the 
 time, and next day with the crushing remark, "That theer 
 tea party of yourn 'ave upset moy inside." 
 
 The civilian patient is much more effusive, as may be 
 gathered from the speech of an old man to a somewhat 
 starched and proper probationer (the daughter of a 
 bishop), who was cleaning some glasses near his bed. 
 "Wen I gits out o' 'ere, my dear, I don't mind if I finds 
 yer a nice comfortable sittivation as bar-maid, down
 
 THE HUMORS OF HOSPITAL LIFE 259 
 
 'Ackney way. You knows 'ow to clean glass, an 'd get 
 better money, anyhow." 
 
 A quite touching farewell was said by another old man 
 to his nurse in these words : "You've bin a good gal to me, 
 Nuss, a rare good gal. I 'ope as the Lord'll reward yer, 
 but there, we never know 1"
 
 IN THE HOSPITAL 
 
 Crittenden Marriott
 
 IN THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 |HE man sitting in the darkened room at the hos- 
 pital raised his bandaged eyes as the nurse en- 
 tered. The month that he had been there had not 
 served to change the habit of sight fixed by all the 
 years that had gone before. 
 
 "It's for to-night, isn't it, Miss Lee?" he cried, recog- 
 nizing her step ; "to-night I'll get rid of these confounded 
 bandages and see the light of day once more. Oh, you 
 don't know how this month has dragged. It's for to- 
 night, isn't it ?" 
 
 "I believe so," returned the nurse gently. "But of 
 course the doctor will have to decide. He'll be here 
 soon." 
 
 "Gad! How glad I'll be to see once more!" cried the 
 man. "I never could have stood it even for a month if 
 it hadn't been for you. You've been an angel to me." 
 
 The nurse blushed softly and cast a very tender look 
 at the man. She answered merrily, "All the nurses here 
 would have been the same. Nine patients out of ten 
 think we are angels while they are in the hospital. They 
 change their minds afterwards." 
 
 "I never shall. Do you know, after all, despite all the 
 pain and anxiety, I am glad this thing happened." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it has enabled me to know you. Oh, of 
 course, I have known you to speak to for months, and 
 by sight for years, but that isn't knowing how tender, 
 how sweet, how long suffering you could be. Oh, Miss 
 Lee Gertrude " 
 
 "Hush! The doctor said you must keep cool, you 
 know. Excitement might injure your eyes." 
 
 The man sank back in his chair. "True," he said 
 slowly. "I forgot that I haven't any right to speak now ;
 
 264 THE INN OF REST 
 
 I forgot that the result of this operation isn't absolutely 
 certain and that I may be blind good God! blind and 
 that, in any case, I must mend my fortunes before I 
 there, is that the doctor coming?" 
 
 The nurse glanced out of the open door into the hall. 
 "Yes," she said, "he's just down the corridor a-ways. 
 You're not going back to your old position right away, 
 are you, Mr. Scott? You oughtn't to try your eyes for 
 a year or so, you know." 
 
 "I suppose not. But needs must, you know, when a 
 certain gentleman drives. I'll be dead broke when I get 
 out of here, and I'll have to go to work. Ah ! there's the 
 doctor." 
 
 The doctor entered and stood for a few moments talk- 
 ing to the man. "Yes," he said, at last, "we'll take the 
 bandages off to-night, I think." 
 
 "Thank God! And and there's no doubt that every- 
 thing will be all right, is there, doctor?" 
 
 "We'll hope for the best," returned the doctor cheerily, 
 his tone a very comfort in itself, although his words were 
 not especially so. He passed out of the door hurriedly, 
 preventing further question, and beckoning to the nurse 
 as he did so to follow him. A few steps down the cor- 
 ridor he halted. 
 
 "Nurse," he said with a worried look on his face, "do 
 you know whether your patient has any relatives 
 nearby?" 
 
 "I'm sure he has not," answered the girl readily. "I've 
 talked with him repeatedly and learned all about him. 
 He doesn't seem to have a relative in the world." 
 
 The doctor's face grew graver. "How is he off for 
 money?" 
 
 "He just told me that he would be 'dead broke' when 
 he got out of here. He said he must at once go back to 
 work." 
 
 "Back to work at once ! He'll be lucky if he ever gets 
 to work again." 
 
