Part 3

It is useless as well as painful to note what followed; she faded and faded; yet the weaker her body grew, the clearer grew her mind, the more deep became her faith; she would lie for hours, sleepless, with her eyes fixed on what we should call vacancy—but which, to her, seemed a bright world of angels, with the Redeemer in the midst—murmuring prayers, and broken fragments of hymns, and listening to words of peace which no ear but her own could hear—her mind only returning to this world to bless Mary, when she came from her daily toil, or with the fruits of that solicitation, which she employed for her sake, to the last. The dog, too, the poor old dog, that had partaken of her bounty, shared in her poverty, and would stand with his paws on the bed, looking with his dim eyes into her face, and licking her hand whenever she moved or moaned.

[Picture: Lucy in bed with dog and angels]

It was again the anniversary of the battle of Toulouse, and Lucy remembered it; she begged the old woman not to leave her; _it would be her last day_; her mind wandered a little; and then she asked for a bough of laurel—and to sit up—and Mary went out to seek for a few green leaves. As she past hastily along, she met James Hardy stumping joyously onwards, and talking to himself, as if poor old John Coyne, who had been dead a year, was by his side; she saw he had something green in his hand, and she asked him to share it with her, for a poor girl, her “young lady,” the sergeant-major’s daughter, who was dying!

The veteran did as she desired; but the bow was _yew_, not laurel. Well versed in omens, she returned it to him, burst into tears, and ran on. He had heard that Miss Lucy was ill; but age is often forgetful; he had not thought of it; yet now, the memory of the past rushed into his heart, and he discovered so quickly where “Irish Mary” lived, that when she was home again, with a fresh green sprig of laurel, James Hardy was weeping bitterly by Lucy’s side, while Lucy was in an ecstacy of joy. “Her father,” she said, “had come for her; there should be no more sorrow, no more pain; no more want for Mary or for her; her dear father had come for her.” By a strong effort, she laid her head on James Hardy’s shoulder, and grasped her nurse’s hard, honest hand. “I come, my FATHER!” she exclaimed, and all was over.

“To die so, in her prime, her youth, her beauty; to be left to die, because they say there’s no cure for it; THEY NEVER TRIED TO CURE HER!” exclaimed the nurse, between her bursts of grief—“no place to shelter her—no one to see to her—no proper food, or air, or care—my heart’s jewel—who cared for all, when she had it! Still, the Lord is merciful; another week, and I should have had nothing but a drop of cold water to moisten her lips, and no bed for her to lie on. I kept _that_ to the last, anyhow; and now it may go; it must go; small loss; what matter what comes of the likes of me, when such as her could have no help! I’ll beg from door to door, ’till I raise enough to lay her by her father’s side, in the churchyard of ould Chelsea.” But that effort, at all events, was not needed; the hospital was astir; the sergeant-major was remembered; and the church-bell tolled when Lucy was laid in her father’s grave, in the CHURCHYARD OF OLD CHELSEA.

[Picture: The Old Church, Chelsea]

L’ENVOY.

[Picture: Woman with child]

THE reader of this little book must not close it with a sad aspect. Thank God, there are few griefs without some counterbalancing comforts; and this afflicting subject, so long _without hope_, is now FULL OF HOPE. The contrasts of life, the lights and shadows of existence, are sometimes so strong as to be absolutely painful; yet their strength and rapidity of change are, in many cases, blessings. Our church bell the other morning had been tolling, at intervals, for a funeral; the morning was dull and clouded, and the sound, instead of rising through the atmosphere, boomed heavily and gloomily along it. A cesssation followed: I was so occupied that I hardly noted how long it was, when, suddenly, the joy bells struck up, ringing out such merry music that I remembered, at once, there was a wedding going forward that day; a right gay bridal; rank, fashion, and wealth; love also, I had been told, was, of a surety, there; all that young hearts desire bring gathered together; and the bells again and again rang forth, until the air vibrated. At first the change was very painful; so sudden, and startling, and jarring, that I longed to shut it out; but when I opened my window and looked forth, the contrast of sight was as great as was that of sound; the clouds were floating away in the distance, and around us all was light! I was almost angry with myself for feeling so immediately happy; but, after the lapse of a few minutes, the heaviness of the past was superseded by the joyfulness of the present. The evening came in due time, with its sober hues and tones, and I had leisure to think over the doleful knell and the marriage ringings; and then, indeed, I saw, with gratitude to Him who orders all things for the best, how wise it is that the tear should be followed by the smile, and that cause for sorrow should be succeeded by motive for joy!

