Here is the routine for one day at the hospital I was employed in: The nurses rise at six, dress, and put their rooms in order, and hurry down to breakfast, which is served at half-past six. At seven they are in their wards, to relieve the night nurses. The first thing is to serve breakfast; after that is cleared away comes the bathing of helpless patients, and making the beds; then the long ward is swept twice from top to bottom, and every thing picked up, dusted, and put straight. Wounds are then dressed and medicines given out, and all is ready for the doctor’s visit at ten. After that comes the milk or beef-tea lunch for those who require it, and general waiting on and attending to the various wants of the patients (which are always numerous, whether real or fancied). Dinner is served in the ward at half-past twelve, and half an hour later for the nurses. After dinner more medicines are given out, and the time is filled with the general attendance, for of course some patients need a great deal more care than others; fomentations and poultices must be applied, the bed of a restless patient re-made, a broken limb bathed and re-bandaged, etc. Supper comes at half-past five, and after that the night work begins, making the beds smooth and comfortable for the poor, tired bodies, giving out medicines, and putting the wards straight for the house physician’s visit. The head nurse goes from bed to bed with him, giving a report of each patient, that suitable directions may be given the night nurse. At eight o’clock the nurses go off duty, tired perhaps, but happy in the consciousness that they have done their best. Every nurse has an hour off during the day, for rest or exercise in the open air, with an afternoon once a week.
And now let me appeal to the female portion of the tens of thousands of readers of The Chautauquan, at least to those of them who want a vocation. Will you not take up this work? You will find a rich reward in so doing, not only financially (though it is a paying business), but the gladness and content you will feel in doing your share toward relieving the suffering and distress in this world will amply repay you for the hard and disagreeable part of your labor—for it has its disagreeable side, I admit. No one has greater opportunities for doing good than the loyal, consecrated Christian nurse. Just think of the many cups of cold water that can be given, the sweet word of Scripture that can be whispered in the ear of some sufferer, to prove a soft and comforting pillow for his weary head. Think of the bread of life it will be your privilege to break and distribute to the helpless and needy. Think of the dying who can be pointed upward, and led to place their trust in Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. If you have a talent for music, it can be used to advantage in the hospital ward. There is no limit to the opportunities you will find opening before you. We can not all be Florence Nightingales or Sister Doras, but we can be our best selves.
EIGHT CENTURIES WITH WALTER SCOTT.
By WALLACE BRUCE.
“Woodstock” closed with the return of Charles the Second from long exile, and his hearty reception en route from the cliffs of Dover to London. “Peveril of the Peak” opens with a mixed assembly of Presbyterians and Cavaliers convened at Martindale Castle in honor of “The Blessed Restoration of His most Sacred Majesty.”
As might be premised, the gathering is not entirely harmonious. By wise foresight they are constrained to enter the castle by different gates, and to take their repast in different rooms. In this prologue to the story the reader notes the art with which Scott illustrates history. “By different routes, and forming each a sort of a procession, as if the adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength and numbers, the two several factions approached the castle; and so distinct did they appear in dress, aspect and manners, that it seemed as if the revelers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral solemnity, were moving toward the same point from different quarters. The Puritan party consisted chiefly of the middling gentry, with others whom industry or successful speculations in commerce or in mining had raised into eminence—the persons who feel most umbrage from the over-shadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most vehement in defense of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was in general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark color of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what was called sad-colored, their steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy brims, their long swords, suspended by a simple strap around the loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty rapiers—the shortness of their hair, which made their ears appear of disproportioned size—above all the stern and gloomy gravity of their looks, announced their belonging to that class of enthusiasts, who, resolute and undismayed, had cast down the former fabric of government, and who now regarded with somewhat more than suspicion that which had been so unexpectedly substituted in its stead.”
The paragraph in which Scott portrays the Cavalier is none the less graphic: “If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocricy into licentious profligacy. Gay, gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together toward the ancient castle. Feathers waved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here and there a petronel or pistol was fired off by some one, who found his own natural talents for making a noise inadequate to the dignity of the occasion. Boys halloo’d and whooped, ‘Down with the Rump,’ and ‘Fie upon Oliver!’ The revelry of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a different and less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard music, nor drank healths; and yet they seemed none the less, in their own phrase, to enjoy the creature-comforts which the frailty of humanity rendered grateful to their outward man.”