Part 4

What is the origin of the popular idea that the finger-nails are poisonous to a wound? It does not do a wound much good to scratch it, or indeed touch it, but that is no reason why those useful little shields of our finger-ends should be so libelled. Whence comes the notion that to pierce a girl’s ears and compel her to wear earrings improves her eyesight? Possibly this may have arisen from the fact that medical men sometimes put blisters behind the ears as counter-irritants, to relieve some chronic ophthalmic disorders. Why is a glass of hot rum-and-water with a lump of butter in it not only familiarly prescribed for but familiarly swallowed by catarrh-afflicted mankind? Speaking of colds generally, we may remark in passing that treacle posset, hot gruel, putting the feet in mustard-and-water, &c., are all capital things, but that they effect only the one object of inducing perspiration. There is nothing specifically curative about any of them. It is a mistake, however, to give spirits, negus, or any alcoholic fluids in influenza colds where there is much congestion of the mucous membranes, as it increases the incidental headache.

Some people fancy that a magnet will draw out a needle, broken off short in the hand, even when it has passed in altogether out of sight. When a medical practitioner is called upon to extract a broken needle, he usually finds that it has been driven beyond reach by injudicious squeezing and other futile home-attempts at extraction, for the lightest touch makes a needle travel. A very troublesome class of case this is, owing to the uncertainty of its exact situation, of the direction of its long axis, and of its even being there at all—each sufficient to create the disagreeable possibility of cutting into the flesh without finding it. In such a state of affairs, one might as well put a magnet in the mouth to draw one’s boots on, as to expect to extract the needle by its influence. But a celebrated surgeon, Mr Marshall, has devised an ingenious application of this force for the purpose of detection. A powerful magnet is held upon the part which contains the suspected needle for some time, so as to influence it. Then a finely-hung polarised needle is suspended over it, and is immediately deflected, if any metal be concealed beneath. Never press or squeeze the flesh about a broken needle or bit of glass. If you cannot lay hold of it with the fingers or scissors, or, still better, a pair of tweezers, and pull it right out at once, keep quite still until a doctor has seen it. By so doing, you may save yourself weeks or months of pain, and even possible amputation of a limb.

Tea if taken in excess is indigestible and nerve-destroying; but in sickness this delightful fluid gives a temporary stimulus to the brain, and though possessing no feeding qualities in itself, it prevents or retards the waste of tissue—a property of considerable importance in illness where but little food is taken. Above all, the fact of being allowed one favourite beverage, albeit greatly diluted, when everything else that pertains to the routine of daily life seems interdicted or upset, has a beneficial effect on the patient, who welcomes his cup of weak tea with something of the anticipation of that refreshment and social enjoyment he derives from it under brighter circumstances.

‘Is the bone broken, or only fractured, doctor?’ is an anxious question often asked apropos of an injured limb. Broken and fractured are synonymous terms in surgery, my dear madam—it is always a lady who asks this—but I think I know what you mean. A fully developed bone is rarely cracked—nearly always it snaps in two pieces—but the soft cartilaginous bones of children sometimes sustain what is called a ‘green-stick fracture,’ a name which almost explains itself, meaning that the bone is broken through part of its thickness, but not separated, as happens with the green bough of a tree. Many people have a totally erroneous idea, when an arm or leg is badly bruised only, that it would be better if it were broken. ‘Right across the muscle, too!’ implies that an injury has been received across the upper arm in the region of the biceps, that being the only ‘muscle’ which is honoured by general public recognition. How many people know that what they call their flesh, and the lean part of meat, is nothing but muscles, the pulleys by which every action of the body is performed? Common mistakes lie in trying to ‘walk off’ rheumatism, sprains, and other things which should be kept entirely at rest; and in squeezing collections of matter which have burst or been lanced, with a view to hasten their healing by the more speedy emptying of their contents.

Of late years, the Latin or other scientific equivalents for diseases have crept into general use, with the curious result that in many cases they are taken to mean different things. Scarlatina, for instance, not only sounds much nicer than scarlet fever, but is often considered to be that disease in a milder form; and the identity of pneumonia with inflammation of the lungs, or of gastric with typhoid fever, or of the various terms ending in ‘itis’ with the inflammation they are intended to specify, is far from being universally recognised. Abscess is a better word than ‘gathering;’ and though, on the other hand, ‘tumour’ seems very dreadful, we may find consolation in remembering that after all it only means a swelling, whatever the nature may be, from a gum-boil to a cancer. There is much in a name. Dipsomania sounds much better than the other thing; and kleptomania by any other name would not smell so sweet. Much in a name? I should think so. Read what follows, if you doubt it. When a ship arrives in an English port from abroad, before those on board are allowed to have any communication with the shore, the ship must be declared healthy by the sanitary authorities, who accordingly board her at once, inspect her bills of health, and especially the list of those who have been ill during the voyage. If any of these are entered on the sick-list as having suffered from intermittent fever, printed forms have to be filled up, declarations made and signed, certificates written out, all sorts of questions answered about whether their bedding or clothing has been destroyed; and the men themselves paraded on deck for inspection. But if it is stated, instead, that they have suffered from ague—only another word for intermittent fever—then no notice is taken of it!