How many and how marvellous are the changes that ten years have wrought. New sympathies have been awakened; a new spirit has been hovering above us and around us, with “healing on its wings.” Ten years ago—women and children slaved in our coal mines, degraded far below the level of “brutes that perish;” women, harnessed to their loads, crawling like reptiles along damps and slimes, underneath the earth: children, whose weak and “winking” eyes had never seen the light, with minds as dark as the strata wherein they toiled! Ten years ago—the loom, too, hid its victims far away out of Humanity’s sight, in the sole keeping of those who, in their thirst for “gold, more gold,” made their alchemy of infant sinews, and sweats from the brow of age. Ten years ago—the shopman—in the hot summer time, centred in the crowded thoroughfare, where dust and air so closely mingle that they are inhaled together from sunrise to midnight—laboured for eighteen hours; an item of God’s creation for whom there was no care; never, during the six days of his master’s week, seeing the faces of his children, save in sleep, and too worn, too weary, when the sabbath came, to find it a day of rest. How long was the prayer unanswered,—

“Give me one hour of rest from toil, From daily toil for daily bread; Untwisting Labour’s heavy coil From round the heart and head!”

Ten years ago—no voice was raised for mercy to the lone sempstress; sure “slave of the lamp;” working from “weary chime to chime;” bearing her cross in solitude—toiling, while starving, for the few soiled pence, the very touch of which would be contamination to the kidded hands of tawdry footmen; these poor women sunk into their graves, they and their famished children, unmissed of any, for there were none to ask where they were gone. Ten years ago—and the governess, in age, in poverty, in sickness, had no refuge—no shelter, even from a storm that might have been a passing one. Her life of labour—labour of head, eyes, hands, and tongue; toil without rest—uncheered, unappreciated, unrecompensed, which left

“No leisure to be gay or glad,”

followed by a deserted sick bed; a death, unmarked by any kindly eye, and a coffin grudged for its cost. Such was her too common lot! Ten years ago, the poor dressmaker fagged out her life; fainting during her brief minutes of “rest;” standing when sleepy, while one, of more robust strength than her companions, stalked about the thronged and ill-ventilated work-room, till past midnight, touching those whose fingers relax, and whispering the warning sound—“Wake up—wake up!”

Need we prolong this list—this contrast, appalling yet glorious, of the present time with ten years ago? One more must be added to it presently.

Ten years have, indeed, wrought many and marvellous changes, A cry has been raised throughout the Empire, NOT BY THE POOR BUT FOR THE POOR; not by the oppressed, but for them! It was a righteous cry, and holy are the sympathies it has awakened; sympathies which convey our superfluous riches to that storehouse where neither moth nor rust can corrupt; convincing us that, while a closed heart is never happy, a hand open as day to melting charity, secures a mightier reward than the wealth of Crœsus can purchase!

There is, then, one newly-awakened sympathy to be yet added to the LIST, of which, in preceding remarks, I have given only an abridgement. Ten years ago—nay, THREE years ago—the poor woman or man, who had been stricken with CONSUMPTION was left to perish. For her or for him there was literally “no hope.” Every other ailment was cared for—_might_ be “taken in time.” But this terrible disease was, like the leprosy of old, or the plague in modern times—a signal for the sufferer to be deserted, abandoned in despair. Blessed be the God of mercy, such is not the case now; a “new sympathy,” has been awakened, and, by the aid of a merciful Providence, it has spread widely! An establishment, hitherto conducted on a small scale, but hereafter to be in a degree commensurate with the WANT, exists in this Metropolis, where the patient will not apply for help in vain. It is sufficiently notorious that nearly all the great projects which have given pre-eminence to this country, and have made it—as it has been, is, and, by God’s help, ever will be—the envy and admiration of surrounding states, have been the births of private enterprise. It is so in science, in literature, in the arts, and, above all, in charity. Some one man, more thoughtful, more energetic, and more indefatigable than the great mass of his fellow men, stirs the hearts of others, sets himself and them to the great work of improvement, or mercy—and the thing is done. If we recur to the several leading public charities, we shall find that all, or nearly all, of them, have thus originated; the names of their founders have been handed down to posterity, and individuals, comparatively insignificant and obscure, are classed as benefactors to mankind, entitled to, and receiving, the gratitude of a whole people.

