Read Ebook: The Forlorn Hope: A Tale of Old Chelsea by Hall S C Mrs

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"My mother, sir," said Lucy, "died of consumption."

"Well, but you are not going to die," he replied, smiling; "only you must let your father's old servant take care of you, and you may soon get better."

Lucy shook her head, and her eyes overflowed with tears; the physician cheered her, after the usual fashion. "I am not afraid of death, sir," said the young woman; "indeed, I am not; but I fear, more than I ought, the passage which leads to it; the burden I must be to the poor faithful creature who nursed me from my birth. I thought there was an hospital for the cure of every disease; and this consumption is so general, so helpless, so tedious."

"The very thing,"--said the doctor, who, with all his kindness, was one of those who think "so and so," because "all the faculty" thought "so and so," for such a number of years;--"its being tedious is the very thing; it is quite a FORLORN HOPE."

The doctor pressed into her hand the latest fee he had received, and descended the stairs. "That is a very extraordinary girl, madam, in the nursery," he said to the lady, "something very superior about her; but she will get worse and worse; nothing for her but a more genial climate, constant care, perfect rest, careful diet: if she lives through the winter she must go in the spring. Lungs! chest! blisters will relieve her; and if we could produce the climate of Madeira here for a winter or so, she might revive; but, poor thing, in her situation--"

The lady shook her head, and repeated, "Ay; in her situation."

The physician prescribed for Lucy. He saw her again, and would have seen her repeatedly, but the family left town suddenly, in consequence of the death of a near relative, and the very belief that nothing could be done for her, circumstanced as she was, contributed to her being forgotten. The human mind has a natural desire to blot out from memory objects that are hopeless. Lucy went to Mary's humble lodging, and fancied, for a day or two, she was much better. She had the repose which such illness so naturally seeks. Mary's room was on the ground floor of a small house, in a little street leading off "Paradise-row." The old pensioners frequently passed the window; she could hear the beat of the Asylum drums; sometimes they awoke her out of her sleep in the morning; but she liked them none the less for that. Mary put away her poor master's hat , his sword and sash, and his gloves, in her own box, when Lucy came, least the sight of them should make her melancholy; but Lucy saw their marks upon the wall, and begged she would replace them there. She gave her little store, amounting to a few pounds, into the nurse's hands, who spent it scrupulously for her--and yet not prudently; for she ran after every nostrum, and insisted upon Lucy's swallowing them all. Sometimes the fading girl would creep along in the sunshine, and so changed was she, in little more than a year, that no one recognised her, though some would look after her, and endeavour to call to mind who it was she so strongly resembled.

The only living thing that rejoiced with Mary over her return, was a lean, hungry dog, the favourite of an out-pensioner who died about six months before the sergeant-major. It was ill-favoured, but faithful, remaining many nights upon its master's grave. Lucy coaxed it home and fed it; and though the creature's erratic disposition prevented its accepting the refuge she then offered, he would come in occasionally for a night's lodging, or a breakfast, and depart without a single wag of his stunted tail. When Lucy left Chelsea, Mary almost lost sight of the dog, though she met him sometimes, and then he would look to her--a sort of recognition--and walk on. The morning after Lucy's return, while she lay upon her nurse's bed, the door was poked open by a thick, grizzled nose, and in another instant the pensioner's dog rushed to her, expressing his joy by the most uncouth sounds and motions, screaming while licking her hands, and, when his excitement subsided, lying down inside the door, with his eyes fixed upon her, baffling all Mary's efforts to turn him out. Beauty, after all, has very little to do with the affections; after its first sun stroke, it loses most of its power. Lucy had the keen appreciation of the beautiful which belongs to a refined mind in every situation of life; yet the gratitude of that poor ugly dog attached her to him; through all her sufferings, when her nurse was out at work, he was a companion, something to speak to. The little store was soon expended, though Mary would not confess it; Lucy, skilled in the womanly craft of needlework, laboured unceasingly; and, as long as she was able to apply to it, Mary found a market for her industry. But as the disease gained ground, her efforts became more feeble, and then the faithful nurse put forth all her strength, all her ingenuity, to disguise the nature of their situation; the expense of the necessary medicine, inefficient as it was, would have procured her every alleviating Comfort--IF THERE HAD BEEN AN INSTITUTION TO SUPPLY IT.

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.

L'ENVOY.

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 Croesus can purchase!

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. 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.

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. 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.

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.

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

Footnotes.

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 where Caesar crossed the Thames.

PHILIP ROSE, ESQ., the Hon. Sec. and Founder of the Institution.

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