After all, there is very little rationale in any amateur system of medicine; all its treatment is purely empirical, and has its root in that love of mysticism which prevails in everything. Medicine, like every other science, is built up of hard, unromantic facts, amenable to the laws of logic and common-sense. The popular idea runs always on specifics. Every bottle in a druggist’s shop is supposed to contain a definite remedy for a definite disease; and the patient weaving of link with link in a chain of logical inferences, of the correlation of causes and effects, which constitutes medical science, is unknown. ‘What’s good for so-and-so?’ is a query constantly put to a doctor; and if he answers honestly, he must confess that in nine cases out of ten he can give no absolute reply, but must preface his words with, ‘That depends!’ Take two very frequent illustrations by way of conclusion. What is ‘good for’ indigestion? and what for a headache? But what is indigestion? Not a disease, but a generic name for fifty different diseases, all attended with the same symptoms in some measure, but proceeding from not only different but often entirely opposite causes. Thus, the pain may be produced by a deficiency or by an excess of the gastric juice; and by any derangement, from a simple error in diet to a cancer; and it requires the practised eye, ear, and hand of the physician to detect and appreciate those minute differences which point to the root of the evil. As for a headache, such a complaint hardly exists _per se_, but is almost invariably a symptom only of some other disorder; and we all know how many varying states of the body will give us headache. Nevertheless, may the practice of domestic medicine and the virtues which go with it long continue in our midst, and let no man be so ill-advised as to banish the harmless little medicine-chest with its associations from his hearth.

OUTWARD AND HOMEWARD BOUND.

Many a long journey by sea and land, in fair weather and in foul, has fallen to my lot; but to none can I look back with such vivid delight as to the first which found me turning from wintry England to seek a perpetual summer beneath Eastern skies.

I fancy every one’s first voyage by one of the P. and O. steam-packets must be a matter of considerable amusement, from the novelty of everything. Perhaps one of the most curious sights is the coming on board of the Indian and Colonial mails. It seems scarcely possible that such a multitude of boxes and sacks as those which lie heaped up in such solid masses can really be all postal matter. A very great man on board is the guardian of Her Majesty’s mails. A man of wondrous authority—occasionally a thorn in the side of the captain, as being the possessor of certain powers of interference or of counsel, rarely, however, brought into action. Then as to fellow-passengers, there is no type of man, woman, or child who is not here represented. Happily, when outward bound, the proportion of children is very small. The return voyage is very different. Perhaps ninety or a hundred children of all sizes and ages, flying from oriental climates, in which young English life cannot flourish, and all more or less spoilt by the care of ayahs and native servants, whose sole idea of training is to give a child whatever it cries for. Imagine the torture which must be inflicted by such an army of babies on the older passengers, probably never, at the best, much addicted to babiolatry, but now rendered doubly irritable by long battles with sun and liver; for on a voyage homeward there are generally a sad proportion of sickly folk; men conscious of possessing a liver, and all manner of other complaints, or, worse still, unconscious alike of life’s cares or pleasures. On our return to England, there were no less than twelve lunatics on board, victims of the combined influence of the sun and the system of incessant ‘pegs,’ alias brandy and soda-water.

Outward bound, we find abundant studies of character in ship-life, where business is laid aside, and in general every one tries to make the best of his neighbours. From the grave old Indian official, returning to his high post in some distant corner of the empire, down to the beardless Competition Wallah, still breathless from the educational high-pressure to which he has been subjected, all minds are naturally more or less tinged with thoughts of the land for which they are bound; and we hear more of Indian and Colonial manners and customs than we should do in a year in Britain. A considerable number of the more energetic set to work at once to learn Hindustani or some other oriental language—generally a fruitless struggle, as only an exceptional few, with wondrous powers of abstraction, can find leisure for any settled work.

