Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/219

15, 1863.] charge of the Purveyor, for the sake of always obtaining the best quality.” In India, all is under the Commissariat; and while that continues to be the case, it is best not to inquire about “diets” as an article of hospital provision, or to look too closely into what is offered to the feeble appetite of the sick. “In India,” says Miss Nightingale, “the chief quality in native cooks appears to be ‘the pursuit of cooking under difficulties;’ their ingenuity in bringing about an apparently good result, in a rude and often bad way, is frequently admired by the reporters, as if the end of cooking were ‘to make a pair of old boots look like a beef-steak. ”

The commonest question, perhaps, that is asked in connection with this great new proposal of extinguishing the extra mortality of India,—of saving four-fifths of the lives now sacrificed in our army there by mismanagement, or want of management—is—“How are we to draw the line in this respect between our army and all the other inhabitants?”

The answer is that no such line will be attempted to be drawn, for the simple reason that no division of the kind can be made. Why should it be made? When taking in hand the broad conditions of public health,—the soil, the water, the air,—why not perfect them for the benefit of the whole community, as well as for any class? The personal matters of the soldier,—his food and drink, his barracks or his tent, his clothing, his occupation and amusement, his training, and the care of his domestic interests, form a part of the objects of the new system; but not the whole, and not an attainable part, unless the larger conditions are fulfilled, from which the civilians and natives cannot be excluded. On the other hand, nothing effectual can be done for the soldiery till the towns and bazaars, the tanks and rivers and wells, and the festering soil, are purified, and put under guardianship. The natives die off unnecessarily, at present, as our soldiers do. Though born to “the heat of India,” they die faster than our soldiers when living under worse influences, and live longer if under better than they. The deaths of our men from wounds and the special fatigues of war, form at worst a very small proportion of the mortality of any year; and their liabilities are essentially those of the natives, besides being largely dependent on the customs and manners of native life. Both must, therefore, be provided for together; and the Presidential Commissioners will undertake the charge of the whole society within their area, as the Health officers, under the Home-office, do in England.

The case is fully set forth; the facts are made clear beyond dispute: and if Miss Nightingale’s Observations were within reach of the English public, there would be no doubt of the immediate institution of a Health Department. The danger is the common one in such cases,—of obstruction in high places, arising from the repugnance of old-fashioned officials to changes of plan, and to any virtual confession that things have not hitherto gone so well as they might have done. The facts must prevail in the long run. It is impossible to dispute them to any purpose,—beyond that of securing delay. It is for English opinion and English will to decide between life and death for tens of thousands of our fellow-subjects: and the national will ought to be quickened and strengthened by the consideration that every month of delay is a death sentence upon whole battalions of men who have pledged their lives in the defence of ours, and of our common country.

.

standing by the little school,

Where I stood five long years ago—

Five years—ay, more! for then the snow

Lay gleaming in the light of yule.

The grey old church across the way

Had sunset-fires upon its panes—

The Parsonage, so bare to-day,

Was garlanded with holly-chains.

Ah! let me see, in this old room

That night there was a “fancy-fair”—

Gay lights had eaten up the gloom

That lived in cobwebb’d corners there;

Gay stalls were planted on each side,

Loaded with many curious things,

And Charity, the gentle-eyed,

Of course looked on with outspread wings!

I know that many a goddess seemed,

That night, behind the stalls to stand;

I know that while I looked I dreamed

It was the old, old fairyland!

Though certainly it did seem strange,

That goddesses should come to earth,

To sell small caps for twice their worth,

And, when you paid them, give no change!

I think the object of the thing

Was the extension of a wall,

Or building on the school a wing,

To shelter and to form the small.

I know, whate’er it was, ’twas good,

And when a sweet young curate came,

And led me on to where there stood

A lady whom “I dare not name,”

And tempted me, young curate-wise,

To buy a dress—a little one:

I turned and only saw her eyes—

She gave no “change”—I wanted none!

Oh! curate with the sunny hair,

And looks so wickedly demure,

You could not guess what form should wear

That little garment, I am sure.

Was it her palm’s electric touch

That thrilled me as I gave the gold—

So soft and velvety—as such

Young palms are ever? Was I bold

To glide behind the little stall,

And help to sell her dainty wares?

“Without reserve” we sold them all;

The “sacrifice,” of course, in shares.