Thus the name of a poor player, whose monument is at Dulwich, has been made famous for ages; that of a humble sea-captain is identified with the preservation of the lives of tens of thousands of foundlings; while that of a simple miniature painter is for ever linked with the history of practical “Benevolence.” The list might include nearly the whole of the charities of London, which, from similar small sources, have become mighty waters—spreading, healing, fertilizing, and blessing!

The absence of a hospital for the relief and cure of consumptive patients, was a national reproach; when, happily, exertions which followed the efforts of a single individual removed it. He was without rank or fortune to give weight and strength to the cause he had undertaken; he was a member of a profession which necessarily occupied much time and thought—entailed daily labour from morn till night—and is, indeed, supposed, however falsely, to check and chill the sympathies of the natural heart, engendering indifference to human suffering. Most happily, his mind and heart were both rightly directed: in him the conviction of what ought to be was followed by a resolution that it should be; his generous and merciful feelings were not limited to good intentions: he added energy to zeal, and industry to stern resolve; and, in a word, the mighty object has been accomplished. {26a} The Institution, which originated at a small meeting, in a comparatively humble house in “Hans-place, Chelsea,” is now the patronized of the Queen, and the aided of the people; and its power to do good has been marvellously augmented. Even with the very limited means hitherto at the command of its Directors, prodigious service has been rendered; in numerous instances, vast relief has been afforded; in some cases restorations to health have been effected, and, in others, the passage to the grave has been made easy, tranquil, and happy. {26b}

And surely this latter consideration is one of very vital importance. Not only is the chaplain of the Institution aided earnestly by the matron and other excellent ladies, who read and pray, and soothe and comfort the fainting and struggling spirit; but no distinction of creeds is here made—where death is so often busied in levelling all distinctions; a clergyman of the Roman Catholic faith, and ministers of all Christian societies and sects, are gladly admitted whenever members of their congregations require spiritual comfort and aid. {27a} Who is there, then, with mind and heart influenced by religion, who will not rejoice at opportunities of soothing a dying-bed—removing misery, alleviating pain, and averting want, while preparing for a change of time for eternity? The yet limited chronicles of this infant Institution record many touching instances of courage, encouragement, hope, and salvation, obtained there, while passing through the valley of the shadow of death. The fatal disease gives abundant time for such consolations and such results; the tyrant advances slowly; the issue has been long foreseen; there is no need to hurry or confuse; divine grace may be infused surely—the mists of unbelief being gradually dispelled; bright and cheering gospel truths may be learned, one by one, until the last sigh wafts the soul into the haven “prepared by the blood of the Lamb.”

But temporal, as well as eternal good, has been already achieved by this Institution. Several of its inmates have been discharged, fitted to become useful members of society; strengthened in constitution as well as spiritually enlightened; beneficially changed, in all respects, by a temporary residence in this blessed Asylum. I have seen, not one or two, but several, pale faces return, after a sojourn in the Hospital, to thank me for “my letter,” with the hues of health upon their cheeks, and able to bless the Institution, without pausing to breathe between the breaks in every sentence.

There is, however, a consideration connected with the subject which presses sorely on the mind of every inhabitant of these islands—rich as well as poor—for no station in exempt from the influence of the subtle disease; no blood, however ancient and pure, can repel it; exemption from its attacks cannot be purchased by any excess of wealth; caution can do little to avert it; its advances are perceived afar off without a prospect of escape; it seems, indeed, the terrible vanquisher against whom it is idle to fight. {27b}

Surely, then, ALL are interested—deeply interested—in helping the only plan by which the disease may be so studied as to secure a remedy. It is foolish to speak of it as INCURABLE; the term signifies only that the cure has not been yet discovered; there are scores of other diseases which, half a century ago, were regarded as consumption now is—sure steps to death, for which the physician could do nothing. How many seeming miracles has simple science worked in our day! Why have other diseases been completely conquered, while this maintains its power unchecked? Merely because, in reference to the one, ample opportunities for studying them have been of late years afforded, while, with regard to the other, a single case at a time was all the physician could take for his guidance. Now, in this Institution, a school is forming, to which it is not too much to say, even the most healthy and beautiful children of our highest nobles may be indebted for life; for who can say how soon a slight cold may sow the seeds of consumption, which skill may fail to baffle and subdue until greater knowledge has been supplied by means more enlarged and more effectual than as yet exist in the kingdoms swayed by a royal lady, who is at once the pride and the model of British wives and mothers?

