that for the present the boat seems out of danger.
The Telegraph Office immediately on its being opened, and ever since, has been completely besieged. What a picture, and how impossible to picture it! A little wayside railway office crushed full of dripping, crying women, with a sad-faced man here and there. Not a sound, except occasionally a smothered sob or whisper, and the tic-tic-tic of the instrument, meaning joy or grief perhaps to some of these poor women, all eagerly watching that lad, or rather boy, the only one there who understands that tic-tic-tic.
Then when news does come of this or that boat's safety, watch the brightening faces of those to whom it is good news; their long-drawn thankful sigh of relief, and their again saddening look as they think of others around them who have got no news yet. Quietly they pull their shawls over their heads and slip out, only to make room for others who have been standing outside in the rain waiting their turn.
But hollo! There goes the fire on the hill again. What does it mean? Another boat? No; but the same one is about. Again all is consternation and wonder, until the old boat-builder says quietly: 'He's weel acquaint. It's ane o' oor ain folk, an' he's gaun to dodge aboot expeck'n the wind to tak aff.' And he is right too; for the boat only comes near enough not to be too near, then 'bout ship and out again. After a time another boat heaves in sight, then another, until, by about five o'clock in the evening, there are eleven boats tossing about out there on that wild sea, in sight of home, waiting for the storm to abate and the sea go down. News has also come to hand of the safety of other six of the thirty boats that went out from here last night, so that there is still about half of them to be heard of yet, should those in the offing turn out to belong to the place.
Well, it did 'tak aff;' and by nine o'clock that night fourteen boats managed to get safely into the harbour, though with great difficulty and danger.
What a sight was that also! A well-manned salmon coble kept afloat in the fairway ready for an emergency, and at the same time giving confidence to those in the boats taking the harbour. The pier crowded with men, women, and children, anxiously, silently, watching each boat through the peril. Then the greetings and questionings of the tired, starving fishermen, whom the sea seems to have given up.
Still lots of the boats have yet to be heard of, and many a one wanders the whole night through, unable to rest in his anxiety for the missing ones. Next day, however, all are accounted for. All safe, except one boat with a crew of five, swamped out at sea, in that dreadful August storm, and all hands drowned; and it has proved a 'sair, sair nicht' for the poor old fisherman with whose words I began this sketch, for one of his stalwart sons was one of that crew of five, who leave four widows and thirteen 'faitherless bairns;' proving how appropriate it is in regard to the pursuit of the 'caller herrin'' that
Wives and mithers maist despairin'
Ca' them lives o' men.
A MORNING IN A LONDON HOSPITAL
'If you will meet me at – Hospital at half-past ten on Monday morning, I shall be happy to shew you anything in my power.' So ran a note I received some little time since from a privileged visitor at one of the largest London hospitals. An hour's ride brought me to the gates of the institution, which is in the very heart of busy London, and yet, as far as noise goes, might be miles away from all its life and bustle. A little world by itself it stands, having its own laws and customs, its chiefs and subordinates, and certainly its own joys and sorrows. Crossing a stone yard and up a flight of steps, the first obstacle presented itself in the shape of an ever-watchful porter; but the name of my correspondent had a magical effect in quieting his fears. Friends of the patients are allowed to visit them on three days in the week at stated hours; but beyond this, without private interest, it is by no means easy to obtain admission to any hospital.
Passing through the porter's gate, I found myself in a stone hall, where my friend joined me; and opening a door at one end, she led me into the accident ward. Down each side of the long room were arranged beds at short intervals, each with its coverlet of blue check and curtains to match. Yet there was little monotony in the appearance of the whole, each bed taking different shapes according to the nature of its inmate's accident. Skilled hands know how to place sufferers in the position that causes least pain; and light frames are fixed over injured limbs to prevent contact with the bed-clothes. Each bed too has a chain suspended from the top, with a handle attached; by which simple contrivance patients are enabled to raise and in some measure help themselves much sooner than would otherwise be possible. Some of the worst 'cases' are too ill to notice us as we go round; but from the greater number we get something of a smile.
Our next step was to mount the stairs on the other side of the hall. We now came to a large male surgical ward, holding about fifty beds arranged as before described. Here the dressers or house-surgeons were beginning their duties. The first bed at which we paused was tenanted by a boy of twelve or fourteen years old, with a bright and not unhealthy looking face; but a terrible abscess had formed on the calf of the leg, so affecting the bone that a serious operation was necessary to prevent amputation. This had been performed a few days before our visit; but useful as chloroform is at the time of an operation, it by no means saves all the pain. The first dressing is much dreaded, and even in the case of which I write the poor boy's sufferings were very great; but he was a true Briton as to endurance. I did not know which to admire most, his bravery or the steady hand and eye of the surgeon, who did not shrink from inflicting necessary pain, whilst with bright words of encouragement he helped his poor patient to 'be a man.' The air of cheerfulness about the ward was surprising; round the fireplaces were groups of patients, just well enough to be up. Gaunt and ill they looked, but as ready as possible for a bit of fun. The Sister of the ward comes out of her cheery little room just as we turn to go away, so we stop for a few minutes' chat with her. She tells us that in addition to the services of Chaplain and Scripture-readers, each ward is visited once a week by ladies, who talk to the patients one by one, reading to them, and trying to shew sisterly sympathy with their sorrows. Sister says that the patients look forward to the visiting afternoon with great pleasure, and my friend remarks: 'No wonder; poor things! They must find it very dull lying here day after day and week after week.'
Sister breaks into a merry laugh, and utterly scouts the notion that her ward could be anything but bright and pleasant. 'You see,' she said, 'mine are surgical cases. It may be dull perhaps on the medical side; but here the patients are well as a rule, except in one particular thing.'
To our inexperienced minds 'one particular thing' seemed quite enough. Asking the same Sister whether she found it difficult to obtain permission from one of the authorities to do something she wished, she answered with an amused smile: 'I never have any difficulty in getting anything for anybody.' It certainly would be difficult to refuse anything to such a bonnie face and pleasant manner. One could not but be thankful that she and others like her shed their sunshine where there must of necessity be so much shadow.
In the next ward (female) we had a few words with a motherly night-nurse. She goes to bed after dinner (about 1 P.M.), and comes on duty again at nine in the evening; but turning night into day seems to agree capitally with her. Seeing several cots with tiny inmates, we ask her whether they give her much trouble: her prompt answer is: 'Not a bit; not half so much as some of the grown-ups.'
'And the medicine; have you difficulty with that?'
'Never; however nasty it is, they drink it up without a word.'
One case of a poor woman is both medical and surgical – a terrible string of maladies; but another nurse, in answer to the question, 'Can she recover?' answers heartily and with real interest: 'Indeed, we hope she will.' She certainly would not without great care and the best of nursing. Near her is a cot, and my friend asks the four-year-old inmate what is the matter. A tiny voice pipes out in the very highest of high trebles: 'I'se here tawse I tarn't walt.' A dislocated thigh will prevent the poor baby from walking for several weeks. In the next cot is a girl of five, injured in the same way. 'Run over,' nurse tells us; and adds: 'Half of them are.'
A few more visits on the surgical side, and we come down-stairs again, and go through a door at the opposite end of the hall from the porter's lodge. The medical cases are in a block of buildings quite distinct from the surgical. The first ward we entered was chiefly occupied by consumptive patients.