Among the small novelties which catch the unaccustomed eye, is the setting of a great dinner-table in stormy weather. The table from end to end is covered with skeleton frames of mahogany, laid over the tablecloth. These are called ‘fiddles,’ and keep your plate from rolling too far. As to your cup or wine-glass, it stands on a swinging table opposite your nose, and preserves so perfect an equilibrium, that in the wildest storm, not one drop of the contents is spilt. How the stewards manage to wait, and the cooks to cook, for such a multitude, in such a rolling and turmoil, and in such limited space, is a matter for perpetual wonder and admiration. If you go for’ard, you will find a regular town—butcher’s shop and baker’s shop, carpenter’s shop and engineer’s shop, tailors and laundrymen—that is, sailors doing amateur work; and as to the live-stock, there are sheep and pigs, and cows and oxen, and poultry of every description; in short, a regular farmyard; and I think some of the big children find as much amusement as the little ones in that corner of the ship.

One thing startling to a new traveller is the rapidity with which time changes. He finds his watch going very wrong, and perhaps, for the first day or two, is weak enough to alter it, till he finds it simpler to count ‘bells’ after the manner of the sea. Speaking of hours, one of the many small gambling devices to relieve the tedium of the voyage is a system of sweepstakes as to the exact moment when the vessel will drop anchor at any given port, tickets being issued for every five or ten minutes of the expected forenoon or afternoon, and the winnings being sometimes presented to a Sailors’ Orphan Fund. Some of my fellow-travellers have told me that in long weary voyages they had been driven to institute races for short distances, the steeds being cheese-mites, or maggots carefully extracted from the nuts. These races at last became positively exciting; and the same creatures being preserved from day to day, were, if of approved speed, worth small fortunes to their owners. A very swift maggot would sell for a large sum! Fly loo was another favourite game, but happily, we have never had occasion to try such singular amusements. There are games at Bull for those who want exercise; and sedentary games and books, and singing and chatting, for sociable folk. For my part, being an unsocial sort of animal, I think that ‘to be talked to all day’ is the sum of human misery, as much on board ship as on land. So, on my memorable first voyage, when all was new and delightful, I soon discovered a quiet nook on the top of the deck cabin, right astern, where, with infinite satisfaction, I established myself, and there read in peace, no one venturing to invade that haven of refuge save under a solemn vow of silence. But when the light began to wane, the silence was no more; for the sons and daughters of music there assembled, and as there were several good voices and a first-rate leader, the glees and choruses were sometimes very effective.

Thus pleasantly day and night slipped by in quick succession. Casual acquaintanceships ripened into lifelong friendships; and when at length we reached our journey’s end, the joy of arrival was tempered by true regret for the break-up of a pleasant party, and the dispersion of many friends, of whom the majority in all probability might never meet again.

* * * * *

A brief year passed away—a year of ever-changing delight in the wondrous Indian land, and ere we realised that our allotted twelve months were over, we found ourselves numbered with _The Homeward Bound_. Very different was our return journey from the last. Instead of finding ourselves surrounded by a superabundance of bright energetic life, our companions were almost all on the sick-list, as few people who were not driven home by illness, would exchange an Indian winter for the chilly frosts and snows of England. Instead of the continuous sunshine of our outward journey, we had bitter winds and sharp storms, and though we were too good sailors to be thereby affected, some of our neighbours were wretched enough.

But the saddest change of all was the long list of funerals, which, commencing ere we left the deep-blue Indian Ocean, only ended as we neared the English shores. Sometimes we heard the beautiful words of the solemn funeral service read in the quiet moonlight, and sometimes when we could scarcely distinguish a word for the howling of the storm and roar of waters, and only knew by the sad, earnest faces of sailors and soldiers crowding round, that the uncoffined clay, which lay so still beneath the outspread Union-jack, was about to be committed to the deep. The first who thus ‘fell asleep’ was a little child, on whom the tropical sun had laid its fiery finger. Not all the ice of Himla could cool the burning of that fevered, throbbing brow; and the wistful baby-eyes looked vainly up, in piteous mute appeal, to those who knew too bitterly how utterly powerless they were to help. But when the red glowing sun sank below the mellow waters, that tender spirit rose to its Home, far beyond the stars; and loving hands laid the tiny marble form in a pure white shell, meet for so fair a pearl. Then kind, warm-hearted British tars covered that little coffin with England’s flag, and laid it down gently and reverently, standing round bareheaded in the warm southern moonlight, while holy words were uttered as the little white coffin sank down into the quiet depths of that wondrously blue sea.

A few more days went by, and again the Angel of Death was among us. This time he came to call away a poor fellow with the frame of a young giant, who but a few months before had left the Emerald Isle in glowing health and strength, but who now wearily dragged himself along sun-stricken, utterly unconscious that the shadow of the angel’s wing already darkened over him; only craving once more to reach the old home, where mother and sisters would welcome him. But when the sun rose, one cold, bleak morning, we were told he had passed away in the night. We were on the Red Sea; but it was bitterly cold and stormy, and the dull, drear, wintry winds were echoing over bleak bare shores, and sighing among the masts and rigging. Even the sea was leaden-hued; and when the funeral service was read, and the body lowered into the sullen waves, the pale sunrise was overclouded by a heavy drifting shower. It was the saddest, dreariest funeral at which I was ever present. In the cabin next to his was another victim of the sun—a handsome young bride, with mind, alas! all unstrung. Of course she could not have known what was passing so near, yet, through all those sad hours she kept on crooning a low plaintive song, telling how

Somebody’s darling, so young, and so fair, Somebody’s darling lay dying there.