To all our interests, then—of time and of eternity—this CHARITY makes earnest and eloquent appeal. Surely these considerations will have their weight in obtaining all-sufficient aid to create and sustain the Institution it is my happy privilege to advocate—in humble but earnest hope that my weak advocacy may not be altogether vain.

THE ROSERY, OLD BROMPTON.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of woman with child]

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COOK AND CO., PRINTERS, 76 FLEET STREET, LONDON

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Footnotes.

{6} This was the third botanic garden, established about the year 1673, in England. In a very old manuscript the spot is thus quaintly described:—“Chelsea physic garden has great variety of plants, both in and out of green-houses; their perennial green hedges, and rows of different coloured herbs, are very pretty, and so are the banks set with shades of herbs in the Irish style.” The drawing Mr. Fairholt was so good as to make for this little book, gives a faithful representation of the statue of Sir Hans Sloane, by Rysbach, the two famous cedars, and the water-gate; and as this time-honoured garden is about to be converted into “a square of houses,” I am glad of the opportunity to preserve a memorial of it. It is not only sacred to science, but full of pleasant memories: Evelyn has sate beneath those cedars; Sir Joseph Banks used to delight in measuring them, and proving to his friends that the girth of the larger “exceeded twelve feet eleven inches;” and it is said that, when Dean Swift lodged at Chelsea, he was often to be found in this “physic garden.” When we call to mind the number of persons of note who selected the “sweet village of Chelsea” as a residence, there can he no lack of associations for this spot. Between the garden and the college is the place (according to Maitland) where Cæsar crossed the Thames.

{26a} PHILIP ROSE, ESQ., the Hon. Sec. and Founder of the Institution.

{26b} Independent of advantages afforded within the present Hospital, application for orders to obtain “out of door” advice and medicine have been very numerous; and they have not unfrequently been made by persons far superior to those who are supposed (but most erroneously) to be the only recipients of charitable aid. I entreat the reader’s indulgence while I briefly relate one circumstance within my own knowledge. A few months ago, a lady (for poverty is no destroyer of birth-rights) requested from me a ticket for an out-door patient; and, in answer to my inquiries, at length, with trembling lips and streaming eyes, confessed it was for her husband she needed it. She had made what is called a _love-match_; her family refused to do anything to alleviate the poverty which followed his misfortunes, unless she forsook her husband; her knowledge of the most sacred duty of woman’s life, and, indeed, I believe, poor thing, her enduring love, prevented her having the great sin to answer for, of abandoning him in his distress; and her skill in drawing and embroidery enabled her to support her sick husband and herself. “I can do _that_,” she said, “and procure him even little luxuries, if I have not a doctor’s bill to pay; but the medicines are so expensive, that he will be comfortless unless we can receive aid from this Institution; I have paid, during the last two weeks, twelve shillings for medicine.” His case was utterly and entirely without hope, but, as she told me afterwards, no words could express the alleviation to his sufferings, mental and physical, which followed the assistance he obtained at the Hospital.

{27a} “To provide him with an Asylum, to surround him with the comforts of which he stands so much in need, to ensure him relief from the sufferings entailed by his disease, to afford him spiritual consolation, at a period when the mind is, perhaps, best adapted to receive, with benefit, the divine truths of religion, and to enable those who depend upon him to earn their own subsistence, are the great objects of this new Hospital.”—_Appeal of the Committee_.

{27b} “To all who have either felt the power of the destroyer, or who have reason to fear his attack—and what family throughout the country has not had sad experience of his presence?—an earnest appeal is now made, in the full assurance that those who give their support to this Institution will aid in materially lessening the amount of misery.”—_Appeal of the Committee_.