 The nurse grew white. "Why?" she gasped. "I 
 thought the operation was a certainty."
 
 IN THE HOSPITAL 265 
 
 "A certainty! Yes, it is a certainty, almost but in 
 the wrong direction. There isn't one chance in a hun- 
 dred that he'll ever see again." 
 
 With a mighty effort the nurse mastered her emotion. 
 "But, doctor," she gasped, "what will become of him?" 
 
 "Become of him?" echoed the doctor, irritably. "Be- 
 come of him? What becomes of blind men who have no 
 friends and no money? We'll keep him as long as we 
 can, and then I suppose he'll have to go to the poor- 
 house for the rest of his life." 
 
 A flush of anger succeeded the pallor of Miss Lee's face. 
 "Why have you deceived him?" she demanded indig- 
 nantly, with utter disregard of the requirements of dis- 
 cipline. "He is sure that he will get well. He is building 
 on it absolutely. If he doesn't " 
 
 The doctor looked curiously at the girl, then a sense of 
 comprehension came over him. He sighed; he was an 
 old man, but not a callous one. "If you want him to see 
 again, Miss Lee," he said, "be sure to keep him thinking 
 so. In that lies his one chance. Keep him cheerful at 
 all hazards, and possibly " 
 
 The doctor turned away, and the nurse slowly retraced 
 her steps to Scott's room. She had known Henry Scott 
 for a year or more, and had liked and admired him from 
 the first. In the month that they had been thrown to- 
 gether by the accident that had forced Scott to enter the 
 hospital, this feeling had grown to something stronger 
 than liking. For some days she had known what he 
 would say as soon as he could see again, and had known 
 what she would say in answer. In common with the 
 rest of the world around her she had never doubted that 
 all would be well with his sight. Now came this blow. 
 
 Never to see again ! To go to the poorhouse and there 
 drag out his days ! Never ! He shall not ! He shall not ! 
 
 But what could she do? Too well she knew Scott's 
 spirit to suppose that he would accept anything from her ; 
 that he would ever say the words she longed to hear; 
 the words that would give her the right to care for him ; 
 unless his sight was restored. She must get that right
 
 266 THE INN OF REST 
 
 before the bandages were removed. She would lead him 
 on to speak but no, what good would that do? If he 
 were to be really blind, she knew he would repudiate 
 the bargain. 
 
 She must marry him that very day, before the bandages 
 were removed. 
 
 Her heart stood still at the thought. All that was 
 womanly in her revolted. But then the poorhouse! 
 Ah ! she would be so proud to work for him, to care for 
 him. She had no one dependent on her and she earned 
 enough to maintain them both. She must do it. There 
 was no other way. 
 
 Her thoughts had traveled like lightning. In the few 
 steps between the doctor and the door of Scott's room 
 she had thought it all out. Steadily she entered, and 
 went close to him. "What was it you were saying a 
 moment ago, Mr. Scott?" she asked softly. 
 
 "Saying?" The man puzzled for the instant. 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 "Oh!" with instant comprehension. "O Gertrude, do 
 you really want to hear it?" He groped for her hand, 
 caught it and drew her to him. "Gertrude, it isn't right 
 for me to speak yet, but I must, I must. Oh, darling, I 
 love you so ! I love you so ! Do you love me ?" 
 
 The girl bowed her head on his breast. "Yes, yes !" she 
 sobbed, "more than anything else in the world." 
 
 "Thank God !" The man grasped the bandages around 
 his head and recklessly tore them off. "I must see you !" 
 he cried. "I must see you ! Oh, Gertrude, how beautiful 
 you are !" 
 
 But the nurse flung up her hands in horror, and strove 
 to cover his eyes. "Oh, oh, oh!" she wailed. "Don't! 
 You'll ruin your last chance." 
 
 But the man clasped her wrists and held her from him. 
 
 "I see you ! I see you !" he cried. 
 
 Neither noticed the doctor standing at the door, but 
 at the last words he advanced into the room. "You see, 
 do you ?" he asked. 
 
 "I do!"
 
 IN THE HOSPITAL 267 
 
 The nurse turned, clasped hands. "Doctor, doctor!" 
 she cried, "is it a success? Will he see?" 
 
 "Why of course he will!" answered that gentleman 
 briskly. "The operation has evidently been an entire 
 success."
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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 MAY 1 1958
 
 Mr 
 
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