An hour later we lay-to, off the wreck of the ill-fated _Carnatic_, the property of the same Company as the ship in which we sailed; which, but a few weeks previously, had, one Sunday night, in calmest weather, diverged but a little from her course, and struck upon a hidden coral reef. There she lay all the long day in the sunshine. So little was danger suspected, that not even Her Majesty’s mails, or the precious human lives on board, were landed on the island of Shadwan, which lay at a distance of about three miles; and where all might have found a safe refuge. Meals continued to be served with the usual wonderful regularity; and between whiles, the passengers amused themselves with angling for fish of dazzling colours, which swarmed all round the coral rock. In short, the affair seems to have been treated in the light of a summer picnic, till the dread moment when, at midnight, the vessel suddenly parted mid-ships and went down. Thus, like another _Royal George_, the good ship suddenly foundered in a calm sea, carrying with her many a brave British heart. Some good swimmers, though carried down with the swirl, struggled to the surface, and after many a hard blow from floating spars and luggage, escaped with their lives; and a few boats likewise got beyond the reach of the whirlpool. It was Tuesday night before the survivors were all safe on the isle of Shadwan; and of their goods, only one dressing-bag and one dry box of matches had escaped. Some huge bales of dry cotton had, however, been cast ashore, so tightly packed that the centre was still quite dry. This they heaped up as material for a bonfire, wherewith to greet the first sail that hove in sight; and while some stood by, ready to kindle the blaze, others rowed out to sea again, taking with them their only rocket. They had not long to wait. Soon a great steamer belonging to the same Company drew near, and the Homeward-bound rescued the survivors of the Outward-bound, whose journey sunward had been thus sadly damped at the outset. All we saw of the wreck were the extreme tips of the masts appearing above the waters, to mark where the divers were even then at work, seeking to rescue property of all sorts. The mails had previously been rescued, and many half-legible letters had reached India before we had sailed thence.

Strangely, in truth, fell our Christmas Eve, as we landed, on the dull shore of Suez, where, on a little sandy island, so many of England’s sons, ‘homeward-bound,’ sleep their last sleep beneath the burning sun; and as we stood in the starlight, watching the last of our companions hurrying on to Alexandria, it was hard indeed to realise that festive Yule had found us in such dreary quarters. Nor—for it was before the Suez Canal days—did it mend matters much to spend our Christmas Day whirling across the Desert in an Egyptian railway. But when evening brought us to the green banks of the Nile, we were content.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

WHY DO WE NOW DRINK LESS COFFEE?

For many years past it has been plainly apparent that there has been a decline in the consumption of coffee; and while the use of spirits, wine, tobacco, tea, and cocoa has considerably increased, that of coffee has fallen off to a considerable extent. Dr Wallace, F.R.S.E., in a paper read before the Society of Public Analysts, is of opinion that the people of this country are losing their taste for coffee because of the difficulty of obtaining it in a pure state. About the time when the consumption per head was highest, coffee began to be adulterated with chicory, and now this is done so universally, that many people prefer the mixture to pure coffee, and few know the taste of the genuine article.

When travelling on the continent, the tourist enjoys the fragrant cup; but the beverage supplied at the best hotels and restaurants in this country is not coffee, but a mixture of that substance with chicory, in the proportion of three-fourths to one-third of the whole, and sometimes more. As Dr Wallace correctly says, this substance may be described as chicory flavoured with coffee. Chicory being bitter, with three times the colouring power of coffee, gives it the appearance of great strength; but it should always be remembered that it contains no caffeine, and wants the exhilarating qualities for which good coffee is partaken. The sooner the public awakens to a sense of this fact, the better.

Pure coffee can be had; but it is only sold with a grudge, for the grocer has his chief profit in the chicory with which it is adulterated. To show where the profit lies, take the case of a particular coffee sold in tins, which contains one part of coffee to three parts of chicory, and is sold at one-and-fourpence per pound. The coffee in a pound of it costs, retail, say sevenpence, the chicory, say fourpence, tins, say threepence, profit twopence—total, one-and-fourpence. But the purchaser gets no value except the sevenpenceworth of coffee, the chicory only adding colour, bitterness, and body, so that he pays one-and-fourpence for sevenpenceworth of coffee.